Luck of the Wolf

by Susan Krinard

  And of the wolf. Of the loups-garous who had ruled this wilderness for centuries.

  Even after his fur was saturated with mud and his paws were heavy as tombstones, long after he had passed the last miserable habitations of men, Cort kept running. He stopped only when he heard the old familiar song Maman had sung to him nearly every day when he was a cub, long before he had learned that there were two kinds of Reniers. Someone was playing a fiddle the way his brother Armand used to do before he died.

  Cort crouched in the wet grass, his chest heaving, a howl building in his throat. He could still turn back. They no doubt believed he was dead by now, dead or so far gone he might as well be. He had no right to disturb their peace.

  But he had run from Aria. There would be no more running.

  The song ended. Cort heaved himself to his feet. He Changed, and stood naked and trembling, gathering his last scraps of courage and will.

  Then he walked through the palmettos, across a narrow, meandering stream and through a grove of live oak to the low hill that rose up out of the swamp, dotted with little cabanes arranged around a grassy clearing. Smoke puffed from a dozen chimneys, laden with the smell of meat and gumbo. A boy and girl played with a stained ball while two women gossiped under the washing they had hung to dry. A pair of young men, talking rapidly of a recent hunt, walked into one of the shacks. Their cheerful voices carried across the clearing. They had been little more than children when he had left the village.

  Cort closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. The memories came thick and fast, nearly driving him to his knees. The little girl, clad only in a dress cut short at the knee, dropped the ball and ran to her maman under the drying laundry. The woman spoke to the child and looked in the direction her daughter was pointing.

  Releasing his breath, Cort walked out of the trees. The children stared. The other woman dropped the shirt she had been about to hang on the line, her mouth open in surprise.

  The girl ran down the hill, short legs nimble as only those of a loup-garou could be. She came to a stop a few feet from Cort and peered up into his face.

  “Qui es-tu?” she demanded, wrinkling her nose. She couldn’t have been more than seven years old. The boy, perhaps a year older, ran to join her, his stare challenging this stranger he had never seen before.

  Cort managed a smile. “Bonjour,” he said.

  The boy’s mother approached, a slight frown on her face. She opened her mouth to speak and sniffed the air suspiciously. Then, all at once, she smiled.

  “Alphonse!” she cried over her shoulder.

  A man appeared at one of the cabin doors, shading his eyes against the glare of the setting sun. He didn’t move again for a dozen aching heartbeats.

  “Papa,” Cort whispered.

  The man broke into motion, still swift and strong even after nearly seventy years. He passed the woman and children, and only stopped when he would have bowled Cort over with one more step.

  “Beau?” he asked hoarsely. “Est-ce toi?”

  “Papa,” Cort said. “I’m home.”

  Alphonse Renier opened his arms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “WHERE HAS HE GONE?”

  The tears had dried on Aria’s cheeks, but the pain was still as fresh and as cutting as an icy mountain wind. The Reniers were speaking in loud voices on the other side of the room. Whatever their fears or concerns, the Carantians had known better than to interfere and had made a hasty retreat into some less public area of the house.

  Babette stood quietly beside Aria, her hands immobile at her sides, her face as frozen as Aria’s heart.

  “Where, Babette?” Aria asked.

  The older woman closed her eyes. “I do not know, Aria. I wish I could tell you.”

  But she did know something. Aria was sure of it.

  “Why did he say those things?” she asked softly. “You said they weren’t true. But I think some of them were.”

  “He…” Babette bowed her head. “He did mean to use you at first. He was full of hatred. It blinded him. Until he began to see you, Aria. Until he recognized you for the extraordinary woman you are.”

  But did he ever really see me at all? Aria thought. Why should she believe Babette, when Cort’s confession had made so much sense? No one could doubt how much he hated the Reniers, and they him. He had never really been a gentleman, helping Aria out of the goodness of his heart. And he’d denied only one part of Madeleine’s accusation. He had tried to use her just as he’d tried to use Aria.

  She didn’t believe he had hurt the other woman. But he had always been so intent on “ladies” and “gentlemen.” Sometimes it had seemed as if that was all he thought about. Being good enough. Making her good enough.

  And he had never said he loved her.

  “I wasn’t extraordinary enough to see what he was doing,” she said. “I let myself believe—”

  “Oh, my dear.” Babette laid her hand on Aria’s shoulder. “When he told me that he had asked you to marry him, I had my doubts at first. But I was certain that what he felt for you was real. He wanted to marry you, Aria. Not for revenge, but because he loved you—even if he refused to admit it to himself.”

  The knot in Aria’s throat was so big that she could hardly breathe. So many people had deceived her. Everyone seemed to want her to be something other than what she was. And she was beginning to feel she could hate them for it.

  All she had to do was walk out of the house. Leave the Reniers and the Carantians. Leave Babette. Leave Cort. Live free, perhaps in the Sierra Nevada. She’d spent most of her life virtually alone anyway. She didn’t need anyone.

  But then she remembered the things Cort had said to her before they had come downstairs. He’d said she had surpassed all his expectations. He said she’d come too far not to finish what she’d begun. He’d said he couldn’t stay with her because of what he’d done and what he really was.

  But he hadn’t tried to take advantage of her since he’d arrived in New Orleans, though he must have known all he had to do was crook his finger and she would come running. Instead, he’d kept his distance. And Babette was right about one thing. There had been no reason for him to let the Reniers accuse him in front of everyone, and then admit that he had behaved like the dog and bastard they had named him.

  Not unless he wanted Aria to believe things that weren’t true. If he thought her loving him, staying with him, would prevent her from finishing what she had begun, wouldn’t he want to make her hate him?

  He hadn’t given her a chance to really think about what he had said or make a decision based on “facts and reason.” He had obviously hoped she would simply let him go.

  Aria bared her teeth. One way or another, he had made a mistake. Either he had used her as he’d said, or he’d thought he could manipulate her into choosing the life he thought she should have.

  But he wouldn’t get away with it. The choice was hers, not his or anyone else’s. She would decide whom to believe and what to do. And no one, human or loup-garou, could stop her.

  She turned to listen to the Reniers, who had reached some agreement and were looking at her expectantly.

  Xavier approached her, his eyes as hard as granite chips.

  “We are going after him, Your Highness,” he said. “He must pay for what he has done to you.”

  She faced the old man squarely. “It remains to be seen what he has done to me,” she said. “It is not your place to punish him, monsieur.”

  His hand came up as if he intended to strike her, but he let it fall again. “It is my place to protect you,” he said. “Whether you wish it or not.”

  “As you protected my sister?” She glanced at Babette. “Go back to the hotel, Babette. I will come for you later.” She started for the front door.

  “You’ll never find him!” Xavier shouted. “You know nothing of our country. We will not be responsible for—”

  “No, you won’t,” Aria snapped. “And you will not follow me.”

 
“Aria,” Babette said, rushing up behind her. “Remember what Cort said about his family and the bayous. Perhaps he has gone home.”

  Home.

  Aria squeezed Babette’s fingers and let her go. She stripped there in front of them all and raced out of the house. A thousand scents assaulted her, but she found the one she wanted just as she had picked it out from among so many others that eventful day in San Francisco.

  Nose close to the earth, she flew away from the house and through the carefully tended gardens, leaping the southern fence that separated the tended grounds from the fields. Her golden fur was a beacon even in daylight, but any humans she passed would never be sure that they had seen anything but a large dog on the hunt.

  She almost lost Cort’s scent when she reached the swamp. The smells of decay and lush growth, water and wet earth, overwhelmed her. There was nothing of the clean mountains here, only a crushing hunger almost greater than her own.

  Still, she went on, half drowning in deceptively lazy streams and catching her fur on snags of rotted wood. When Cort’s trail finally vanished in the mud and murk, she lay on a low hill blanketed with relatively dry grass, and bit at the ground in rage and frustration.

  He was here—somewhere. But this was his country. If he didn’t want her to find him…

  A rustling among the tangled bushes caught her attention. Her fur stood on end, rising from ruff to tail. She had never before seen the golden wolf who emerged from the undergrowth, but she recognized him well enough. She stood to face him and Changed.

  “Benoit,” she snarled, “I told you not to come. Go back, or I will—”

  Another yellow wolf, bigger and heavier, appeared behind Benoit and shouldered him aside.

  Aria’s legs turned as soft as the mud under her feet. Cort had been wrong.

  Duke Gunther di Reinardus was very much alive.

  THE CARRIAGE RATTLED at reckless speeds over the dwindling roads, wheels striking stones and squelching in ruts that never dried even in the hottest weather. Babette stared out the window at the increasingly wild landscape, praying that the sun would delay its setting. Graf Leopold von Losontz huddled in the seat opposite hers, his silence loud with fear and worry.

  The Reniers had not been silent in the moments after Aria’s departure. “I will go after her,” Benoit had declared, shouting for a servant to ready his horse.

  “Let her go,” Xavier had said. “She’s made her choice.”

  Henri had stared at his father in disbelief. “We cannot, father. Our bargain…” He signaled to another servant. “Tell John to prepare the phaeton at once!”

  That was when Babette had realized just how averse to Changing the Reniers were, preferring a slower, man-made vehicle or a horse to the swiftness of a loup-garou. As the Carantians rushed into the hall, drawn by the angry voices, Henri had run out and Xavier had simply disappeared.

  It was left to Babette to explain what had happened. The horrified Carantians had seemed incapable of action until Babette had the presence of mind to ask if the Reniers had a second carriage.

  The stable attendants hadn’t argued when she and the foreigners had commandeered an older equipage, one clearly reserved for leisurely drives in the country. But in spite of the groom’s quickness in hitching the horses, it was a full half hour before the carriage was ready. Babette used the time to tell the Carantians why Cort had spoken as he had. Whether or not they believed her, they had seemed willing enough to let her come along.

  While Herr Dreher took the coachman’s seat, Baron von Mir Changed and plunged ahead, grizzled ears flat to his head and gray-tipped tail like a plume of smoke behind him. His nose, apparently still keen in spite of his age, kept them traveling in the right direction. Soon it became a mad dash of foam-flecked horses and jouncing wheels hurtling through the waning afternoon with only the Carantian loup-garou to show the way.

  Once they were well past the plantation boundary and the cultivated lands, it became more and more difficult for the carriage to negotiate the increasingly rough ground. Von Losontz muttered to himself and shook his head.

  “She has gone too far,” he said.

  As if to confirm his words, von Mir appeared in the carriage window, keeping pace and panting heavily. “The wetland lies ahead,” he said. “We must go on foot.”

  “Is there no sign of Henri and his carriage?” Babbette asked.

  “There are recent tracks that lead into the marsh. It appears he drove beyond this point.”

  “But if it isn’t safe…”

  Von Mir shrugged and fell back. Von Losontz looked at Babette, brow deeply furrowed.

  “I will Change and go on with the baron,” he said. “Josef is human and will not be able to keep up. He will stay with you.”

  As worried as she was, Babette knew the count was right. “Please,” she said. “When you find them, remember what I have told you.”

  He reached for the door handle. “I pray all you have said about this Cortland Renier is true, madame.”

  “It is, I assure you. He would never allow anyone to harm her, or interfere with whatever fate she chooses.”

  Von Losontz nodded brusquely and jumped out of the carriage.

  Babette leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. It had been a very long time since she had asked anything of heaven. She bowed her head, made the sign of the cross and began to pray.

  CORT STOOD ON THE LOW HILL amid the patch of summer wildflowers, the place where his people had brought their dead for a hundred years. There were no burials here, where the water rose so near the surface. None of the fancy marble vaults and crypts favored by the rich in New Orleans for their “cities of the dead.”

  The only trace left of those who had passed were the wildflowers themselves, growing so abundantly on this little hill. Cort knelt and picked one of the flowers, cradling it in his hands.

  Maman.

  She couldn’t hear him, of course. She had died not long after he’d left Louisiana. She’d always been against his courtship of Madeleine Renier, of his ambitions to become a “real gentleman.” On the day he’d gone to propose, she’d begged him to stay home and forget Madeleine.

  “No good will come of it,” she had said. “We are your kind, your people. You can never run from what you are.”

  He’d ignored her, the beloved matriarch of the bayou Reniers, thinking only of the life he would have with Madeleine. After the city Reniers had thrown him out, he’d crawled home. Not to admit she was right—never that. He’d thought only of leaving Louisiana, making himself the equal of the Reniers so that one day they would regret what they had done.

  He hadn’t listened when Papa had told him that Maman couldn’t bear losing him. He’d barely spoken to either one of them, except to tell them that he was through rooting in the mud like a pig and living like a savage. Humiliating them, rejecting them, despising them as he despised himself.

  Papa had cursed him when he’d finally walked away, and that curse had rung in his ears long after. A few months later the awkwardly scrawled letter had found its way to him in Houston. Maman was dead. She had begged for her only surviving son with her last breath.

  Cort dropped his face into his hands, crushing the flower against his cheek. Forgive me, Maman.

  The evening breeze caressed his hair like a gentle hand. He lifted his head. Papa was coming up the rise, barefoot and shirtless, his frayed trousers rolled up to his knees.

  “Mon fils,” he said. “I knew you would be here.”

  Cort swiped at his face and sat up. The night chorus had just begun, the buzzing and humming and croaking and crying of the thousands of creatures that made this wild land their home.

  Alphonse crouched beside him. “I have spoken with the elders,” he said.

  “Do they still want me here?” Cort asked softly. “After all the things I…?”

  Papa laid his hand on Cort’s shoulder. “Everyone is glad you are back.”

  “They shouldn’t be.”

  Al
phonse Renier’s hands were as strong now as they had been when he’d lifted Cort’s beaten body onto his shoulders decades ago. His fingers bit into Cort’s skin.

  “You were young and foolish. No one blames you for a boy’s mistakes.”

  “I killed Maman.”

  “No.” Alphonse dropped his hand and sighed. “Yes, I blamed you at first. I swore I would never speak your name again. But time passes and wounds heal. She never stopped loving you, and neither have I.”

  Cort turned to lean against Alphonse, the tears scraping his throat raw. “Everything I’ve done has turned to poison,” he said. “I’ve learned nothing. I’ve hurt—”

  “Who is she?”

  Slowly he met his father’s eyes. “I don’t—”

  “Who has sent you running here with your tail between your legs? It is not Madeleine again?”

  Cort tried to laugh. “No. Not Madeleine.” He sobered, slipping from his father’s embrace. “I didn’t come back because of a woman. I came to remember who I am.”

  “But there is a woman.”

  How could he ever explain Aria to Alphonse? She would be as alien to him as Madeleine was.

  But that was a lie, a lie he told himself to justify what he had done. Aria had come from the mountains, from a world utterly unlike the bayous. But she loved being a wolf, just as his clan and kin cherished the wolf in themselves. She flourished in the wild places and scorned what men called civilization.

  Or she had. That was already changing. She couldn’t come to this little village and see what he had seen during the happy years of his childhood, before the corruption of wealth and position had lured him to disaster. She couldn’t understand what he saw now, how much affection had survived in some tiny fragment of his heart, cherished and protected when the rest had turned to stone.