by Donna Boyd
I remember thinking very clearly in that moment: the gig is up.
I am not sure what, exactly, I was so certain was finished, nor why I was so certain it was over. It all had something to do with the luxurious interior of the car, the rich mahogany appointments and cordovan leather seats and the way Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was playing so passionately in the background in a startling, almost clichéd imitation of the scene in the Michael Douglas movie from a decade earlier, Wall Street. I wondered disjointedly whether it had been done on purpose and for my amusement, because that would be the kind of irony the Devoncroix would enjoy.
I was wearing jeans with a scuffed leather jacket and a pair of cowboy boots I had gotten in Calgary six years ago and wore so often that the heels were worn down. My hair was shaggy and unkempt and I wasn’t entirely certain I’d shaved that morning. When I stepped into the back of that limousine and looked into Alexander Devoncroix’s eyes I felt thoroughly outclassed, completely out of place.
I had been in luxurious limousines before of course. The manner of my upbringing made such things commonplace, and I was hardly intimidated by wealth or its trappings. By the same token, I was accustomed to dealing with the loup garoux in all their arrogance and innate sense of supremacy; even their peculiar body chemistry that so often catches humans off guard and causes them to stutter or forget their train of thought rarely affected me anymore. Yet at that moment, with the pure rich notes of Vivaldi in my ears and the most powerful creature in the world sitting not two feet from me, I knew for an absolute certainty that I did not belong in this world. And all these years, they had only been amusing themselves by allowing me to believe that I did.
I must not have been very good at hiding my reaction because he said pleasantly, “I take it you were expecting someone else. How is the prince, may I ask?”
I found my voice, easing myself into the seat facing him. “I spoke with him in March. He was building a hotel in Bali.”
Alexander Devoncroix nodded. “I understand it is to be quite spectacular.”
I was silent as the driver came around, started the car, and pulled away from the curb. The privacy panel was engaged. Alexander’s eyes never left me. He said, “I have followed your research with interest. Except for that nonsense about Queen Eudora and the Fasburg, of course, it was quite thorough, and always entertaining. I admit, you surprise me.”
He waited for me to object to his assessment of my research. As brash as I was, I knew better than to attempt to defend myself. He was the leader of the pack. One did not argue with him.
Headlights flashed upon the tinted glass, etching blue and yellow shadows across his face. He went on, “There were of course some details of our history to which you did not have access. I have brought you here to share them. The driver is human. We can be assured our conversation will not be overheard. We have perhaps twenty minutes into the city. Please make yourself comfortable, help yourself to the bar if you like. ”
I said, “Thank you.” My voice was a little hoarse, which was not surprising. I could barely draw a full breath. “I’m not thirsty.”
The car glided along as though it was on ice. Vivaldi: Spring. No other sound.
Alexander Devoncroix said, “I recall when I first met you as a youth you credited me with disposing of the last members of the Brotherhood of the Dark Moon. Of course you have by now realized that I did no such thing.” His gaze was steady; my heart was thunder. “Many have tried, throughout the centuries, to eliminate them, but without success. They are, you see, the essence of us. And like us, they cannot be destroyed. They merely change form. They have always been enemies of the pack, but in so many ways the pack could not exist without them.”
I wondered whether he had brought me here to die. There are less than a handful of crimes in their system of justice that merit the death penalty, but treachery against the pack is one of them. I had known that when I took my vows.
He said, “In the centuries following its betrayal by the human priest, the Dark Brotherhood began to deteriorate, quite predictably in my opinion, into something it was never meant to be. They despised and rejected humans, and in many cases, even their human forms. They chose a lifestyle that was wild and brutish and diametrically opposed to the integrity of the pack. Fortunately, they were widely scattered in small enclaves and clans around the globe and, without strong leadership or organization, the threat they posed was minimal. My own brother was the leader of one such enclave,” he said, his expression unchanging, “and it was his ambition to unite the Brotherhood into a force that would dominate the earth. Had he succeeded, you and I would be having a very different conversation now. Most unfortunately for him, he trusted his schemes to a human accomplice, and he was betrayed. He was condemned to live in exile, and died quite mad. But before he did, he sired a child.” There was now only the slightest hardening of his voice. “The child was half human.”
Vivaldi continued to play. Headlights continued to scroll past. Time stopped.
I said, “That’s not possible.”
His eyes were like stone, chips of lapis glinting in the shadows. But his tone was calm, almost conversational. “You’ve no doubt discovered in your investigations that the Devoncroix bloodline contains a genetic anomaly. It is what has enabled us to survive, even thrive, in times of physical adversity and why our line has remained intact for almost as far back as history can trace. Many believe it may also be the origin of the Scourge, which killed so many infants during the time of Eudora and still, from time to time, steals our little ones from us.”
I said, trying hard to focus, “They call it the Devoncroix Effect.”
He nodded. “Because we are strong and prolific breeders, the Effect is widespread throughout our species. No doubt it will eventually be associated with many other characteristics, abilities or peculiarities that have not yet been isolated.”
My throat was so tight I had to speak or choke. “I don’t understand—“
“In other interspecies’ cross-breedings,” he spoke over me without raising his voice or changing his matter of fact tone in any way, “or attempted clonings, the product of the match rarely reaches maturity, and is always sterile. This did not prove to be the case with my brother’s offspring. The child, neither human nor loup garou, reached maturity and mated with one who carried the Devoncroix Effect in even stronger measure than did she.”
My lips felt numb. I was not certain that the words, when they came, were even intelligible. “The result?”
“That,” he replied, “is what you are about to see.”
He was lying of course. I was convinced of that. What I could not explain was why. Perhaps it was a word puzzle, or a test of some kind. Again, I could not think why Alexander Devoncroix would concern himself with testing me, and to be honest, the not knowing was more alarming than the consideration—however quickly it might be dismissed—that his story had some basis in truth.
And so I asked, with a voice that was still hoarse and stiff and starving for air, “Why? I’m nothing more than a history keeper, a parrot of the science your people have taught me. Why tell me this? Why bring me here? What do you want from me?”
In the darkness, Alexander Devoncroix smiled. The coldness of it sent a chill down my spine. “Why, my dear young man,” he said, quietly, “I believe you already know the answer to that.”
As the silent black limousine made its way through the rain-bright streets of Manhattan, Nicholas Devoncroix stood in the mahogany lined dressing room of his penthouse suite and gazed at the pair of diamond earrings that glittered in his palm. They made him smile. His valet had found them in the pocket of the trousers he had worn the night before and had displayed them, quite properly, on the low wide chest that bisected the room. Nicholas dropped the earrings into the pocket of his slacks. He would return them to her tonight. He had promised they would dance.
Nicholas was enchanted, and he recognized the fact on a perfectly cognizant intellectual level. He had always been
intrigued by the inexplicable, the unique, the outrageous, and his idle fascination with Lara Fasburg had begun years ago. She was untamed, and he admired that. She was ridiculous, and that made him laugh. She was dangerous, and that attracted him.
The constraints of his destiny were such that he must be ever aware, ever cautious, ever thoughtful. His passions were guarded, but volatile and intense. In Lara he found his opposite. Any liaison would be both reckless and addictive. He suspected, because he knew himself that well, that he would pursue it anyway.
There was a birthday party for a human of some repute that Lara had been invited to attend at the Plaza Hotel. Yo-Yo Ma was performing, and Nicholas found him entertaining. There would be dancing.
He slipped on his jacket and started for the door when his hand-held communications device vibrated in his pocket. It was a combination computer, telephone, camera, Internet connection and GPS tracking device that was fifteen years or so away from being made available to the human population. He glanced at the screen and saw the incoming message was from Garret. He pushed the button that would transfer it to voice.
“I’m on my way out,” he said.
“You asked to be notified of any usual activity.”
Nicholas started to open the bedroom door, then hesitated. A loup garou of his status was rarely alone; secretaries, guards, assistants and service providers were always moving about the apartment, and his private quarters were the only ones that were soundproof. He said, “Go ahead.”
“Your father arrived in town this afternoon.”
Nicholas frowned impatiently. “Then I’ll be sure to ring him for lunch.”
“So did the Fasburg.”
The frown faded into thoughtful surprise.
Garret asked, “Is there to be a summit of some kind?”
“Not that I know of. Perhaps he’s only here to see his daughter.”
It was a feeble conjecture, and Garret was politely silent for a moment. Then he said, “The human Hilliford is here as well. He arrived less than an hour ago and was met at the airport by your father in a private car.”
Nicholas tightened his jaw. There was no pretending that was not unusual, and it was beginning to look more and more as though his father was setting him up. He considered his options for barely a second before he said, “Follow them.” And he disconnected.
The limousine drew to a stop in front of a Fifth Avenue brownstone with a high hedge and an iron gate. Two carriage lights illuminated the short cobbled walk, now shiny with rain.
Alexander said, “You are about to enter one of the finest genetic research laboratories in the Americas, and to meet three preeminent scientists in the field. They have been given to believe that the specimen you are about to see was engineered in a highly classified experiment conducted by one of our teams in Hungary. In fact, he has eluded us for over thirty years, and was captured in East Africa less than thirty-six hours ago.”
The driver got out and walked around the car. I said, “Why not tell them the truth?” My lips still felt numb.
He looked at me with silent tolerance, and I slowly answered my own question. “Because if it is engineered, you control it.” And the leader of the pack was always in control; no one must ever suspect otherwise.
The stubborn, insistent unpredictability of nature was one thing, unfortunately, that not even the greatest empire on earth could control.
The driver opened the curb side door, holding an umbrella. Alexander Devoncroix got out, eschewing the umbrella. Raindrops glistened in the lamplight on his silver hair. I followed.
“Wait for us,” Alexander told the driver, and started up the walk.
He inserted a key card into a slot in the stone column beside the gate, and it swung open to admit us. The building was less than a dozen strides away, surrounded on either side by a well-manicured lawn planted with small trees and neat flowerbeds, now mulched over for the season. There was no sign or plaque anywhere to suggest this was anything other than a luxurious private residence. The door was reached by a set of wide stone steps that led to a portico. The lock clicked open when Alexander inserted the key card again. The security seemed rather lax for a scientific research facility, but then I realized that it was fully staffed by loup garoux. Given the acuity of their senses and their more than able capacity for defending what was theirs, even locks were a bit redundant.
Alexander surprised me by handing the key card to me. I met his eyes for a moment, but did not question. I tucked the card into my pocket.
Inside there was an elegant reception area clad in pale silk wallpaper with cove ceilings and tear-drop chandeliers. There were bookshelves styled with leather classics and marble busts of the poets, Louis Quatorze furniture and reading lamps. At the far end of the room was a door that swung open with a soft buzz when we approached.
I stepped into a stainless steel and black granite laboratory of the quality I had come to expect of their kind. Their computers were small and sleek and deadly fast; decades away from those commonly used by human researchers. There were electron microscopes with robotic arms and gene sequencers that could analyze and deconstruct hundreds of millions of lines of data in seconds. Except for a female at one of the microscope stations, an older male who was scanning a computer screen, and another tall, sharp featured male who was coming toward us, the room was empty.
“Routine operations have been suspended for the next several days,” Alexander explained. “All but the most essential staff has been temporarily reassigned. You know Tobias, I believe.”
As the loup garou reached us I realized that I had, in fact, met him before. He was a thin and angular fellow with a high widow’s peak and jet black hair, and eyes that were now burning with the fever of excitement. He was the most brilliant biochemist I had ever known. His opinion of me was one of barely concealed contempt, which meant I was several notches in his esteem above the other human researchers with whom he occasionally came into contact.
He barely acknowledged me with a glance, and spoke to his pack leader in a rush of enthusiasm that was so unlike his usual persona that I blinked in surprise. “Sir, it is remarkable. Truly a phenomenal accomplishment. I’ve never seen anything like it. Since this morning we’ve isolated two new chromosomes that are unlike anything I’ve imagined were possible.” And now his demeanor fell. “I am chastened and chagrined to confess I did not believe such technology existed.”
Alexander said, “I will examine your data. You will also make all of your results available to Dr. Hilliford, who is the only human alive capable of understanding it.” I thought I detected a slight steeliness in his voice as he added, “I shall require a full report from him. Should his report differ in any detail from yours, I will want to know why.”
The resentment in Tobias’s gaze was palpable when he looked at me, for it was a common practice for their experts to withhold data from me when I studied with them and I was always on guard against it. He turned back to his leader and said, “I understand, sir. I will instruct the others.”
Alexander gave a curt nod. “And now we will see the specimen.’’
I thought, with a rather wild incredulity, He’s really going to carry this through! because up until that point I was still trying to convince myself that this was all an elaborate hoax, a cruel joke perpetrated upon the human who dared to think he could infiltrate their ranks. But as we left the laboratory, as we walked down that long corridor past cold storage and isolation labs and sterile labs and finally pausing before a closed steel door with a television monitor and a closed circuit alarm—at some point during that walk, and just before Tobias used his own key card to unlock the door—I thought again, more calmly, He’s really going to carry this through. And I made room in my mind for the possibility that this was not a hoax after all.
The lock clicked. We walked inside a very cold room that was bathed in a blue light. On a stainless steel table in the center of the room was a naked male. Tubes and wires fed into the monitors that supporte
d and recorded his life functions and his brain activity, and those sophisticated machines blinked and hummed and glowed with his internal rhythms. I moved closer.
He was a slender, muscular male of apparent good health in his early thirties. His hair was thick and blond and shoulder length. There were no apparent injuries or disease processes. His genitalia were well formed and intact. There was no body hair evident anywhere, not even on his arms or legs. His chest rose and fell with the pressure of the ventilator and his teeth, as much as I could determine around the endotracheal tube, were strong and straight. There were calluses on his hands and feet. I knew that if he opened his eyes, they would be Devoncroix blue.
He was real. He was alive.
Tobias said, “We’re maintaining a medically induced coma. Nonetheless, his brain activity is far above what one might expect, approaching near consciousness.”
Alexander’s voice was a little sharp. “Make certain you continue to administer the paralytic on schedule. He must be kept contained.”
“Of course.” Tobias sounded offended.
I stepped close to the table. I wanted to touch him. I looked at the monitors. I tried to make sense of the numbers, but I could not. Finally, I reached out and touched his hand. It was warm, despite the coldness of the room, and the skin was supple. He was alive. He was real.
I said, unable to step away, “What is his name?”
Tobias didn’t seem to know. Perhaps it had not occurred to him that a creature such as this should have a name. It was Alexander who answered.
“David,” he said. And then he added, “Devoncroix, of course.”
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Chapter Twenty-Three
