"The only one left," Caitlin said. "Don't waste it, Harry."
"We place no price on kindness, Caitlin." He set the bottle down on the small table and drew a pair of glasses from his coat. "Let us drink to your recovery, Mr. Holt—and to your continuing good health." He poured and offered Morgan the first glass.
Morgan stared down at it. Had he been able to stomach the stuff, he could not have swallowed it down past the lump in his throat. "I don't drink."
"Ah. Very admirable." Harry lifted his own glass, gazed at it wistfully, and set it back down. "There is no escaping our troubles in the bottle, no, indeed."
Morgan turned his face away. Harry patted his shoulder.
"Think nothing of it, my boy. We asked too much of a stranger. But you must not go until morning, after you have had a good meal—"
Morgan shook him off and strode out of the tent. He walked blindly across the lot, shivering though he did not feel the evening chill. He stopped at the edge of the camp, let the blanket fall, and willed the Change. His body protested, but it obeyed. He began to run to the hills.
The low woodland of pinon, juniper, and oak closed in about him, and the voices of the circus folk became the distant cries of birds. Thick fur rippled and flowed about his body. Small game fled before him. His broad paws devoured the miles. The sky lit his path with a thousand stars. The clean air sang to him. Human voices, human thoughts were left in the dust of his passing. Far, far to the north, the wolves called him to the old life of forgetfulness.
He had made it over the first range of pine-clad hills and into the adjoining valley before the tether snapped him to a stop. He raged and fought it, but it pulled him southward, back across the mountains step by reluctant step.
He had never taken charity, nor become dependent upon anyone. He was whole, but only because they had made him so. His body was free, but not his heart. Not so long as the debt remained unpaid.
Obligation was not belonging. It did not mean friendship, or love, or any of the worthless words men used so freely. It did not bind him forever.
He would make his pact, serve out his time, and leave without regret.
Sunset was driving shadows down into the valley when he reached the woods above the camp. He sensed the wrongness at once, and the alien scents of strangers. Cries came faintly from the cluster of wagons and tents. Morgan set off at a fast run down the hillside.
The handful of men who were causing the trouble might have been rowdies from the nearest town, grubstakers who had lost their claims, or even desperados from over the New Mexico border. They, like wolves, would attack where they saw weakness, but they took joy in the tormenting.
One brawny fellow staggered under Caitlin's insignificant weight while she pummeled his head and shoulders; Harry was wringing his hands and shouting warnings from the sidelines, and the oversized trouper, Tor, had two of the other townies by their collars. The fourth invader held Ulysses Wakefield suspended in his arms.
"Sir," Ulysses said with impeccable dignity, "You are mistaken if you believe that we have anything worth stealing. I have no wish for violence."
"Violence!" the ruffian spat. "Why, you li'l speck—"
Morgan plunged among them and seized Ulysses's tormenter around the ankle. Teeth pierced wool and flesh. The man yelped and dropped the dwarf. Ulysses curled into a tumble and jumped to his feet, brushing off his clothing. His eyes met Morgan's. He nodded, slowly, unsmiling.
Morgan wheeled about on his hind feet and went for Caitlin's opponent.
"Wolf!" the first man cried. "It's a wolf!" Like the coward he was, he took off as fast as his limp would allow. Caitlin leaped from her adversary's back, and he dashed after his fellow. Tor's two captives picked themselves off the ground and followed suit. Morgan let them go.
"That should teach them," Caitlin said, slapping the dust from her hands. She eyed Morgan. "About time you showed up."
From all parts of the camp, the other troupers gathered close against the night. Children ran from the tents, whooping at the excitement as their parents scolded them. Morgan stood at the center of the loose circle, as alien as he had ever been, and Changed.
There were a few gasps, and murmurs, and one exclamation. No one fled. Harry, Caitlin, and Ulysses drew near, with Tamar close behind. Moonlight silvered the skin of the snake charmer, unearthly in her beauty, whose creatures coiled and rustled about her shoulders.
"So it is true," she said, looking at Caitlin. "He is what you claimed."
"And he can save us, Tamar. He is one of us."
"He is one of us," Ulysses repeated gravely.
"Welcome," Harry said, clapping Morgan on his bare shoulder. "Welcome and thanks, my boy. Your return was most timely indeed." He rubbed his hands and beamed at them all. "My dears, I think it is best if we move on straightaway. If one band of ruffians has discovered us, others may as well. We have much to prepare now that our new friend has joined us, new towns to conquer." His eyes lit up like a child's. "The Wolf-Man," he said. "We have much to do!"
Tamar slipped closer to Morgan. The patches of scaly skin on her bare arms winked and glistened. "Will you share my wagon tonight, Wolf-Man?"
Caitlin snorted. The twined snakes on Tamar's shoulders reared up.
Ulysses stepped between them. "Mr. Holt can, I believe, decide for himself."
"I'll walk," Morgan said. He met Harry's gaze. "I owe you a debt. I will repay it."
"I know you will, dear boy. Your generosity—"
"I am neither generous nor honorable. I don't want your thanks. I don't want anything from any of you."
"Someday," Caitlin said, "you'll need someone, Morgan Holt. I hope I'm there when it happens."
She marched away toward the tents, and the others followed. Morgan remained where they had left him, listening to the snap of canvas, the stamps and snorts of the horses, and the soft calls of the troupers and crew as they broke camp. He made himself blind to the stars that had been his only roof for so many years, deaf to the summons of the wilderness and the deep terror in his heart.
Someday you'll need someone.
Never. Never again.
Chapter 3
Colorado Springs, October 1880
"Is it real?"
"It can't be. These circus people know every trick there is. Born thieves and swindlers, all of 'em."
The two farmers stood a few feet away from the bars of the cage, just near enough to feel daring. The older one, a frayed bit of straw between his teeth, gave a knowing nod.
"Purest fakery, all of it, take my word." He spat into the trampled straw at his feet.
"Maybe you're right," the younger hayseed said, "but it sure looks real to me." He grinned slyly. "You want to go in there and find out?"
"They won't let no one in there."
"Then just put your hand up to the bar. See what it does."
The milling crowd between the two men shouted mocking encouragement. "Go on!" a store clerk urged. "Stick your hand in and see what happens!"
The farmer glared. "I ain't here for your amusement—" He jumped back with a cry as Morgan lunged at the bars, baring his teeth for effect. The farmer's companion fell onto his knees and crawled away among the feet of the observers. Within seconds, the crowd was abuzz with delight and terror, pressed as far toward the rear of the tent as they could go.
"B'God, it is real!"
"Don't you dare swear, Cal!" a woman cried. "It's a minion of the Devil himself!"
"Aw, it's just a man in a fur suit…"
Morgan stalked the length of the cage and back again, curling clawed fingers in menacing fashion, and retreated to his corner. Some foolhardy soul poked a stick through the bars; he snapped it in two with a casual swipe of a hand. A lady shrieked and pretended to swoon. He had seen it all a hundred times.
One of the sideshow talkers arrived to herd the townies to the next attraction and on to the big tent for the show. Once again The Terrifying Wolf-Man was a spectacular success.
Mo
rgan released his hold on the Change and let himself become human again. He had grown used to the discomfort that accompanied the unnatural half-shaping, but it was only after the performance that he felt the ache deep in his bones and muscles.
Stiff and sore, he let himself out of the cage and shrugged into his dressing gown. He splashed his face with water as if he could wash away the stares of the humans, the constant smell of their bodies crammed into the small tent day after day. Always the same ritual, the same contempt, the same resolution.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll go. I've done enough.
He laughed and pushed wet hair away from his face. He'd let it grow until it reached his shoulders, heavy and wild like a wolf's pelt. He meant it to remind him of who he was, and who he was not.
He stripped off the dressing gown and pulled on a shirt and trousers. Nearly five months he had been with the circus. Five months, and Harry had said just yesterday that the troupe had enough money saved to set up in winter quarters without the risk of disbanding.
Thanks to the Wolf-Man, whose fearsome reputation had preceded the circus in every town, village, and fly-speck camp they'd visited. It didn't matter that French's Fantastic Family Circus was still a modest wagon show, unable to compete in grandeur with the great Barnum or Forepaugh. Each farmer or rancher, merchant, or whore—young and old, male and female, simple or smart—had to see for himself if the creature was real, or as fake as the farmer had claimed. Some came back two or three times. None of them ever learned the truth.
They didn't want to. And Morgan endured their ignorant speculation and taunted them with his poses and snarls. He had learned to be amused at the blindness of men.
The troupers were equally blind. They had accepted him completely, welcoming him as if he had always lived among them, but he had done for them all he was capable of doing.
Tomorrow, I go.
He rinsed the sour taste from his mouth and walked out into the night. Beyond the lanterns that marked the perimeter of the circus grounds lay a swathe of darkness, and beyond that the lights and bustle of Colorado Springs. The cries and applause of the audience in the big top drowned out the murmur of crickets and the soughing of the wind in the cottonwoods along the creek. Every night he stood and listened, poised to run from everything he despised.
I could leave now, he thought. But he remained where he was, turning his face to the north where men held sway. He had not gone into town since the troupe's arrival three days ago; he never slept in the cheap hotel rooms shared by the troupe's top performers when they could find such accommodations.
But it was not Colorado Springs that drew his attention northward instead of west into the mountains. Instinct, the only part of himself he dared trust, whispered in a lost and unlamented tongue.
You are not alone, it said.
He shivered violently, as if the words were raindrops to be shaken from his coat. He had been alone since he'd left home at fourteen. In all his years of searching for Aaron Holt, there had never been another like him or his mother or sister.
You cannot hide forever.
He snarled and turned south, toward the big top. For once safety lay in the crowd, where the voices of his past did not reach. He strode past loitering townies along the midway and entered the pad room where the troupers dressed and prepared for their entrance. The smell of human bodies assaulted him once more. The crowd roared approval as the clowns completed their performance.
"Is it tonight, then?"
Morgan looked down at Ulysses, who still wore his scholar's robes and mortarboard. The "Little Professor" was, according to the sideshow talker, both the smallest and most brilliant man on earth. He could answer any question, and sometimes made remarkably accurate judgments of character. Morgan knew that only too well.
Morgan showed his teeth in a half-smile. "Reading my mind, Professor?"
"Not at all. Simple logic and observation." He flipped back the sleeves of his robes. "Our finances appear to be in good order. You have achieved what you set out to do. Your debt to us is paid, is it not?"
Us. It was always us, the troupers against the world, and Morgan just outside the circle. He wanted it that way.
"Harry would be most disappointed if you failed to bid him farewell." Ulysses removed the oversized cap with its gold tassel and held it between his manicured hands. "Caitlin, as well."
By unspoken consent, they both moved to the back door, the trouper's entrance, to get a better view of the big top's interior. Caitlin was just beginning her act, balanced gracefully atop the bare back of one of her well-trained gray geldings as it cantered around the ring. With each circling, Caitlin somersaulted over banners held by her assistants, landing perfectly each time. Her bare feet, blessed with remarkably flexible toes, never lost their grip. Red hair bounced above a laughing face.
"Caitlin cannot understand your desire for solitude," Ulysses said. "She, more than any of us, has kept the troupe together. But you have no ties to bind you here. You do not seek a home among others like yourself."
"There are no others like me."
Ulysses raised his brows. "While it is true that I have never observed a second member of your species, I theorize that you do have kin somewhere—family—who share your gifts."
It was not the first time that Ulysses had tried to pry into Morgan's past. If anyone had the right to ask, he did. The two of them shared living quarters, and Ulysses's dispassionate nature suited Morgan's desire for privacy.
Morgan grudgingly admired the little man's detachment from the scourge of emotion. But Ulysses had one besetting flaw, and that was his curiosity. On more than one occasion, that persistent quest for knowledge had pierced Morgan's careful guard.
"I have no family," he said. "Do not feel sorry for me, Professor. I don't need what you and the others want."
"But you have changed," Ulysses said. "Whether or not you wish to admit it, you are different from the man who came to us months ago. Harry and Caitlin saw it in you from the beginning."
"Saw what? That I could be tamed like a dog to a leash? Men will sooner kill each other than give up any part of what they are."
"Men will fight for what they believe in. What do you believe, my friend?"
"That a man who trusts anyone but himself is a fool."
"Perhaps. But to be a fool is better than to be without hope."
"The way you cling to the hope that your family will take you back?"
Such small cruelties were usually enough to stop anyone fool enough to demand amiable fellowship from Morgan Holt. Ulysses was made of stronger stuff.
"Touché," he said. "Pope said that fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and neither of us is an angel." He turned to go, just as the applause of the crowd marked the end of Caitlin's act.
Cursing himself, Morgan stepped in front of the little man. "Damn you," he said softly. "You should leave me alone, Professor."
Ulysses gave him one of his rare and wistful smiles. "Even wise men can be fools in friendship. Alas, notwithstanding my family's disappointment in me, they raised me to be a gentleman."
"And I am not. I belong with the wolves. Not here."
"We all, at one time or another, doubt where we belong. If you will excuse me—"
"I am—" Morgan still had not learned how to apologize without the words sticking in his throat. "I was too harsh."
Ulysses bowed. "It is no matter. And now I have letters to write."
"Your family?"
"A gentleman's duty, I fear."
"Even though they never answer."
"They are family," Ulysses said. "One will do much for family that one will not for a stranger."
The old pain could sometimes catch Morgan unaware, as it did now. "I prefer to remain a stranger."
"Sometimes that choice is made for you, regardless of your inclinations. But if you choose to leave us tonight, do not forget us."
This time Morgan let him go. He had never yet won a debate with Ulysses Marcus Aurelius Wakefi
eld.
"He has feelings also, you know."
Caitlin walked up beside him, dabbing at her face with a cloth. Her bare arms, neck, and face were moist with perspiration, and tendrils of her hair clung to her cheek. The barking of Vico's trick dogs in the ring signaled the beginning of the next act.
Morgan watched the canines' antics with faint contempt, remembering how Vico had tried to convince him to play tame wolf among the curs. "The Professor can take care of himself."
"Is that why you always stick to him like a burr whenever we go among the townies?"
"The Professor is right. Your imagination does run away with you."
"You are a terrible liar. You'd rather die than admit you care for anyone, or anything."
"And why should he admit that to you?" As silent as her serpents, Tamar appeared beside them. "You try to change him into something he is not." The snake charmer's heavy-lidded eyes swept over Morgan. "It is not a mistake I make."
Morgan took a careful step back. Tamar had a unique power of her own—to fascinate nearly every man who came within her grasp. She was tall, lithe, and beautiful, despite the coldness of her eyes. The lilt of her exotic accent worked like venom mixed in honeyed wine. No towny knew that the luxurious wig of raven-black tresses concealed a head as smooth as snakeskin. Most of her suitors would not have cared. They were smitten.
But all of them, towny or trouper, she ignored… save Morgan. He avoided her, and so she pursued all the more relentlessly.
She slid close to him, running her supple hand the length of his arm. "You are weary, my friend. Leave these who do not understand. Come to my tent, and I will soothe your brow with scented oils and sing ancient songs of love."
Only a dead man could fail to be aware of the sexuality Tamar exuded with every whispered word, every motion. The circus folk were no Puritans, but he ignored the few invitations he received. To take a trouper as a lover, even casually, meant stronger ties with the circus. He preferred the anonymity of women who sold their services for a price.
TO CATCH A WOLF Page 4
