SECRET OF THE WOLF

by Susan Krinard

  Until it happened again.

  As he always did when he awoke this way, he searched the room for other clues. No peculiar objects he didn't remember buying. The shoes beside the bed looked at least a size too large—so, for that matter, did the clothes. In the drawer of the night table lay a heavy pouch of coins and bills; his winnings had been very good indeed, it seemed. And no one had stolen it while he slept.

  But something was missing. He emptied the pouch and sifted through the coins.

  The ring was gone. His mother's ring, inherited from her own family, the Gevaudans, and given to him upon her death—the last tangible memory of his family. Had he used it as a stake in a game, or drunk it away, or lost it?

  He shrugged, shutting off a twinge of pain. His mother had been dead for twenty-four years. She wouldn't know how low he'd sunk.

  He reached for the trousers laid over the chair. He was still weak enough that it took rather longer than usual to put them on. The thud of footsteps outside the door found him balancing on one leg like a stork, trouser leg flapping.

  The door creaked open slowly. A brown eye pressed up against the crack. Someone—male—was trying very hard not to breathe audibly, making even more noise in the process.

  "Come in," Quentin said. His voice felt long-unused. "Come in, if you please."

  His secret observer took immediate advantage of the invitation. A sandy-haired giant, near six and a half feet in height, barged into the room. He wore overalls several inches too short and a wide grin, as if he'd never seen anything quite so delightful as a half-dressed man struggling to put his leg into his trousers.

  "You're awake!" he said. "Doc Jo will be glad." He pointed at the shirt Quentin hadn't yet tackled. "Them's my clothes," he said with an air of pride. "You can borrow them until you're better."

  Quentin won his battle with the trousers and sat down. Now he knew the origin of the clothes, in any case. He hadn't thought his taste could suffer such a major lapse. But there'd been the time when he'd woken up in the desert without any clothes at all…

  "Thank you," he said gravely. He grabbed the shirt, while the overgrown boy watched with fascination. "Boy" seemed the right word for him, in spite of his height and bulk. He couldn't be more than twenty, though he spoke like someone much younger. Simple-minded, perhaps. There were far worse lots in life.

  And surely the boy could answer basic questions. "My name is Quentin," he said, buttoning the shirt. "Can you tell me where I am?"

  "My name's Oscar," the boy said. "Doc said to go get her when you woke up."

  "Doc?"

  "Doc Johanna. I helped her bring you here."

  So he hadn't come of his own volition. And Johanna was a woman's name. A woman doctor. That would explain his memory of a woman's touch.

  But this wasn't a hospital. The good doctor's home, perhaps? Had he been so ill?

  He stood up and offered his hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Oscar. Can you tell me how long I've been here?"

  Oscar gazed at the man's hand and suddenly folded his own behind his back in a fit of shyness. "I don't know," he said. "You been very sick. I helped take care of you."

  "You and Doc Johanna?" At the boy's nod, he asked, "Where is this place, Oscar?"

  "The Haven." He shuffled from foot to foot. "I gotta go get Doc now." He backed away and was out the door with surprising swiftness.

  Quentin dropped his hand. The Haven. A very peaceful sort of name, to match the feel of this room. The Haven.

  To a man like him, it sounded like paradise. But for a man like him, there was no such place.

  Aware of a powerful thirst, he went to the washstand and poured himself a glass of cool water from the pitcher. The water was clear, as if it had come from a spring, with a faint tang of minerals. It was the most wonderful thing he'd ever tasted. He was finishing the last of it when the door swung open again.

  No giant this time. This one was most definitely female. His practiced gaze took her in with one appreciative sweep, noting the lush curves of a body matched with the height to carry it: a statue, a goddess, an Amazon. He noted and dismissed the black bag in her hand. Her dark, modest dress was almost severe, out of step with the modem fashion of close-fitting cuirass bodices and snug skirts, but it did more to enhance her generous figure than any fancy ball gown might have done.

  And as for her face…

  At first he thought it rather plain. Its shape was oval, with a very slight squareness to the chin, and broad, high cheekbones. Her hair was a common light brown, drawn close in a simple style at the back of her head. Her brows were straight, without the provocative arch that might have lent her greater feminine allure. Her lips were, at the moment, set in a prim line, though they might be full enough when relaxed. Her nose was quite ordinary. And her eyes—her eyes were blue, the brightest thing about her, sharp with intelligence and purpose.

  The eyes alone made her attractive. That, and the way she carried herself. Like a queen. Rather like his own twin sister Rowena, in fact… except that this doctor was human, and Quentin doubted she carried an ounce of aristocratic blood in that sturdy frame.

  She strode into the room and closed the door behind her.

  "You should not be out of bed," she said immediately. "Sit down, please."

  Quentin obeyed. Her voice—low, a little husky, with just the trace of an accent—demanded instant obedience, and he found himself intrigued. More intrigued by a human being than he'd been in a very long time.

  She pulled the chair up beside the bed and laid her palm on his forehead. It was the touch he remembered—that his body remembered. He shivered as if with fever, the tremor radiating south from her hand to his extremities like an electric current. The charge gathered in his groin and lingered there, even when she withdrew her hand. His arousal was immediate and formidable. She might as well have bared her luxurious breasts, within such easy reach of his hands, and offered them up to his exploration.

  He swallowed and closed his eyes. His mind was conjuring up these visions because he literally couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a woman to his bed. He was burning up with lust, and he was afraid.

  "You aren't warm," Johanna said, as if to herself. She bent to her black bag and removed a gauze packet, unwrapping a glass thermometer. "Please open your mouth—"

  If you'll open yours, he thought. Yes; make a joke out of it. That had always saved him before. "Don't you think we ought to be properly introduced before engaging in such intimacies?" he asked with a grin.

  She paused as if genuinely surprised, her thermometer suspended in midair.

  "My name," he said with a slight bow from the waist, "is Quentin Forster. You must be the famous Doctor Johanna. I understand that I have you to thank for my presence in this very comfortable bed."

  She raised one straight eyebrow. "I am Doctor Schell," she said. "I am pleased to see that you remember who you are."

  Quentin started. Did she know about his lapses in memory? Had he been here long enough for her to learn so much?

  She set down the thermometer and placed her thumb and forefinger above and below his right eye, pulling open his lids. "Very good," she said. "Do you remember how you came to be here?"

  He considered lying. No, not with this one. And why bother? He'd be gone soon enough.

  "Unfortunately, I do not," he said. "I wish I did, considering the state in which I found myself when I woke up."

  She must have understood his intimation, but her expression remained tranquil. It was really quite striking, that face—or would be, if it could be made to smile. Without any good reason at all, Quentin wanted to make her smile.

  Maybe then she'd actually see him. Remind him that something of the old Quentin was still within him, unsullied—the devil-may-care rogue beloved by the Prince's set in England, the gambler, the jokester who never took anything seriously.

  "Your state," she said, "was extremely poor when we brought you here. You're very lucky to be alive, young man."

>   Young man? He was entering his third decade, and she couldn't be so much as a year older than he was, if that. He laughed. It hurt his chest, but he let it go with abandon.

  "Do you find that amusing, Mr. Forster?" she said coolly.

  "I'm not an infant, Doctor, and you aren't a grandmother yet, unless I'm very much mistaken." He grabbed her hand and turned it palm up. The hand was lightly callused and strong, but her fingers were tapered and graceful. The fingers of an artist. Fingers that would heal a wound or stroke naked skin with equal skill…

  "Ah, yes," he intoned with an air of dramatic mystery. "I see that you have a long life ahead of you. You let nothing get in the way of your ambitions. But unexpected adventure awaits. A great challenge. And romance." He drew his finger over the creases in her palm. "A man has come into your life."

  She reclaimed her hand without haste. "If that is the best you can do, Mr. Forster, you need additional instruction in fortune-telling."

  Was that a twinkle in her blue eyes? Did she have a sense of humor, after all?

  "Alas, the gypsies who raised me are far away."

  "Then you'd do better to read your own palm, Mr. Forster. You came very near death."

  "I doubt it, Doctor. I'm not easy to kill."

  Her face grew even more serious, and her voice reminded him of a professor at Oxford who he'd regarded as a personal gadfly. "The effects of inebriety are cumulative," she said. "How long have you been drinking?"

  He hid a wince. It wasn't a subject he cared to discuss. "How long have you been a doctor?"

  She gazed into his eyes, holding him with sheer will as another werewolf might do. "I do not think you understand, Mr. Forster. You were suffering from acute delirium tremens, a condition that is often fatal. You have been with us for four days, most of which time you have been unconscious or raving. I am frankly amazed to see you capable of rational communication."

  Raving. "I suppose I made a nuisance of myself," he said. "What did I rave about?"

  "Most of your words were incomprehensible." She cocked her head. "But there was a pattern. When I first found you in a field about a mile from here, you tried to speak to me. You warned me of some evil, that I was in danger."

  He shivered. He didn't remember it. He didn't want to. "I'm sorry," he said. "I must have sounded quite mad."

  "You have no recollection of this."

  He shook his head. "Unfortunately not."

  "What is the last thing you do remember?"

  "I was staying in San Francisco. I won a bit of money in a game. I was planning to catch the ferry to Oakland."

  "You are now near the town of Silverado Springs, in the Napa Valley, some miles north of either San Francisco or Oakland," she said. "Do you often experience these periods of amnesia?"

  "Sometimes." What did they say about confession being good for the soul? It certainly seemed to be helping now. "Generally when I have a bit too much to drink." And half the time I don't even remember the drinking.

  "It seems I owe you a great deal," he said, smiling to charm her away from more questions. "It was kind of you to take me in and look after me. At least I can pay you for your care." He reached for the drawer.

  "We can discuss fees later, Mr. Forster."

  "Quentin, please."

  "Quentin," she said, in that schoolmistress tone. "Make an attempt to grasp that you have been suffering a severe condition for nearly a week, that you have apparently lost any memory of a portion of your life, and that you may not survive another bout. Such a state is not to be taken lightly—"

  "Do you take anything lightly, Johanna?"

  "Not where a life is concerned. And you are fortunate I do not, or I should have left you in the field."

  Beneath her dogged assertiveness he detected the one thing she didn't want him to see—a woman's inevitably soft heart. The sort of heart that had caused her to take in a drunken stranger and care for him with no promise of reward.

  And he knew his own strength. If he'd been raving, he might have become dangerous. Dangerous to her and anyone around her.

  Perhaps, this time, he'd been lucky.

  "Is that why you call this place the Haven?" he asked, gesturing at the room. "You scrape unfortunate sots like me off the floor and minister to them until they're well again?"

  "Not as a rule," she said with a twitch of her lips. Humor again—hidden, but there. "You are something of an exception."

  He placed his hand over his heart. "I'm honored. But if this is not a Haven for vagabonds such as myself, who does it shelter besides a skilled and lovely lady doctor?"

  His compliment seemed to go right over her head. "You have met Oscar," she said. "He is one of the patients here."

  "Patients?"

  "You might as well know where you are, Mr. Forster, since you are likely to be spending a few more days with us."

  "But I'm well, I assure you—"

  "I shall be the judge of that." Before he could speak another word, she picked up the thermometer and pushed it into his mouth. His teeth clicked on the glass.

  "The Haven," she said, "is what I call our little farm. There are seven of us in residence: myself, my father, Doctor Wilhelm Schell, and five patients. We came to this valley two years ago, when we found it necessary to close our private asylum in Pennsylvania."

  "Your—" Quentin tried to speak around the thermometer. Johanna snatched it from his mouth, examined it, and shook her head. "You are a very lucky man, Mr. Forster."

  "Quentin," he reminded her. "Yes, I'm exceedingly lucky." He laughed under his breath. "Is this by any chance a madhouse?"

  "We do not use that name here. The Haven is different. Our residents are only a few of those we treated in Pennsylvania. Those it seemed best to bring with us." Her voice softened. "They have become very much like family. This is what I want you to understand, Mr.—Quentin. You will be meeting them, and I do not wish you to disrupt our routines out of ignorance." She searched his face. "Does insanity frighten you? Does it disgust you? You will see behavior you may consider peculiar—"

  "More peculiar than mine?"

  "—and if you cannot treat the residents with the dignity they require, I shall have to make other arrangements for your care."

  Yes, there was fire in Johanna Schell. It sparked in her eyes when she spoke of her "residents," with all the ferocity of a lioness guarding her cubs. Passion existed in that curvaceous frame… not for romance and the usual women's fancies, but to protect those in her care. A woman who took on great responsibility, and relished it.

  In that way she was the complete opposite of Quentin himself. Johanna Schell was not like the demimondaines he'd tended to run into during the past several years, nor did she bear any resemblance to the proper and well-bred aristocrats of England. She was something new to him—honest, straightforward, unselfish, with hidden emotions yet to be discovered. He couldn't assign her to a category and dismiss her as unimportant, as he did the other men and women he met briefly in his wanderings. That was what intrigued him most.

  Ordinarily, he wouldn't linger long enough to indulge his curiosity. But he found himself admiring this cool, stern, and utterly sensible goddess. Not merely admiring—he was drawn to her, and by more than the erotic promise of her touch.

  If she'd been loup-garou, the explanation would have been simple enough. There was always the possibility of a sudden and unbreakable bond forming between two of werewolf blood. But, even though he lacked his brother's broad mental powers and flawless ability to recognize others of their kind, he knew that Johanna was unmistakably human.

  No matter. He couldn't trust himself to remain here longer than strictly necessary. His safety—his sanity—lay in constant motion. And if his worst, half-acknowledged fears were correct… if he left turmoil behind each and every time he lost his memory in drink…

  Guilt was one of the emotions he'd learn to outran. Sadness was another. And loneliness.

  Johanna reminded him that he was lonely. She and her healer
's touch.

  "I am the last man to judge another's madness," he said at last, meeting her eyes. "You may trust me in that, if in nothing else."

  "That sounds like a warning."

  "Yes." He smiled crookedly. "But I shan't be the one to prove how unwise it is to bring strange, besotted men home as you would a wee lost puppy."

  "I would bet that you are not a puppy, Quentin Forster."

  "Ah, do you gamble?"

  "Only when I have no other choice." She gathered her skirts and began to rise.

  He stopped her, laying his hand on her knee. She had a perfect right to slap him for his forwardness. She went very still. Their gazes locked. He was a gambling man, and he would have wagered all his winnings that she felt his touch the way he felt hers.

  Not that any such effect would show on that carefully schooled face.

  "What is your opinion, Doctor?" he asked. "Can you help me?"

  "If you refer to your dipsomania… it is possible, if you wish to change," she said. "If you do not, no one can help you."

  "Can I expect a lecture on the evils of drink?"

  "There are plenty of reformatory societies for that purpose. I have other techniques."

  "I'm fascinated." He let his hand slide just a fraction of an inch. The muscles in her thigh tensed. "Just what are these techniques?"

  "They were developed by my father, using the science of hypnosis he learned in Europe, where he was educated as a neurologist. Hypnosis enables a doctor to communicate with that part of the mind that is hidden from a patient's own conscious thoughts. Using this method, a trained physician can help the patient to fight mistaken ideas that create many of his problems." She made a gesture with her hands—controlled, but revealing her enthusiasm as much as her eyes and voice. "In your case, this would be the desire for strong drink. My father's method has proven most effective in a number of cases, where insanity is not too far advanced."

  "I've heard of this hypnosis," Quentin said. "It's something like mesmerism—"

  "Mesmerism became little more than superstitious nonsense, rejected by men of science. Hypnosis, as we employ it, is far more advanced, yet misconceptions remain. My father—" She stopped. Quentin noticed that one of her fists had clenched. She caught his glance and relaxed her fingers. "This is hardly the time for a lecture."