SECRET OF THE WOLF

by Susan Krinard

  "Quentin is not evil, Lewis," she said. "I do not disbelieve you, but perhaps there is some other explanation for what you saw."

  "No. I know what it was."

  "A dog—"

  "No!" He lifted his chin and met her gaze. "I know I have not always been well. But this was no hallucination. We are all in terrible danger."

  Johanna found herself bereft of answers. Lewis was not one to fabricate tales, like Irene. Had Quentin indeed been running naked in the woods? Had he gone down on all fours and howled and behaved in such a way to persuade Lewis that he had turned into a wolf? If so, she had seriously failed in her work on behalf of both men.

  A werewolf would be an unmistakable symbol of the demonic to one such as Lewis. Sin—his own and the world's—was one of his great obsessions. One she'd hoped was diminishing.

  As she'd hoped the worst of Quentin's illness had been revealed.

  "If there is evil, we will deal with it," she said, summoning all her calm. "You must trust me, Lewis. Wickedness has no power over us if we keep our minds clear."

  His bony, austere face was filled with the desire to believe her. "I had to tell you. To warn you. We can still cast him out."

  "Give me a little time to observe and determine the safest course. I am not without resources. Do you think you can go to your room and rest, now that you've shared this with me?"

  He wrung his gloved hands. "You will call me if you need my help? I know of the greatest iniquities—" She saw the start of tears in his eyes. "Do not trust him, Miss Schell."

  "I promise to take no chances." She walked ahead of him and opened the door. He went meekly enough to his room, though his gaze darted about the hall until he was safely behind the door.

  Alone, Johanna loosened the tight rein on her emotions. She paced the length of her office and back again several times, consulting her father's pocket watch at the final turn. Bridget should have been here hours ago; it was already after lunch. The patients must be fed.

  And she'd have to call for Quentin again, no matter how much he'd so recently suffered.

  The kitchen door swung open, its creaking audible across the house. Mrs. Daugherty, at last. Johanna went to meet her.

  "Sorry I'm late," Mrs. Daugherty said. "M' grandson had the colic and my daughter needed a bit of help." She squinted at Johanna. "You seem a might peaked. That Irene been givin' you trouble?"

  "No, not at all." Irene, in fact, had been exceptionally furtive over the past few days. "Thank you for your concern. Can you prepare luncheon? I am behind today."

  "'Course. Just send 'em all out and I'll take care of 'em." She began to roll up her sleeves and paused, pursing her lips. "Before I forget, I have a message for you." She rummaged in her skirt pocket. "Here you are."

  Johanna took the slightly damp envelope from Mrs. Daugherty's blunt fingers. "A message? From whom?"

  "Young feller in town—a doctor, like you." She winked. "A right handsome one, at that."

  A doctor? Johanna turned the envelope over. Her name was written out in an elegant hand, but the sender remained anonymous. "Did he give his name?"

  "I can't rightly recall. It was some foreign name, at that. Something with a 'B.' But he was quite the gentleman. Said he'd heard of you and wanted to… 'consult with you.' Yes, that was the word." She grinned. "I'd best get to work while you go read your letter."

  A doctor. A foreign doctor, who wished to consult with her. She hadn't realized that anyone outside the valley knew of her work; she hadn't had time to write papers or attend more than a handful of lectures, let alone speak at length with her peers—if any of them would regard her as such. Few would likely remember her father after three years and a move across the country, in spite of his controversial papers and reputation as an eccentric.

  Her mind crowded with speculation, Johanna hurried back to her office and opened the envelope. The stationery was lightly scented, but the writing was indubitably masculine, it was addressed to Doctor Johanna Schell.

  "Dear Dr. Schell," it began. "I hope that you will grant me the honor and privilege of introducing myself to you: Feodor Bolkonsky, doctor of Neurology from the University of Berlin. I have recently had the great pleasure of becoming acquainted with the theories of your father, Dr. Wilhelm Schell, and your own work in the field of treatment of the insane. I am currently residing in the Silverado Springs Hotel, and would be most grateful if—"

  Johanna finished the letter at breakneck speed and then read it through more slowly.

  Dr. Feodor Bolkonsky. She'd never heard of him, but that was no surprise. Her life here had been meaningful but insular, set far apart from those theorists and physicians and asylum superintendents whose work was garnering recognition in the rest of the country and abroad.

  This Dr. Bolkonsky knew of her. He knew she was a woman, and obviously didn't care. He was not only familiar with the Schells' practice, but had made the effort to find and read her father's scarce papers and was aware that she was carrying on in the wake of Wilhelm Schell's disability.

  He wanted her to come into Silverado Springs to dine with him and review the hypnotic treatment that he himself had begun to explore, comparing his experiences with her own. And he asked as humbly as any student.

  Only minutes ago she'd been mourning the lack of physicians who shared her ideas and passion for real cures of insanity. And here, as if sent by fate, was a man who might not only understand, but could conceivably provide her with advice in treating Quentin. Perhaps he, himself, was capable of taking on Quentin's care should she find her situation too…

  Overwhelming, Johanna? When before have you turned coward, simply because a case became difficult?

  And when, she answered herself, was it ever so personal?

  She carefully refolded the letter and tucked it back in its envelope. She took a number of deep, rhythmic breaths to calm the too-rapid pace of her heartbeat. The prospect of losing Quentin to another doctor was a matter of professional necessity, not of personal needs. It might very well be in his best interest.

  If it were possible at all.

  "Sufficient to the day," Johanna thought. And today she must continue to present a tranquil and competent face to the rest of the patients. She went to the dining room to join the others for luncheon.

  Half the Haven's residents were sitting down to lunch in their usual places. Neither Quentin nor Lewis was present. Harper had taken Lewis's chair, his hair neatly combed and his beard trimmed.

  Irene's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, as if she harbored glorious secrets she delighted in concealing. Her attitude was markedly changed from her brooding conduct earlier in the week. May stood in the kitchen doorway, looking for Quentin. When she didn't see him, she grabbed a sandwich from a plate on the table and ran outside.

  Johanna drew Mrs. Daugherty aside. "Do you think it might be possible for you to come back tomorrow and bring another girl from town? I have an appointment in the Springs and may be gone half the day and into the evening."

  Mrs. Daugherty cocked her head. "Well, I do know of a girl or two who could use the work, if I can convince 'em not to be scairt. How much could you pay?"

  Bless the woman for her bluntness. "If the girl is satisfactory and is willing to help you see to the patients, I'll abide with whatever you think is fair."

  "Just the way you did when I first came here," Mrs. Daugherty said. "It's a good thing I'm an honest woman!"

  "We couldn't get along without you. Do you think that you could go back into town this afternoon and let me know by dinnertime if you've found someone?"

  "Don't see why not. If I have help, I can do all the washing tomorrow."

  "Excellent."

  "It's that doctor, ain't it?" Mrs. Daugherty asked. "The one who sent you the letter. Meeting him, are you?"

  "He's asked to consult with me. I don't often get the opportunity."

  " 'Course." The older woman bustled back to the stove. "I'll get things settled up here and head back to town."
r />   Too restless to eat, Johanna took a tray in to her father and found him clean, contented, and alert. He had a broad grin for her, and ate with real gusto.

  "I've been neglecting you, Papa," she said, helping him cut a piece of cold roast beef into small pieces. "I am sorry."

  He tasted a bite and rolled his eyes. "Sehr gut." After a moment he looked at her. "Don't worry, meine Walkürchen. The young man has been very good company."

  Quentin. "He's been spending much time with you?"

  "A fine lad. Knows how to tell a good joke."

  "You like him very much, Papa."

  "Don't you?"

  That old, piercing gaze caught her unaware. "Of course I do. But he is a—" She'd almost said patient, and remembered that her father had thought him a doctor.

  "We made a good choice, bringing him in," Papa said. "He has a healer's touch."

  A healer's touch. Her father had always been a keen judge of character. Was he still? There could be no doubt that Quentin had done him only good, as he had May.

  But then there was Lewis. And Irene, who was now avoiding him. And today's disconcerting revelations.

  She put her father to bed and went to seek Quentin. He was already waiting for her in the hall.

  "We must talk," he said.

  Her mind's eye filled with a tantalizing vision of Quentin standing naked in the woods, then shifted to the image of his face, snarling and brutal. Suddenly she didn't want to be alone with him in her office, or anywhere inside four walls.

  "Yes," she said. "Shall we go to the vineyard?"

  It was a place of tidily spaced rows of vines pruned into tortured shrubs, each standing alone, well-disciplined troops of obstinate old men laden with burdens of new grapes.

  The kind of place where he and Johanna could be together yet totally apart.

  Quentin paused to run his fingers over the plump, nearly ripe fruit on the nearest vine, pretending to be fascinated by them. All the while his senses were focused on the woman a few feet away.

  Of the little he recalled from his latest memory lapse, one thing stood clear in his mind: Johanna's arms. Johanna's touch. Johanna, holding him, comforting him. Johanna's voice whispering, "I care for you, Quentin."

  What had he done to provoke those words, that tenderness? And what had happened afterward to bring the wariness into her eyes, while Harper watched vigilantly beside her?

  He crushed a grape between his fingers and let the pulp fall. "What did I do, Johanna?" he asked. "You told me that I entered another spontaneous trance, but I know very well that's not all." He sought her eyes. "Tell me the truth."

  She paused in her own examination of an immature bunch of grapes and looked up. She was too restrained, too emotionless. Hiding something from him.

  Something he wasn't going to like.

  "As you know," she said, "our past few meetings have not been very successful. I haven't been able to fully hypnotize you, as I did at first. But this time—" Her body tensed as if to take a step toward him, but she reached for the nearest vine instead. "You underwent a sort of transformation. It was as if you were indeed a child again. A child who had suffered much."

  He laughed, torn by mingled relief and dread. "Ah, the agonies of youth. I must have disgusted you."

  "Stop." She didn't touch him, but the sheer force of her determination silenced him. "You make light of it, but things happened in your childhood that must have affected you deeply. You told me about your grandfather—"

  Her voice faded. Between one moment and the next, his mind went blank. Pictures, like photographs frozen in time, came to him one by one. Greyburn. Playing on the vast lawn with Rowena and Braden. The Great Hall hung with its swords and shields and immense wooden doors carved with images of wolves and men. His mother in bed, slowly dying. The room with the armor, where Grandfather dealt out punishment. And the cellar…

  A swell of dizziness sent him grabbing a handful of leaves as if their frailty could support him. They tore from the vine and fluttered to the ground.

  Johanna caught him in her arms. She held him until he could stand again, and let him go.

  "I am sorry," she said. "I know this will not be easy for you, Quentin. But I believe what happened today is significant. You must not give up."

  He clasped his hands behind his back to disguise their trembling. He wanted to give up. If not for the memory of Johanna's arms about him, protecting, caring… loving…

  "Was that all I did? Behave like a child?" He clenched his teeth. "Did I become… aggressive?"

  The minute alterations in her scent and her stance gave her away, though she hardly moved. "Have you reason to believe that you might?" she said, her voice unnaturally quiet.

  She was sidestepping his questions with more of her own. How could he explain? How, when he didn't understand it himself? "There may have been times when I didn't behave quite properly."

  "Times you don't remember, because of the gaps in your memory? Yes, you told me about them in our first session, but I assumed—" She broke off and looked away, her expression bleak. "Have you experienced such gaps since you came to the Haven?"

  He went cold. "Yes."

  "But you have not been drinking."

  He shook his head.

  "Do you remember any occasion when you became aggressive, here or in the past?"

  Until this morning, he could have answered "yes" with perfect honesty. Until this morning, he'd had only the sense of wrongness following his many binges. He'd see wariness in the eyes of strangers, sometimes fear, even hatred. That was when he knew it was time to move on.

  But this morning, in town, he had remembered: the anger, the wildness, the desire to hurt those who had bullied Oscar.

  "You must be honest with me, Quentin." Her face had gone a little pale under its ruddiness.

  "I've tried to be," he said, choking on the half-truth. His nails bit into his palms. "Did I attempt to hurt you, or Harper?"

  "No." She wasn't lying, but she withheld something from him, and she wouldn't meet his eyes. The only solace he could find was in her nearness; she still trusted him enough to put herself within his easy reach. He was torn between the desire to weep and to catch her up in his arms and kiss her until she was breathless.

  "I would never hurt you," he whispered. "Not you or anyone at the Haven. But there is something you must know." He gazed off across the rows of vines, and beyond to the fields and wooded hills. "Something happened this morning, when I went into town with Oscar."

  He told her, slowly, of the incident in Silverado Springs, Oscar's predicament, and what he had done. She listened as dispassionately as if he were reciting a list of the provisions he'd brought back from town.

  "You were trying to protect Oscar," she said after a long, charged silence. "You didn't hurt the boy."

  "No."

  "Then it seems to me that your reaction was not unwarranted." She spoke as if by rote, all passion quenched. "Oscar could not defend himself. It is in our desire to succor the weak and helpless that we rise above the beasts."

  Was she creating excuses for him, or had he failed to make her understand? You do a disservice to the beasts, Johanna. It is men who are the savages.

  "I fear," he said, "that I didn't improve the Haven's reputation in Silverado Springs."

  "That does not concern me. It will take time to make people realize that insanity or mental deficiency is neither a shame nor a sin." She blinked several times, returning from a place inside herself, and finally looked at him.

  "When you first came to us," she said, "I thought the drinking was the cause of your illness. I was wrong." She searched his eyes, piercing straight to the heart. "It's the shadows that haunt you. The shadows of your past. The ones that came to life in your childhood, and followed you into India. And led you finally to us."

  Quentin felt as if she'd sifted his mind like one of the true loup-garou blood. She knew him better than he knew himself. But when had he ever really known himself?

&nb
sp; She drew in a breath. "You do want help, Quentin. No matter what difficulties we may face."

  God help him. "Yes."

  "Even if it means—" She paused, and again he was left with the certainty that she had stopped herself from speaking frankly. But not because she was afraid of him. He hadn't yet driven her to that.

  Did she fear for him?

  "There is one more thing I must ask you now," she said.

  He braced himself. "Ask."

  "Lewis came to me today. He claimed to have seen you change into a wolf."

  Quentin couldn't quite stifle a bitter laugh at the absurdity of it. "Oh, lord."

  She simply stared at him. "Were you running in the woods unclothed, as Lewis claims?"

  How could he answer? "I was in the woods. I did a bit of running."

  "And did you feel the desire to become a wolf, Quentin?"

  The quandary was most ironic: to let Johanna believe him even more insane than he was, or tell her the unvarnished truth..

  If any human could be trusted with the facts of his nature, she could. But such knowledge would place more burdens upon her—the burden of belief in the face of all she knew, the burden of secrecy… and the burden of acceptance. If she could accept.

  It was too great a risk. Their relationship hung in the balance.

  And what relationship is that?

  "A wolf, at least, very seldom doubts his own sanity," he said at last.

  Her face revealed her thoughts as distinctly as chalk on a slate. "Is this all you have to tell me?"

  "I wish I were not such a disappointment to you, Johanna."

  Rare temper sparked in her eyes. "You did not mention any of this to Lewis?"

  "No. I was trying for a little solitude."

  She clearly had more to say, but held her tongue. "Lewis was very upset. It will be best for you to stay away from him. And if you feel any urge toward—"

  "Running naked in the woods?"

  "—any desire to turn into a wolf, you will come straight to me."