"I would like to hypnotize you, Quentin—now. Can you walk with me to my office?"
He pushed away and started for the house, not waiting for her. She caught up and took a firm grip on his arm. May saw them first, and came running. Her face fell when she got a good look at Quentin.
"Quentin isn't feeling well," Johanna said, guiding him past the girl. "He needs to rest."
"Yes," May whispered. Oscar joined her, but neither made a move to follow them into the house.
Quentin fell back onto the chaise as if the short walk from the orchard had exhausted him. She made a more thorough inspection of his body for wounds or evidence of struggle, but found none. If he had been the one to attack Ingram, the other man hadn't left a mark on him when he'd defended himself.
If Quentin had attacked. If…
His half-dazed state made him even more susceptible to hypnosis than usual, and he went into a deep trance the moment she finished her induction.
"I would like you to do the best you can to answer my questions, Quentin. Reach into your memory, with no fear of what you may find."
His closed lids fluttered, but he made no answer.
"Let us start from the beginning. You went into town."
"Yes." His voice was flat, unemotional.
"To see May's father."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I was worried about May. I read in your notes that he might have hurt her before she came here."
Johanna damned her own meticulous nature that demanded the recording of each thought and observation related to every patient within her care, no matter how based upon conjecture or guesswork. She doubly damned her carelessness in not locking those notes away.
"Did you think that May was in danger from her father?" she asked.
"I had to find out."
"And did you?"
Silence. She must approach the subject more cautiously.
"How did you find him?"
"You said where he was. I went to the hotel and found his rooms."
"When was this, Quentin?"
"After midnight."
That jibed with what Irene had said. "Was he there?"
Quentin's jaw tightened. "Yes."
"What did you observe when you found him?"
"He was… with a young girl."
Johanna became aware that her hands were fastened upon the arms of her chair. She stretched her fingers one by one.
"What was he doing, Quentin?"
"Forcing his attentions upon her."
She shut down her own feelings. "In what way?"
No answer.
"What did you feel, when you saw this?"
No answer.
"Why was it so important to you to protect May, Quentin?"
He turned his head sharply on the chaise's pillow, but still said nothing.
Obviously the ordinary method of questioning wasn't going to work, and she didn't have the leisure to experiment over days or weeks. Time for an entirely new, and potentially dangerous, tack.
"Quentin," she said slowly, "you once told me that you could change into a wolf."
He seemed to stop breathing.
"I'd like to see you do that now. Change for me, Quentin."
She had no idea what would happen, or even if he'd try to obey. She waited, knowing what she might have unleashed but prepared to face whatever might come.
Quentin opened his eyes. He looked across the ceiling, rose on his elbows, and lowered his gaze to hers.
"You called, Doctor Schell?" he said, smiling around bared teeth. "I've been waiting for you."
Oh, yes, he had changed. It was in the slight thickening of his features: the cruelty in them, the harshness, the narrow satisfaction in his eyes. They had lost every trace of warmth, their color like nothing so much as that of dried blood.
Complete antipathy. Utter loathing. Pure hate.
She knew this Quentin. She had encountered him before without even realizing it.
"Cat got your tongue?" he mocked. He swung his legs over the chaise. "I like you better this way, Johanna. Speechless."
"Quentin?"
"He's gone. You wanted him to change, didn't you?" He stood up, looming over her with curled fingers. "Well, he's changed. Now I'm here."
The moment had come. Fenris tested the feel of his body, slipping into it as easily as if he put on a coat. He'd worn it not so long ago, and had almost tasted Johanna's lips. He'd nearly gained control last night, and that evening when Johanna had so wantonly displayed herself. But Quentin had held on, pushing him back each time
Now he was in command. Never had he felt so liberated: in full daylight, his mind clear, and in the presence of one who could see him for what he was. No drunken haze inherited from Quentin's weakness. No waiting until the precise combination of emotion and drink and circumstance gave him the strength to escape.
The unwitting, luscious, naive Johanna Schell had let him out of his cage.
He looked her up and down, giving free rein to his lust. Quentin's lust as well, if that milksop would ever admit it. But Quentin was far away, helpless, as he was helpless during so much of their bitterly shared existence.
Quentin wouldn't be alive if not for him. But Quentin was afraid of living.
He wasn't.
"Surprised to see me?" he asked, walking slowly toward Johanna. "You shouldn't be. We've met before."
She held her ground, bracing one hand against the back of her chair. "Who are you?"
At least she wasn't so stupid as to believe he wasn't real. Not that her mind mattered to him in the slightest. Her body was what he wanted. He stripped her to nakedness with a thought, and in another had her panting beneath him, begging for mercy. Turning thought to action would take but a few minutes more.
"Who are you?" she repeated, more firmly. Her jaw was set, her gaze steady in an excellent approximation of courage. He laughed.
"Fenris," he said. He reached out and casually snapped off the uppermost button of her collar with a flick of a finger.
"Fenris," she echoed. "The monster Wolf, offspring of Loki and enemy of the gods, who remains chained in Asgard until Ragnarok."
"Not always," he said, licking his lips and watching her face as she realized his intentions. "Not today." He ran his finger down the center of her bodice, pressing between her breasts.
Her deep breath defied him. "Where is Quentin?"
"I told you." He grasped her elbow and jerked her toward him. "He's gone."
"Where?"
He tilted her head back, yanking the pins from her hair. "Where he can't stop me."
"You share his body."
"He squanders it." He tore off the second and third buttons of her bodice. "I use it. As I'll use yours."
Her pupils narrowed to pinpricks, swallowed in a sea of blue. "I understand," she said. "All the strange things Quentin has done, the behavior that made no sense—it was you."
"Stop wasting our time," he growled.
"When will…" She gave an almost inaudible gasp as he squeezed her breast in his hand. "When will he return?"
"When I'm finished. If I let him." He ground his erection between her thighs. "No more talk. Take off your dress."
She was stronger than he'd realized. Her resistance was a solid thing of bone and muscle, preventing him from relieving her of her bodice.
The resistance was what excited him. Making her admit she wanted him to take her was more exciting still.
"Release me," she demanded.
"Lying to yourself, Doctor?" He bent his head and grazed her neck with his teeth, nipping just firmly enough to make her feel it. "You can't wait to find out what it's like to have me pounding my way inside you."
"You have no access to my thoughts… Fenris. What you propose is simply rape, nothing more."
The sheer coolness of her accusation filled him with rage. He twisted one of her arms behind her so that she couldn't move without pain. "It's Quentin, isn't it? You've been lusting after him
like a bitch in heat. You think you can have him and get rid of me. It isn't going to work. Once I take you, he'll be that much weaker."
"Quentin's honor is more potent than your violence."
"Is it?" He laughed. "The honor that made him go to your room with only one thing in mind?"
"That wasn't Quentin."
"It was both of us. But I'm getting stronger all the time. And when I'm done, Quentin'll never show his face again. First I'll take his woman, and then the rest of his miserable life." He jerked her arm, forcing her to cry out. "Open your legs for me, woman."
"I will not." She stared straight into his eyes. "Do you know everything Quentin knows?"
He laughed in contempt. "More. Much more." He licked the underside of her jaw. "You pretend to be a tight little virgin, but I saw your body when you were with him, your tits all hard and your juices flowing. I smelled your lust. I smell it now."
"Does he know about you?"
She was distracting him with all her questions. "Shut up." He pushed her to the chaise and turned her so that she would fall on her back.
"You do intend to rape me, then," she said. "Now I know you are not Quentin."
"Quentin!" He flung her down and fell on top of her, holding himself just above with his braced arms. "Did he ever kiss you like this?"
He seized her mouth, hard, thrusting his tongue deep inside. She lay quiet under him, unresponsive. A howl of fury built up in his throat.
"Quentin would never kiss me like that," she said, when she could speak again. "He is a gentleman. I do not know what you are." Intermittent shivers rushed through her body, as if she were only half able to control them. "You have the strength to do what you like with me, but I doubt that you will find it entirely pleasant."
He raised his fist to hit her, saw the glint of fear under the stalwart façade, and let his hand fall. For all her brave display of fortitude, she was weaker than he was. Weaker, and not to be abused. That was the rule.
Quentin. Quentin did this to him. Quentin's rules still bound him. If he tried to break them, he would lose.
"Damn you," he snarled. "I will make you beg for it."
She touched him then, deliberately, spreading her fingers across his chest in a gesture that both invited and repelled.
"I have a better idea," she said with that excruciating, deceptive calm. "I'll strike a bargain with you. You want me—but not unwilling."
Oh, yes, he wanted her—now, as he'd wanted her from the very beginning, willing or unwilling.
"I'll give myself to you freely," she said, "if you answer my questions."
Questions, always questions. He leaned so close that her breath filled his mouth like wine. "Why should I bargain?"
"Because—" She paused, some calculation moving behind her eyes. "Because if you rape me, you'll be no better than May's father abusing that girl at the hotel."
The impact of her words sent his soul spinning like a top. For a moment he lost possession of his body, felt it slipping away from him.
Quentin was trying to take it back.
"No," he cried. "Not yet." He leaped away from Johanna and flung himself at the nearest wall, pounding his body against it until the pain convinced him that it remained in his power.
His body. His.
"Fenris?"
She stood by the chaise, unruffled, not even bothering to close the gap in her bodice.
Arrogant bitch. "A bargain," he said, hating and wanting so much that his bruised body screamed with the unrequited need to hurt in turn.
"You will answer?" she asked.
"Five minutes," he said. "And then—" He smiled and pointed at the chaise in a way she could not possibly misunderstand.
Chapter 17
Johanna let herself sag against the chaise, just enough to be sure that her body would not fail her, not enough for Fenris to sense her vulnerability.
Or her fear.
His thoughts were transparent on his altered face. She had prayed that hers remained hidden, and it seemed as if her prayers were answered. She held the advantage. Reason must always win out over savagery.
She had no doubt that Fenris was capable of savagery. That was what made the situation so remarkable, why fascination warred with fear and kept her mind racing.
For Fenris was Quentin. Not Quentin as she knew him, but another manifestation of his personality, ordinarily hidden from the world. She'd caught glimpses of him before, but now she had no further doubts.
And with his appearance came hope for the answers she had sought.
She had heard of such phenomena, read of them in books, rare though they were: incidences of two personalities sharing a single body, alternating ownership of it. In France there'd been the case of a woman named Felida. Two completely dissimilar women had existed in separate lives, total opposites in nature and ambitions. One, the original Felida, had been dull and gentle; the other, which her physician called her "second state," was flirtatious and wild. When one held ownership of the body, the other disappeared. And only the second personality knew of the other's existence or remembered the other's experiences. For Felida, whole periods of time—hours, weeks, eventually months—simply vanished.
Never before had Johanna the occasion to witness this bizarre syndrome for herself. It explained so much, yet her knowledge was pathetically deficient. If she could only speak to Fenris as she did Quentin, win his trust, she might find the way to heal Quentin's complex illness.
The key lay in this personality she confronted, in his mysterious origins—and in how much he differed from the gentle man she knew.
In at least one way he resembled Quentin. Her mention of May's father had been an act of desperation, based upon speculation and instinct. What Quentin hated, Fenris might also hate.
As what Quentin desired, Fenris also desired, without the inhibitions. And yet Fenris had been prepared to make a bargain.
"Four minutes," Fenris said.
She focused on him again, seeking Quentin behind that sneering mask. He was there, no matter how deeply buried he seemed.
"You were in town last night," she said, speaking as she would to any patient.
He wasn't fooled; his sharp white incisors flashed a predatory glint. "Yes."
"You attacked May's father, did you not?"
"Yes—once I got rid of Quentin." His lips contorted in disdain. "Is that the best you can do?"
"Why did you attack him?"
"I don't need a reason." He stretched, cracking'the joints in his spine. "I enjoyed it."
He was lying. He had a reason. He, or Quentin.
"You said before that you know much more than Quentin does. What did you mean?"
"Can't you guess, Johanna?" Her name on his lips became almost an obscenity, laced with the threat of sexual perversions beyond naming.
"Quentin doesn't realize you exist," she said. "But you know everything he does, feels, thinks."
"Another brilliant deduction." Idly, he touched himself, outlining the heavy fullness of his erection. "He pretends I don't exist, to save himself. Stupid fool. If I weren't here, he would have died long ago. I keep him alive only for my own sake."
"You keep him alive?"
"He's a weakling and a coward."
"But you are not." She locked her gaze on his face and refused to look elsewhere. "You… do things he wouldn't. You are willing to fight, even harm others, as he would not."
He clapped his hands. "Bravo, Doctor."
Once more she mentally catalogued all she'd read about the condition sometimes known as "splitting of the personality," or "double consciousness." "You and Quentin share the same body," she said. "You cannot control it at the same time. But Quentin is the one who holds it most often. Is that not correct?"
Baleful light flickered in his eyes. "Until now."
"When you control your body, Quentin goes away. He can't affect what you do. He isn't even aware of your existence." More pieces of the puzzle fell into place. "But if he doesn't know about you
, he can't consciously let you out. When do you take possession, Fenris? What makes it possible?"
He took a step forward. "You're nearly out of time, Johanna."
"Answer my question."
"I come when he's afraid to act, when he meets what he can't face. When he tries to escape into drink and can't hold his liquor."
"When he gets angry," she guessed, "so angry that he feels he may do violence."
"When he can't protect himself." His fingers curled like claws. "Then I come."
"And what makes him so angry and afraid, Fenris?"
The ruthless mockery in Fenris's eyes subsided, replaced for an instant with confusion.
She was close, so close. A few more questions answered and her supposition would be confirmed.
"When were you born, Fenris?" she asked.
He looked through her to some distant time and place.
"What is your first memory?"
His expression darkened, became so rigid that it looked as though it might crack with a single twitch.
"The cellar," he said hoarsely.
"The cellar, where?"
"Greyburn."
Just as she had suspected. She subdued her excitement.
"How old were you?"
"Eight."
"Why did you come then, Fenris?"
"He called me."
"Quentin? Quentin called you?"
"To make sure he wouldn't die."
Her throat closed in on itself. "Why would he die?"
Fenris closed his eyes. "It hurt too much. He wanted to kill—"
"What hurt, Fenris?"
He shook his head wildly. Johanna recalled that one session with Quentin… his childlike cries, speaking to someone from his past: "If I don't do what he says—I won't—he locks me up in here… then Grandfather brings the ropes—"
"You were beaten," she said, her voice thick to her own ears. "Who hurt you, Fenris?"
"You know. He told you."
"His—your grandfather."
She hadn't thought it possible that Fenris's face could grow more malevolent, but it did so now. Hate beyond hate. The promise of punishment beyond the fires of hell itself.
SECRET OF THE WOLF Page 24
