Also, she was more than just a woman. She had survived the cruelest torments in both her forms, and had gone on to bravely fight her enemy with all her strength. He admired that. He did not think he would have been so brave, himself. He admired her, and he liked her, for her bravery and for her cutting sarcasm and cold humor that met his every verbal sally in kind. He refused to believe that she was dead. He would first discover if indeed Kauz had taken her, rather than some more mundane authority, and second where she was being held. He could not let her be held captive again.
He took heart when he remembered Lucilla. He would be able to enlist her help, and perhaps that of the werewolf captain. If he could find Madame Claes, the rest would be possible. Pascal took a glass of wine from Armand, sipped and began to eat his omelette. He could set the search in motion as soon as he’d eaten.
He could begin with Kauz’s laboratory; perhaps this time he could locate its secret counterpart where once Kauz had held a werewolf captive. His superiors might not be happy with him for diverting resources in such a way, but he could see no alternative. He had once sworn he would aid the survival of werewolves as best he could. He could do no less than make this effort, and if Kauz was involved, then all the better. He could eliminate a threat to werewolves and a threat to his country with one blow.
“Miss Daglish?”
Lucilla jerked in surprise, her hand to her chest. She’d been rushing from her hut to X-ray to pick up the most recent films on behalf of Miss Rivers. It had rained all night, and the paths were awash in soupy mud. Her hands ached from the damp cold. She tucked them beneath her arms as she turned slowly, and confronted Captain Ashby. “Where did you come from?”
“Hailey told me you wanted to see me. Thank you for the chocolate.”
“It was meant for my brother.”
He laughed. His cheeks were ruddy from the wind, his eyes alive with humor. “Daglish was kind enough to share it.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You can send more whenever you like. My favorite is the Belgian sort.”
“Cheeky,” she said. “I’m on my way to the ward just now. Can you wait a few moments?”
“I’ll wait in Hailey’s storage shed, how’s that?”
“Don’t let anyone see you,” she said, and hurried on. As she delivered the films, she pondered what to tell Captain Ashby, and how to tell it to him. She had broken his confidence by telling Pascal of his existence, but stood by her decision. It was too late to do otherwise. She would have to go forward without shirking, as she had when she and Pascal had stolen Kauz’s motor.
It wasn’t so easy to sneak away from Sister Inkson, the latest crop of earnest young mademoiselles, and one or two of her mobile patients, but she managed it with the help of a preoccupied expression, a purposeful walk and an armful of linens. She dumped the linens on an orderly and escaped out a side door. It had begun to rain, the chilly sort of downpour that made her bones twinge. Disregarding uniform protocol, she draped her cape over her head and dashed for the storage sheds.
Captain Ashby crouched in a rear corner next to crates of knitted scarves that had been donated from women’s organizations all over the empire. He rose gracefully when she entered and shoved his cap onto the back of his head, revealing some of his cropped gingery hair. Lucilla envied his ease of movement; she herself felt as if she’d been trampled by cavalry. She said, “Thank you for waiting.”
“I never mind waiting for a woman,” he said. “Why did you need to speak with me?”
“Have a seat,” she suggested, taking one herself atop a crate of disinfectant. The bottles within clanked as she shifted uneasily. When Ashby was seated across from her, she said, “I know a man who works for the French government, and he would like to consult with you.” She hesitated. “I didn’t tell him your name, or anything like that. But I’m afraid he knows you are a werewolf.”
Ashby was silent for a long time. After a few moments, Lucilla asked, “Are you smelling me?”
More solemnly than she’d ever heard him speak, he said, “Yes. Sometimes truth has its own scent. This man—he is French?—he knew about werewolves already, didn’t he?”
“He suspected.”
“He probably knew,” Ashby said. “It isn’t something most people think about. Is he a werewolf himself?”
“No!” She paused. “At least, I don’t think so—” Wouldn’t he have said so? Would Pascal have told such a thing to her? Why hadn’t it occurred to her that he might have more than his stated motive for investigating Kauz? He had been evasive when she’d asked about his work.
Ashby continued, “Or perhaps he’s related to one. We don’t always breed true, you know, at least not with humans. It’s not that uncommon to find a human with a trace of the blood. You can smell it on them. Sometimes they have hints of it—a better sense of smell, or hearing, or extra strength or endurance.” He paused. “And sometimes there are humans who know of us, and intend us harm.”
Lucilla’s mind swam with possibilities. She forced them from her mind for later contemplation. She could not remain here long, and she had to give Ashby her message. “I don’t know, but he does not intend you harm. I would stake my reputation on it,” she said. “If you decide to speak to him, perhaps you will find out.” She produced a sealed envelope from her apron pocket. “He gave me this. It has instructions for how to send him a letter, and, also, a telephone number, which he would appreciate you destroying as soon as possible. We have a telephone here, in the main hospital building. I might be able to get you in to use it.”
Ashby took the envelope, his callused fingers brushing hers. “I’ll have to come back for that, or find another telephone. I’m due at my regiment soon, we’re to meet with a German officer about a burial truce. It wouldn’t do for me to be late.” He paused, then said, “I have a friend. Lieutenant Gabriel Meyer. He knows what I am. If you can’t get through to me for some reason, try to contact him, instead. He will know how to find me.”
“Captain—Major Fournier is an ally. I am sure of it.” She was sure. She knew Pascal was not like Kauz. She paused. Pascal might have lied to her for other reasons, however. Some of those reasons, she might understand. “If he is…not quite human…will you keep his secret, if he keeps yours?”
“Don’t worry about that, Miss Daglish. It’s a matter of honor among my kind. If you’re not sure I can be trusted, bite my neck and I’ll have to obey your orders, whatever they might be. It’s a dominance ritual. Wolves do it all the time.”
Lucilla made a face. “You are ridiculous, Captain.”
Ashby smiled at her, guileless as a babe. “No, it’s true. Why can’t you believe such a simple thing? You believe I’m a werewolf—”
“I saw that,” Lucilla pointed out. “How do I know you’re telling the truth about this?”
“Only one way to find out,” Ashby said. He unbuttoned the collar of his uniform tunic and tugged it aside. His neck looked startlingly pale and vulnerable. “Would I let you do this if I didn’t trust you?”
“Would you give me power over you?” Lucilla countered. “I wouldn’t.”
“I want your trust. You won’t give it to me unless you feel confident I won’t…well, do whatever you’re worried I’ll do. I only eat rabbits and rats and such, but if you won’t believe me, then…” He tipped his head to the side. “Go on.”
Lucilla already couldn’t believe she was hiding in a storeroom with a handsome young man. The fact that he could turn into a giant, hairy wolf was only a little stranger than that. But the idea of her teeth touching his skin seemed more unbelievable than anything else. She couldn’t imagine doing such a thing, here in the hospital, in a world where she only touched the ill and wounded.
Best to get on with it, then, as with any disturbing task. She leaned forward. Ashby smelled of bergamot cologne and gun oil. Before she could lose her courage, she pressed her mouth to his throat. The bristly rasp beneath his chin startled her, and she jerked back. He didn’t taste like Pascal. “Well?” she said
.
Ashby’s breathing had sped up. “You didn’t bite me.”
“You moved,” she said.
“I didn’t—” He shut his mouth and lifted his chin. Lucilla leaned forward and, as gently as she could, pinched his skin between her teeth. He didn’t move. She put her hand on his shoulder, to steady herself, but her fingers must have curled in too hard, because Ashby shuddered beneath her touch. “Harder,” he said.
Lucilla drew back and licked her lips. She could taste him. His eyes looked huge in the dim light, and she could feel a flush building in her cheeks. She bit the rigid cord where neck met shoulder and slowly, slowly increased the pressure. It reminded her too much of sex. Pascal had liked it when she bit his neck. She liked it, too. Ashby tasted…Did it have to do with him being a werewolf? She wanted to lick Ashby’s skin and imprint him on her taste buds. She wanted to bite him more softly, and then suck at his flesh. Ashby moaned.
Lucilla jerked back. If she’d hurt him, it was his own fault, but she didn’t want to continue hurting him. She tried to step away and Ashby caught her around the waist. “Stop!” she commanded.
He froze.
She laid one hand flat on his chest. His heart raced, and his breath caught. Suspicion blossomed. “You enjoyed that,” she said.
Ashby grinned slowly. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”
Lucilla pulled out of his grip and stepped back. “You cad! You lied to me!”
“I did not!” He was laughing now.
“Dominance ritual. What complete and utter tosh. You were trying to seduce me!”
“You don’t like being seduced? I like it. I wish you’d do it again.”
“Wolves don’t really do those things,” Lucilla said.
“They do!” Ashby looked at her hopefully, then sighed and buttoned up his collar again. “It’s true that they’re very hierarchical. It’s only that the hierarchy changes at need.” He paused. “For me, it’s important that you were willing to do that. I’m more than willing to do your bidding.” The tone of his voice made it clear what sort of bidding he would like.
Lucilla smacked his arm. “If only that were true.”
He grinned at her. “I am willing to do your bidding. Truly. I will speak to your Frenchman.”
Lucilla blew out an exasperated breath. “Thank you.”
Ashby leaned in and kissed her, lightly, on the mouth. “Thank you. Just let me know if you change your mind about future biting, all right?” Then he was gone.
Noel crawled forward a few more inches. He and his two companions were now fifty yards into this wide stretch of no-man’s-land, the closest they were likely to get to the enemy without being seen. He lifted his field glasses again, wedging them beneath the brim of his uniform cap. Sharp bits of rock dug into his hip, where the fabric of his trousers was not quite thick enough for protection, and newly deployed coils of wire atop the German trench obscured his view. Forcing himself to ignore the distractions, he murmured his estimates of the enemy manpower in the trenches a hundred yards away, doing so more by smell than sight. To his left, Lincoln scribbled the numbers in a dirty notebook. To his right, Denham’s beefy hands restlessly caressed his rifle.
If one’s nose could ache, his did, from too long spent crammed together with too many men, all of them in desperate need of a bath and a good night’s sleep; the sour tang of exhaustion exuding from their skin was worse than the stench of sweat. The Germans, from what he could gather on the wind, were in a similar state, their individual scents muddled together with layered masks of weariness and fear. Only their food smells differed. If all humans could smell with the acuity of wolves, he pondered for the millionth occasion, would they be able to go to war with each other?
He was thankful for the burial details that had gone out earlier in the day, under a flag of truce. Otherwise, this duty would be unbearable.
“Sir,” Denham rumbled. “I could pick a couple off from here. Just give me leave.”
“And we’d be peppered before we drew another breath,” Ashby said. He encouraged his men to think and always be ready for the main chance, but some of them were idiots. He scrubbed beneath his nose with a gloved finger, trying to take advantage of his momentary freedom from confinement to enjoy a few clear breaths. Or as clear as he was likely to get—the dirt here between the trenches was impregnated with sharp reminders of metal and old blood. He handed the field glasses to his left and said, “Lincoln, start back. Denham, you follow.”
“I’m supposed to cover you, sir. I should go last.”
“Nobody’s shooting anybody, so you may as well go. I want a closer look.”
“Not safe, sir.”
“From you, Denham, that is quite amusing.” Noel reached over and patted the larger man’s elbow. “Keep an eye on Lincoln. I’ll be along shortly.”
“Sir.”
The rustling of uniforms and soft breathing retreated. Noel closed his eyes and rested his chin on his forearms, making himself a smaller target. He wished he could change and go for a run. Broad daylight was not safe for that, and at night the trench became a beehive of activity that he was required to direct. The brief shift he’d made for Lucilla Daglish was the last time he’d been a wolf.
He wondered if the Frenchman, Pascal Fournier, was a werewolf, as well. Nothing of his scent had clung to the folded paper; the carbolic stench of Miss Daglish’s apron pocket had obliterated every trace. Once they met, Noel would know for sure. If he could manage it. He wouldn’t have the opportunity to use a telephone capable of reaching Paris for another three days. Obtaining leave would take at least another day, probably more if Major Harvey was feeling particularly obnoxious.
Perhaps if Fournier was a werewolf, he would also have an unmarried sister. Or know a wolf who did. Noel had decided Miss Daglish didn’t need to know that portion of his motivation for meeting with Fournier. His desire for a wife and children was frivolous in his current setting. A child or two would not be much of a return for the wanton destruction of several nations at war.
Time to return to the crowded trench. Perhaps he would spend a little time inspecting the advance trench before returning to the company, and exchange small talk with Southey, who would be on sniper duty there. He gathered himself to crawl backward and stiffened.
The wind changed, and brought a new scent, thick and chemical. Noel lifted his nose to the breeze and inhaled. Immediately, he sputtered and coughed, his nostrils throbbing hotly. It didn’t smell like the residue of explosives. He couldn’t identify it at all.
His curiosity warred with a keen sense of danger. If he was in danger, so, too, were his men. He needed to investigate; no one else would have detected such a scent at this distance, or be able to find its source.
He crept forward instead of back, his nose half-tucked into the collar of his woolen tunic in a futile attempt at protection from the invisible thread of painful scent. The ground dipped and surged with shell holes, and his progress was slow. Denham and Lincoln would be wondering why he hadn’t returned yet.
Noel was halfway up the side of a hole when he heard the distant whistle of the first shell and, closer, a murmur of voices speaking German. He wasn’t going to make it back in time. If he made it back at all.
14
DARKNESS WAS FALLING LIKE A CURTAIN OVER bare and broken trees, and Crispin knew they had to get back, whether they’d found Ashby or not. His whistle was muddy. He grimaced and stuck it between his lips anyway, breathing out lightly. Pittfield’s head lifted cautiously. Crispin signaled him toward the trench, noting that Denham followed Pittfield, and Lincoln was on their heels. Crispin hesitated before scrambling to follow them. He didn’t want to see Meyer’s face when he returned with no news.
Perhaps no news was better than dragging Ashby’s corpse. Though the cap in his pocket might be worse. He could feel the wolf badge digging into his chest as he scrambled through clods of mud and scraps of metal.
All too soon, the twists and turns became familiar. With half
his attention, he took note of fallen revetments, the sacks leaking chalk; sunken, rotting duckboards awash in soupy mud; a wall melting around its wooden supports, all of it needing repair. He passed tight clumps of men, pressing to the sides of the trench to allow him passage, and could not bring himself to look at them or speak. Meyer waited for him in front of the dugout. What could he say? What should he say? All he wanted to do was fling himself into Meyer’s arms to hold him and ease the blow of the news he brought.
By the time he’d drawn close enough to speak, he didn’t need to. Meyer must have seen it in his face. His blue eyes widened behind his spectacles, then squeezed shut. He turned abruptly and shoved past the curtain blocking off the dugout. Crispin was left standing, one boot in the mud, throat too tight to breathe.
Bob handed Daglish his mail. He’d received a letter from his mother, and several from teachers at the school where he’d worked, and even more from his former students; she recognized all the names, now, after so many months. It was a good haul, the best in the company. He only looked at her forlornly.
Bending close to him, she whispered, “Buck up. You’ll get some choc next time.”
She surprised a brief, sweet smile out of him. “Thanks,” he said.
On her way to Meyer, she detoured around the fire step, currently occupied by Mason with a pair of binoculars and his rifle, and then trotted along the duckboards laid in the bottom of the trench, her boot heels no louder than the rattle of the chilly November rain. Lyton and Southey and Lincoln, hunched over a pail of burning coke, chaffed her as she passed; she tossed remarks back, but didn’t stop to chat. The mud beneath the walkway was already thin as soup and considerably less appetizing. The men shoring up a wall with sacks of chalk were standing in slop to their calves, and cursing it dully every other breath. She could only imagine what the muck would be like in a day or two, especially if the rain kept up. Though perhaps the rain would stop. She could smell snow in the air.
The Moonlight Mistress Page 17
