“That’s—” Crazy, I wanted to finish. But I knew how easy it was to squash youthful enthusiasm, so I instead searched for a more constructive word.
Searched so long, in fact, that Patricia finished my sentence for me. “Fiction. It’s fiction. Just like I always come up with when I’m asked to write a research paper.”
“Maybe you should be taking a creative-writing class?” I suggested, the answer glaringly obvious in the face of the data presented.
Glaringly obvious to me, perhaps. Not so much to Patricia.
She sighed, dropping her head into her hands before answering. “Dad wants me to major in the sciences. He’s paying the bills, and he’s so on edge about the President’s erratic behavior right now....”
“On edge about the President’s behavior?” Strange to have world events crop up twice in one day. After all, I was an archaeologist, not a politician. Not that Claw seemed cognizant of that fact.
For half a second, my monster stole the reins of our mental processes. Our brain filled with a replay of the morning’s meeting, paying less attention to the magnetic stranger’s request than to his oddly entrancing scent.
Focus, I suggested, parroting the monster’s admonition from earlier. The relevant point was the political angle. Luckily, the monster settled down just in time to catch Patricia’s reply.
“Because of the chain of succession,” the student clarified. “If something’s up with Jim Kelter, the Vice President takes command, and after that comes the Speaker of the House—Dad.”
Oh. I’d known Patricia’s father was in politics, but hadn’t paid enough attention to his role. Now I reassessed Patricia’s too-cool-for-school persona. It must be tough being constantly in the public eye.
A bit like my own rush through high school, undergraduate years, and doctorate. I’d pushed myself to earn a degree much younger than my fellows, all in hopes of making my father proud.
And what did I have to show for it? A lonely life with a raven as my closest companion, if you didn’t count the cave woman and the monster in my head.
“Look, your dad isn’t in charge of your education,” I told Patricia, hoping to prevent her from derailing her life for the same misplaced reasons I had. “If he stops paying—and I highly doubt that would happen—there are other ways to fund your last semester here.”
Patricia’s eye shadow had run into a raccoon mask by the time she peered back up at me, but familiar anger nonetheless flashed out of her eyes. Which was good, I realized. Fight meant she’d make it. Fight meant she had the impetus to follow her own path regardless of parental disapproval or societal mores.
“Not if I flunk out,” she griped, as if it was all my fault she needed an A on this paper to maintain her average.
“You’re not going to flunk out,” I answered, knowing even as I came up with the alternative assignment that I was making more work for myself. “Write your story and end it with an author’s note explaining the science. I’ll grade the last part and will find someone who understands fiction to see if the first part has potential. You can be a science major and still follow your dreams.”
As I spoke, I flipped through my mental rolodex. Unfortunately, I’d stuck pretty solidly to my own department during this first semester of making a place for myself here on campus. But I could cold-call an English professor if worst came to worst.
For a moment, though, sticking my neck out appeared to have been useless. Because Patricia glared at me, all prideful independence and unwillingness to bend.
Then she took a deep breath and accepted the lifeline. “Thank you, Dr. Hart.” Which was an improvement over the way she used to call me “Oblivia” any day of the week.
I WALKED PATRICIA TO her car—no huge dogs in evidence—then finally succumbed to exhaustion. Between strangulation, fighting the monster, and a double dose of visions, I was dead on my feet.
But I didn’t sleep soundly. Instead, I tossed and turned, strange dreams enfolding me. I was crawling down the hallway on hands and knees...or, no, was loping on animal legs. Toenails clicked across the linoleum and I whined at the barrier between myself and the outdoors.
The rich aroma of moss and butterscotch drifted in through the cracks in the door frame. I needed to lick it. I needed to....
I woke curled around the welcome mat, my nose stuffed in the gap between door and jamb. My fingers clawed at the minuscule opening. My nails were cracked and bent.
But at least I was human. Swallowing to soothe my dry throat, I turned my hands over and counted all ten fingers before running their tips across my cheeks.
No fur. I was only dreaming.
For a moment, I tried to believe the lie I’d told myself. Unfortunately, the truth was obvious enough to slap me in the face.
Two visions in one day, then a night full of psychoses masquerading as fitful slumber. I was decompensating, losing the grasp on reality that had always been tenuous at best.
As a teenager, my lapses had merely been awkward. Now I risked hurting someone if I lost control. Impressionable students couldn’t handle an authority figure who thought she was—what—a dog?
A wolf, the monster breathed inside me.
Just like the unlikely hunter in the cave.
I shut off that line of thinking, ignoring the resulting agony that reverberated through my brainstem. I’d set up a visit to my psychiatrist as soon as possible. I couldn’t assume the single missed pill was responsible for my deterioration. Instead, if I was so close to the edge that skipping a single dose could send me off the deep end, I needed to taper onto another med.
Which probably meant taking a leave of absence. Maybe entirely quitting my job.
I closed my eyes against the inevitable, then pulled myself back together enough to swallow my pills and find my cell phone. But it wasn’t my psychiatrist’s number I flipped to when I powered up the latter. Instead, I reached out to the person who knew nearly as much about my visions as I did, the one who’d helped me squash them in the first place.
And, okay, yeah, so my father’s attentions made the Speaker of the House’s rigidity seem like loving parental behavior. Still, maybe just this once Dad might manage to come through for me.
Ignoring the fact that we hadn’t exchanged messages in weeks and that I always initiated when we did get together, I typed out and sent a simple text. Can I come over for lunch? I asked my only living family member. Without waiting for an answer, I gathered up a few belongings and headed out.
By the time I reached the entryway, I thought I’d gotten myself together. Thought I was back in command of both body and mind. But as my fingers stretched toward the door knob, my monster grabbed me, pushing me outside so rapidly I lost my balance and tripped over my own feet.
A hand came out of nowhere to steady me. “Good morning,” said the man with the scar around his neck.
Chapter 7
“Claw.” My monster was the one speaking. She looked him up and down and liked what she saw.
He smelled like moss submerged beneath cold spring water with melt-in-your-mouth butterscotch layered over top. The combination didn’t sound appetizing. But it really, really was.
It was also deeply familiar, the scent having followed me through last night’s dreams.
“Olivia,” he answered. But his eyes didn’t meet mine. Instead, they angled lower. No, he wasn’t staring at my boobs. His attention appeared to be riveted on the pulse pounding at the base of my throat.
I raised a hand to cover my exposed jugular, took a step sideways out of easy reach. “What are you doing here?” I demanded. And were you here all night?
The second question almost made it out of my lips, but I managed to swallow the words before speaking. After all, what could I provide as supporting evidence for such an accusation? “I thought I smelled you on my doorstep while I slept on the other side.” No need to spread my craziness around.
“You’re scared of me.”
His words nipped at my pride. “I’m
not scared of you. I’m in a hurry,” I rebutted. Not that my father had answered my text message. But Claw didn’t need to know that. “What,” I repeated, “do you want?”
His eyes, when they rose to meet mine promised that they saw all my secrets. His words backed up that fact. “I’m here for your answer. There’s no need to be frightened if you have nothing to hide.”
Yes, yes, yes, my monster murmured. My mouth opened as if to tell him everything. Claw would understand our visions, the monster, my cave-painter obsession....
Terrified of my darker half’s impulse, I spoke without remembering what I was answering. If my monster said yes, then the proper response was.... “No.”
His eyes shuttered. His scent darkened to disappointment.
Right, Claw had come to ask me to do my patriotic duty. To assist the nation’s President in some manner he’d never elaborated upon.
He didn’t explain more fully now either. Instead, he tried one more time to reel me in. “If you change your mind, I’ll be at this address at dawn tomorrow.”
Claw had come prepared with a business card, and my hand accepted the thin rectangle without my permission. Fingertips danced across the surface, noting the penned-in address beneath the embossed indentations of his name.
Claw Scordato. An odd surname that meant “left behind” or “forgotten” in Italian. For a moment, I was intrigued rather than scared of this scarred man who made his questions into statements and hugged his own history so close to the chest.
Then I remembered my monster’s overwhelming reaction to his presence. Remembered my first date and every date thereafter. The subsequent outings hadn’t been so momentous, but I’d had to drug myself to the gills to prevent the monster from making a fool of herself. And that was with fangless accountants and lawyers who barely merited a surge of interest from my darker half.
This man, in contrast, sent fireworks sparkling through my libido. And he wasn’t even asking for a date. He just wanted help doing his job.
“Look out for yourself,” my father murmured in memory.
“I won’t be there,” I answered both Claw and my father, letting the former’s card flutter down onto the muddy ground.
DR. HART’S TEXT ARRIVED when I was halfway up the highway. A one-word answer, but at least it signaled acceptance. “Sure,” was all he’d bothered to type in.
Trying to squash my disappointment at this well-educated man’s lack of loquaciousness, I switched on the radio and forced myself to focus on the news. The ice caps were melting. There was famine in Africa. Our own nation’s President hadn’t been sighted in twenty-four hours.
The commentators made a series of jokes that didn’t seem funny. My teeth gritted, fingers tingling where I’d once touched Jim Kelter’s skin.
I doubted the memory washing over me had anything to do with Claw’s request. But my scientific nature nonetheless worried the matter. Could my sudden inclusion in matters of state have something to do with that political rally five years earlier? With the sensation of understanding that flowed between us when the newly elected President reached out to take my hand?
It had been the baby-kissing portion of the evening and I’d been lucky enough to find an aisle seat. President Kelter strode down the red carpet, eyes broadcasting interest in the thousands of people who had traveled to hear him speak.
I was breathless with anticipation. On TV, he’d always seemed so regal. Would the real Jim Kelter live up to his public persona?
Then he was there, in front of me, shoulders so broad they blocked out the Secret Service agents flanking him. “Thank you for coming.” Those were the insightful words he’d shared with me. Pretty basic, right?
Jim Kelter’s eyes, though, were those of a proud father. His grip was firm and reassuring, his smile real and focused on me. For a split second, I felt a warm wash of approval for choosing this rally over the average twenty-three-year-old’s video games or drunken evening out.
“As you may recall, Lisa, he went dark for three days last month at this time,” one of the radio commentators informed us, breaking into my memory. “If you ask me, the man’s transitioning. Maybe it’s just that time of the month.”
Laughter in the studio. I unclenched my fist long enough to turn off the radio. Really? This is what passed for journalism nowadays?
And, yes, my conscience twinged at choosing not to heed Claw’s request for assistance. There really was something going on with the President. He was acting nothing like the charismatic leader I’d shaken hands with.
But it made no sense to think I could fix whatever problem his staff was covering up. I was just an archaeology professor, and a new one at that.
Still, I wished I’d taken the saber-tooth cat fang along with me. Tonight, I’d pull the artifact out of my kitchen junk drawer and see if something obvious came to light.
First, though, I needed to survive a visit with my dad.
“YOU MUST BE OLIVIA.”
I hadn’t expected my father’s door to be opened by a hot, leggy blonde who looked younger than I was. I was even less prepared to be pulled into a highly perfumed and bosom-heavy hug.
“Oh, I....”
Yes, that was me being inarticulate. Luckily, Adena broke the ice for us.
I’d left the raven in my car with the window rolled down because she seemed quite happy dismantling the egg carton I’d brought along as a chew toy. Now, though, the press of moving air warned me of her arrival one second before her claws descended half on my shoulder and half on the shoulder of the blonde.
The ensuing shriek, I’m ashamed to admit, was immensely satisfying. Then my father was there behind her, brow lowering into his signature scowl as he took in the scene.
“Please remove the raven from my girlfriend.”
Girlfriend. Yuck. I’d really been hoping this was a secretary chosen for the sake of eye candy, not a romantic partner I’d heard nothing about.
“I’m Justine,” the girlfriend in question said, recovering from her horror the instant Adena was transferred fully onto my shoulder. “Your father told me so much about you. I’ve been begging him to introduce us, but he said you’re very busy at your first teaching job.”
“Worthless waste of talent, if you ask me,” Dad muttered. Then, raising his voice to the booming level that was impossible to ignore, he continued: “You’re never going to amount to anything if you stay in the public sector. When are you going to admit reality and come work for me instead?”
Justine cringed in the face of Dr. Hart’s bellowing displeasure. Even Adena pulled her head into her shoulders and hissed. As for myself, I ignored his bluster and focused on my game plan. I needed information about my childhood struggles, but it wouldn’t do to broach the subject in front of this random girlfriend.
So I returned my father’s stare and raised my eyebrows. “Are we going to rehash old arguments or are you going to feed me lunch?”
For a moment, we stood there glaring at each other. Dad wasn’t used to being gainsaid and I wasn’t willing to give an inch when I knew he’d take a mile.
And, to my surprise, it was Justine who derailed our standoff. “Lunch!” she yelped. “I think I may be burning the rolls!”
Chapter 8
As soon as Justine disappeared into the kitchen, Dad raised his chin and turned toward the closed door of his study. “I’ve got a line on a pre-Clovis North American find but haven’t managed to get my hands on anything yet. My newest acquisition, though, is well worth a peek.”
So this new girlfriend hadn’t been let in on the family secrets. I wasn’t keen in private-party antiquity sales, but still I nodded. This was my chance to speak to my father in private.
And, okay, I’ll admit it. Illicit pleasure thrilled through me as I entered the study then headed directly toward the far end while Dad locked the door behind our backs. Together, we swung a floor-to-ceiling bookcase sideways, revealing a well-lit stairway leading downward.
No dark, dank passages
for my father. Instead, as I hurried into the subterranean level, the space I entered was museum-quality from its carefully focused spotlights to the gleaming display cases lining every wall.
Beside my ear, Adena clacked her beak together quietly. I couldn’t tell if the enclosed space disturbed her or if she was drawn to the artifacts the same way I was. Whatever the bird was reacting to, however, I couldn’t afford to have her descend into a frenzy, so I scratched her neck absently as I turned to take in the objects arrayed throughout the vast basement.
Logically, I knew these marvels had to have been illegally acquired. After all, most countries regulated the sale of antiquities, attempting to give scientists a chance to disentangle the mysteries of the past before treasure hunters plundered everything our distant ancestors had left behind.
But logic faded in the face of such beauty. There were Greek medallions, Aztec carvings, and Aboriginal paintings chipped out of Australian rock. This was the archaeologist’s version of a starving man walking out of the desert into an all-you-can-eat buffet. No wonder drool gathered in my mouth in simple Pavlovian reflex.
“Over there.” Dad motioned toward the left side of the room, impatient to show off his newest treasure. “I already have a buyer lined up, so this will be your last chance to see it. It’s lucky you decided to stop by.”
It wasn’t luck that had brought me to visit my father for the first time since Thanksgiving. It was desperation, and I opened my mouth to finally broach the subject I’d come here about.
“Dad, I wanted to ask you,” I started. Only to trail off as I saw what my father had acquired.
It was a gold mask, hammered rather than cast then carved with intricate patterns. Despite the empty eye sockets, I could imagine the ancient wearer behind it. Could almost hear the pounding music and see the colorful ceremony that would have centered around such a priceless display of artistry and wealth.
Wolf Dreams Page 4
