The Passion (14 page)

Open any book of il ustrated Russian fairy tales and you wil see a picture of how the Palace Antonov appeared to me that icy sunrise as I arrived, footsore and rangy and more than ready to abandon the pleasures of the wild. Snow draped its spires like frosting on a cake; the morning sun backlit its windows with a golden-rose glow. The glitter of ice upon stone made the entire structure sparkle as though it were fashioned of diamonds. Smoke bil owed from a dozen fireplaces, bearing on the air the scents of roasting meats and busy servants and utter, peaceful civility. My brother's scouts would have been reporting my position for days, and al was in readiness for my arrival. Home had never looked so beautiful to me.

My childhood memories of this place were of a ramshackle old castle, drafty and dusty; of crumbling mortar and scarred tabletops; of labyrinthine rooms and endless nooks and crannies to explore. I had not, of course, grown up here, for we were very civilized werewolves by my father's time and kept our family home in Paris and a country estate in Provence. Aunts, uncles and cousins had strongholds in London, Amsterdam, Rome, and as far away as Montreal and San Francisco. But for family gatherings they had al come home to this, Palace Antonov, in al its crumbling splendor, to. hunt its fields and drink from its streams and picnic on its ancient stones.

The family gatherings had, over the years, grown fewer and farther apart, and the old place had fal en deeper and deeper into neglect. Then Denis had come and restored the castle to every bit of its former glory and more; it was once again home to dozens of industrious, productive werewolves and headquarters for hundreds more. These werewolves were no relation to me and there were many things about them I did not even like, but they were Denis's family now; his pack. And this was stil my home.

It had been three weeks since my brother's missive reached me, and I knew he was anxious to see me.

But there are certain priorities, and not even for his sake could I defer my hunger, nor did he expect me to. I gorged myself on venison and blood broth fortified with hot milk, and I slept for a day and a half curled up by a fire that blazed without faltering.

When I resumed my human form and the fine wool suit that had thoughtful y been laid out for me in my chamber, I joined my brother in the vast library downstairs.

Legend would have it that Denis was a savage, a crude barbarian who preferred violence to intel ect, brute force to the subtle arts. Nothing could be further from the truth. Denis was an accomplished man, wel educated and as refined as he cared to be. That he lived his life far from the reaches of what we knew as the civilized world was a matter of preference, not necessity; that his philosophy advocated a return to a simpler—some say a purer

—life was a conviction that few would have had the courage to fol ow. He was in many ways a hero of his time; history, unfortunately, wil never show him in that light.

Palace Antonov was, for al intents and purposes, my ancestral home, but it had fal en into disuse and disrepair until Denis took it upon himself to restore it. This was my first trip home in many years and I could not help but admire the polished stone floors and bril iantly hued carpets that covered them, the huge fireplaces that never went dark, the intricately carved moldings and sconces that decorated the wal s. He might have rejected the civilized world in principle, but my brother was no fool; he was perfectly wil ing to take the best of what it had to offer and apply it to his own use.

Everywhere I passed there were industrious servants, polishing, scrubbing, repairing, providing.

There were no humans at Palace Antonov. Like any good leader, Denis knew the value of work to do and a job wel done, and he provided meaningful employment for werewolves far beyond the domain of the palace. He had applied the same ambition and determination with which he had restored our ancestral home to restoring the Siberian pack, and what once had been a scattered, half-barbaric assemblage of loners and misfits was now a force to be reckoned with. Just how great a force was not something I particularly wished to know, but was certain I would not leave this place without finding out.

Denis was waiting for me with arms outstretched when I entered the library, and we embraced strongly. My brother was a beautiful werewolf, standing six and a half feet tal with a mane of wild auburn hair and eyes the color of an Arctic sky. He had a deep, commanding voice and strong hands and shoulders broad enough to shame Atlas. He smel ed of snow on fur and star-bright nights, of fierce raw energy and the strength of the hunt.

Simply being near him made me proud, as though our blood relationship somehow gave me claim on the power that was uniquely his. It was good to be home.

"And so,
mon frère
, you have arrived at last! We were beginning to think you'd been eaten by a boar!" He spoke French because I was accustomed to it, but after a time we switched, almost without noticing it, to Russian, and then eventual y to a combination of both.

He was wearing a long loose robe of soft heavy fabric, trimmed with the coarse fur of a bear around the neck and sleeve openings. It was the sort of garment one wore when one was used to changing form frequently and without inhibition. Because in times of old only the most wel -fed—and therefore the most powerful—werewolves had the freedom to change at whim, it was also a traditional symbol of status. Although my fashion tastes are a bit more fastidious, the robe suited him in a way it would have done few other werewolves.

Two members of his pack, in wolf form, were stretched out before the hearth, one on either side of the fire. Although they appeared relaxed with their forelegs extended before them and their tails at ease, their eyes were alert and their ears pricked forward; I knew that they would move swifter than lightning should circumstances require. These were Denis's personal attendants, his bodyguards, if you wil , and their presence in the room in no way implied that I was perceived as a threat. They were, once again, a symbol of status. Only our pack leader employed such attendants.

There were others in wolf form, wandering in and out of the room, roaming the corridors. Such a thing would never have been permissible in my household, of course, but I found the fact that it was so acceptable here strangely stimulating.

The contrast of al this subtle, simple savagery against the backdrop of leather-bound volumes, gilt-framed artwork and plush upholstered furniture was, needless to say, striking. Such was Denis's world, and I was for a moment sharply, intensely envious.

He had poured cognac and I could smel wild fowl roasting over a spit; it made me salivate. I drank the cognac down and remembered, with a sigh of pleasure, the advantages of assuming human form.

Denis read my expression and laughed.

"You've grown soft, little brother," he said, blue eyes twinkling. "It happens to al in the company of humans—their offensive scent clogs up the senses, their incessant chatter deafens the ears. But a month or two with me wil put you to rights again."

"Thank you, no," I responded, and stepped forward to warm my hands before the fire. Even now it was hard to get the chil of the journey out of my bones.

"The only senses I worry about losing are the ones that al ow me to enjoy a good cognac—and I notice you haven't precisely turned your back on that particular product of civilization, either."

He grinned and refil ed my glass. "Ah, but no human hands created this nectar, or even sealed the bottles. The oils of their skin would have caused the fruit to spoil, which is why only we can make a drinkable brandy—or wine, for that matter."

As a matter of fact he was right about that, although I couldn't resist remarking that the cognac he so enjoyed was also a favorite of humans. Actual y, I've often observed how interesting it is that human connoisseurs always prefer those rare and excel ent vintages which they themselves have had no hand in creating. An example, I think, that even humans know perfection when they taste it.

Denis looked me over with a practiced eye and remarked, "You look fit. Although I could have made the trip in half the time."

I saw no need to point out that most of my journey had been spent on the luxury of human conveyances; it would only have precipitated an argument I was too content at the moment to conduct. I said, "Matters are unsettled in Paris just now. I had things to attend to before I left."

His gaze sharpened, and he nodded. "I'll want to hear the news, of course. But for now, sit down." He swept an arm toward a big, Moroccan leather chair which was drawn up at a comfortable distance before the fire. "Have some cheese, tel me what you think. It's rare I get to play the host to a peacock like you."

"I should think it's rare you get to play the host to anyone," I commented, slicing cheese from the wedge. "Who. would ever find you here?"

Denis sat across from me, settling the folds of his robe around him, and stretched his bare, weathered feet toward the fire. No one in this household wore shoes. They al looked exceedingly comfortable.

Denis said, "Oh, we're not so remote as al that. A human sheepherder wandered in before the hard snow. We ate him for dinner."

I paused with a slice of cheese halfway to my mouth, and stared at him. I must have looked the perfect fool. Denis burst into uproarious laughter, and even the two sentries sat up, grinning.

I scowled and popped the cheese into my mouth.

"How I've missed your lovely sense of humor, brother mine. What a shame I can't take you about and show you off at parties."

"I wil certainly make a point of polishing my manners before that time. How do you like the cheese? The high-val ey females put it up last spring."

"It's very fine," I told him, and al owed the glance I swept around the room to include al that I had seen since arriving. "Every time I visit I am more astonished at what you've accomplished, and continue to accomplish. This is al …" I made an al -

encompassing gesture with the hand that held my glass. "Most impressive."

He sipped his own brandy, a comfortable twinkle coming into his eyes. "But not impressive enough to persuade you to abandon your cosmopolitan ways, eh?"

"
Jamais
," I assured him. "My life, though not quite as grand as yours, leaves little to be desired."

"Except the freedom of your nature," Denis pointed out, and there was no humor in his gaze now.

I did not answer, but neither did I drop my eyes.

What I did, in fact, was help myself to another chunk of cheese and the coarse hearty bread that went with it.

In a moment Denis shrugged, then sipped his brandy with the slow, thoughtful luxury of a true connoisseur. "It's just as wel , no doubt," he remarked. "It's never a good idea to keep our forces too concentrated, and your presence in Paris has always been a valuable one."

With an abrupt change of subject he could not help but notice, I said, "Do you stil have your old cook, Isla? Hasn't he fal en into his own fire yet?"

There was a slight tightening of the corners of Denis's eyes, just enough to let me know he recognized my ploy. But he was gracious enough—

or intent enough on the purpose for which he had brought me here—to permit me my evasions.

He smiled and replied, "If you can't smel the old renegade from here, I
am
worried about you."

We laughed, and the conversation fel to neutral subjects; to games we had played as youths and acquaintances we shared and harmless pack gossip. When supper was cal ed, the bottle was half empty and I was feeling quite sentimental. By the time our plates held nothing but bones and two bottles of very excel ent wine—from my own cel ars, of course—were upturned on the table, I was restored, content and very glad I had come.

Denis led me from the table with an arm around my shoulders. "And so, my young brother, what is it that they do for entertainment in Paris these days? With no antelope to run and no humans to skin, you must have a dul time of it indeed."

I was beginning to find his jokes about humans a trifle tiresome, but since I knew he did it only to annoy me I refused to let him realize he was succeeding. "It is difficult," I admitted, "but somehow we make do with the theater, the opera, the grand symphony, the museums. Occasional y, when we are unable to bear the boredom, someone wil host a fete for five or six hundred of the most accomplished people in Europe… Stil , I was reduced to spending last season in Italy, if you can fathom it, with nothing to do but bask in the sun and feast on wine and fresh meat."

"Bah," he scoffed, scowling. "Human entertainments, human pleasures. Your mind wil rot with its constant exposure to such pap, and before long you'll be tel ing me you actual y enjoy it."

I was somewhat bothered by the fact that I could not tel , this time, whether he was joking.

We had reached the great hal . The flames of the tal wal sconces swayed in the draft created by the vastness of the room and cast wildly distorted shadows hither and yon—a giant wolf head here, a wavering human form there, a crouching beast of indeterminate shape surging up from yet another corner. It was impossible to heat or light the castle by modern means, or at least it was inefficient to try to do so, and one doubts Denis would have employed gaslights or coal heat if he had been able.

The stark medieval atmosphere was appropriate to this place, and comforting, in a way, even to someone like me—for a short time anyway. It never does to wander too far away from one's past, for therein lies the danger of forgetting one's way home.