The Passion (18 page)

I set off across the woods that surrounded the estate toward what we cal ed the Great Wilderness Road. It is not actual y a road at al but a mere footpath in most places, passable only by four-footed creatures. Stil , it is the shortest route across the Siberian plain. My head was bowed low against the wind, my progress slow because of the ice that weighed down my coat and accumulated between my paw pads. Even today I can taste that cold, so fierce it seemed to scald the tongue with every breath and freeze the bones like twigs in a pond. I hope never to know its like again.

There was no way I could have foreseen what was coming. I was blinded by needles of driving snow and deafened by the howl of the wind; likewise the tangled, contrary bursts of gale winds tore scents hither and yon, disguising any possible interpretation of what they meant. I was virtual y lost in a sensory void.

I emerged from the copse where a frozen stream marked the path I should take and there they were, a dozen pairs of eyes—no, more; twenty—glinting in the dark, forming a slow, silent circle around me.

The smel of cold fur and dampness, of werewolf power, of purpose. The sound, like the roar of a distant ocean beneath the wind, of heartbeats pulsing with strong, sure intent.

I do not know whether they meant to kil or merely maim me. My brother was not given to idle posturing, so I knew that what they had in mind was more than a warning. I made the decision in an instant, one of those choices that come more from instinct than from logic and are usual y regretted later—provided one lives long enough. I charged.

The element of surprise, in this instance, served me wel . I took down the one on my left and broke through the ranks. I made it perhaps a dozen yards before the circle closed again, this time in earnest. I don't know how long I fought, ripping out fur and twisting bones. I was young and strong, but these were Siberian werewolves, bred by nature and trained by Denis to be the best in the world. I acquitted myself wel , but I doubt I could have lasted more than five minutes with them.

I knew I was going to die and I knew the bringer of my death would be the big gray beast who had already torn a gash in my shoulder and had twice had me by the throat. I was weakening and knew I would not be able to break away again. With my last strength I got hold of his ear and tore. His howl of pain was mixed with a louder, fiercer shriek, and was quickly consumed by it. With my peripheral vision I saw the rest of the pack begin to scatter.

The two of us broke apart only seconds before a huge tree, uprooted by the wind, crashed down upon our battlefield.

I had run perhaps half a mile before I realized his ear was stil in my mouth. I spat out the bloody wad and trudged onward, head to the wind.

Chapter Seven

It was spring when I arrived home, for the journey was hard and I was forced to make much of it in wolf form. In truth, I did not hurry. Once out of Siberia, and thus away from the dangers of Denis's pack, I took a certain grim comfort in the solitude enforced by my natural state, in the rich solid flavor of the wind and the vastness of the Russian wilderness. I sharpened my hunting skil s on the scarcity of winter game, I stared long into the face of a cold distant moon, I slept when I was tired and I ran when I felt the urge. It is necessary, from time to time, for a werewolf to simply surrender to his nature and
be
. In this way Denis lived a truer life than any of us would like to admit.

Gault travel ed behind with the luggage and the rail car—this is why, after al , one has servants—while I completed the last hundred miles or so in wolf form.

I stopped outside the city at the home of a cousin for sustenance and clothing and the use of a carriage to take me home. Gault had wired ahead of my arrival, so al was in readiness when I reached Paris, lean and hard with the rigors of my journey and aged with disil usionment.

The season in Paris was wel under way, the streets awash in the pastel colors of blooming trees and ladies' frocks. The sights that had never before failed to stir my sense of joie de vivre left me cold that April day. Invitations and cal ing cards overflowed their silver trays, yet not the faintest trace of curiosity stirred me. The servants were lined up on the steps to greet me, and I walked past without seeing them.

I do not recal that I even saw Tessa that day, yet I must have done so, because she was the first to realize what I needed and to see that it was supplied.

I awoke to the scent of food—real food, meticulously prepared and delicately seasoned—and to the sudden intense knowledge that I was ravenous. I gorged myself on steaming meats in thick wine sauces; flaky pastries; rich, multitextured cassoulets. And for the first time since leaving my brother's house I began to remember what it was to be civilized.

When I looked up from my feast, almost insensate with overindulgence, Tessa was there, smiling at me approvingly. "There, now," she said, "you're beginning to look more like yourself."

"Ah,
chérie
," I said, and opened my arms to her.

She sank down beside me on the bed, stroking my hair, holding me as a mother would hold a child. I buried my face in her bosom and, drunk on the sweet, heady, whol y human scent that rose from her skin, tumbled helplessly into the deep sleep of exhaustion once again.

It was thus for three days. Whenever I awoke Tessa was there, and so was the great quantity of food she had ordered to be made ready: an entire roast mutton, a side of beef, the fatty parts of innumerable barnyard animals, not to mention the endless platters of grains and sweets that were necessary to restore my body's natural balance. It is a truism that Nature could not support us if we lived our lifetime in the wolf state; our nutritional needs are so enormous we would soon strip the planet bare. Add to these baseline requirements the additional energy expended by the difficulty of the journey and the healing of my physical wounds, and my caloric needs quickly exceeded al that was reasonable.

Delivery carts came and went in a steady stream; I'm sure the vendors must have assumed I was giving a banquet. Only later did I realize that it was due in great part to Tessa's efficiency that this enormous undertaking had been achieved so flawlessly.

I suppose I should have been surprised that she was stil there. I had left her precipitously, after al , and only on brief acquaintance, I had been gone a season and I had made little if any provision for her care in the meantime. But such was the extent of my self-confidence—indeed, my conceit where humans were concerned—that I would have been surprised had she not awaited my return, patiently and without complaint, even if it took years. I would have been happy to have put my entire household inside a glass to remain, suspended in motion, until I returned, and in some respects I suppose I imagined that was how it had been. I was the center of my universe. Now I was home. She was waiting.

Al was as it should be.

In between bouts of shameless gluttony I slept the sleep of the dead, and when final y I awoke, refreshed and restored and clearheaded enough to order a bath, Tessa was there as ever to take charge.

While I soaked in scented water and had my hair shampooed and my nails clipped by a winsome young werewolf by the name of Mercedes, Tessa ordered in an army of servants to clean and air the room. When I emerged an hour or so later, the linens had been changed, the feather mattress fluffed and aired, the winter draperies taken down and the summer ones instal ed, the rugs rol ed up, the floor polished, and every window stood open to the cleansing April breeze. Al of this represented quite an accomplishment, even for werewolves. I was both amused and amazed by the general good humor with which my staff tolerated Tessa. She was like a precocious puppy about whom everyone grumbled but secretly indulged, and for whom everyone reserved a bit of no-doubt misplaced pride.

I found her in my sitting room, where she had set up a tea tray and cakes. I prefer chocolate myself, but made al owances for the British side of her heritage.

I stood at the doorway, my arms folded across my chest, one ankle crossed over the other, and regarded her with an indulgent smile that disguised utter contentment.

"And so,
chérie
," I said. "You seem not to have suffered much in my absence."

She turned from fussing with the tea table and swept me a deep curtsey, her eyes sparkling. She was wearing a fancy yel ow dressing gown with many ruffles and lace flounces which dipped low over her bosom and showed a provocative few inches of petticoat at the hem. The shade was one of my favorites and it was most fetching on her. Her riot of dark curly hair was caught back with a clasp and brought high to tumble over her shoulders; her brown eyes danced impishly. She was, in a word, as restorative as sunshine to me, and just as necessary to life.

"And you, monsieur," she retorted. "How have you fared without me?"

"Not so very wel , I fear." I crossed the room and took my place opposite her at the table, helping myself to a cake.

"It serves you right. You should have taken me with you."

I could have swept her off her feet just then and smothered her with kisses. I could have drunk of her until she was limp. I could have drowned myself in her scent, her supple silken skin, her lithe young muscles. It was so very good to be home.

I smiled at her. "Did you miss me,
chérie
?"

She paused with the teapot just above my cup and assured me fervently, "More than life."

I was more sure at that moment than I have perhaps ever been in my entire life of exactly what was so wrong about Denis and al those who fol owed him, and I was desperately glad I had had the courage to walk the other way.

I took a bite of the cake and sat back, reveling in the sweetness that melted on my tongue and in the sight of Tessa, the smel of her, the sound of her pulsing, sighing human heartbeat as she sat across from me, pouring tea into china cups. Diffuse rectangles of pale warm light from the open window crept across the gleaming floor, and that was how her presence acted on me: slowly creeping, fil ing me with light and warmth. I could only enjoy.

"You look enchanting," I said.

"Thank you," she replied. "I went shopping."

I was pleased. "So you haven't been entirely dul while I was away."

Her eyes went wide, those infinitely expressive, always fascinating big brown eyes, and she paused with the teapot over my cup. "How could anyone ever be dul in such a house?"

I chuckled and agreed. "You are indeed a fortunate young human. Has my staff been kind to you, then?"

She was thoughtful as she fil ed my cup. "Not kind,"

she decided, "but tolerant. And I have learned how to manage them."

Again she made me laugh. There she was, a human female not long past her twentieth year, left alone for the winter in a house fil ed with werewolves, and what had she done but "learn how to manage"

them. How could Denis fail to adore these creatures? How could anyone remain unmoved by their charm?

Her expression was tender as she put down the pot.

"I'm glad to see you laugh. I wasn't sure, from the way you looked when you arrived, that we would ever see it again."

I sobered, but briefly, and cast around for a distraction. "Are those sesame rol s?"

She used the silver tongs to place a rol on my plate.

"Now tel me," she insisted. "Tel me about Russia, and al the things you did there. And about your brother, and why he didn't return with you. Are you close? Wil he visit? What did you bring back? Or perhaps that is why Gault is delayed—to sort through al your treasures!"

How I had missed that endless chatter, those ceaseless questions. Her words swarmed around me like hummingbirds, bright and colorful, ensnaring me in their playful web. "I brought no treasures," I told her, "for you are spoiled already. And I wil tel you al my adventures, but first I want to hear of yours. How did you fil your days? Have you been content? Have you learned anything in my absence?"

She laughed with pleasure at my imitation of her habit of rapid-fire questions, and a luscious color came to her cheeks. "Content, you say?" she returned in mock thoughtfulness. "Let me consider. I live in one of the grandest houses in Paris amidst luxury few in this world wil ever taste, among creatures so fantastical that even if I wanted to tel my tale no one would believe me… I have, in this past year, born witness to secrets so profound they have never been guessed at in al the history of the world, and you ask if I am content?"

By now al frivolity had left her tone, and her eyes were shining with the simple wonder that came so easily to her. Her fingers clasped themselves together intently in her lap. "When I was a child,"

she said, "and I listened with a child's ears—half in awe and half in fear—to my father's tales of magical adventures, I never dreamed that I might one day be privileged to live among the mystical beasts, to know their secrets and share their trust, just as he did. When I hated you—al those years that I believed you to be a murderer and a vile monster—

my heart was breaking because I had lost not only my father but something that was, in a way, even more important… the gift he had given me, the stories he had told me, the wil to believe that somehow, someplace, such creatures as he described did exist. Oh, I know I am expressing myself badly, but can you understand? Being here, knowing you—now at last I know my father, I see what he valued in you, I know the friendship he felt for you, I share his delight. You have given me back my childhood," she finished simply, and with a smal helpless gesture of her open hands, seemed to imply that words had, at last, failed her. "Could anyone ask for more?"