The Passion (30 page)

Alexander was dangerously misled, a radical whose stubborn temperament and unsound ideas could easily combine to push him over the edge toward revolutionary. Considering his position of prominence in the social hierarchy, he was capable of doing a great deal of harm. Denis had always known Alexander possessed qualities of greatness.

He had once even al owed himself to envision Alexander as his second lieutenant in the army of the Brothers of the Dark Moon, which he himself would captain. It wounded Denis deeply to know that would never happen; that Alexander's talent was to be twisted into uselessness, wasted on a battle he was destined to lose.

Denis, however, stil had a mission, a purpose that was unmuddied by torn al egiances and false al iances. And he could not let Alexander stand in his way. He would instead use Alexander to further his own ends, just as he had planned to do from the beginning. Such, after al , was the difference between a great leader and a common dung-eater.

And so he came, and he watched and he listened.

And in no time at al he knew his brother's weakness, and his own strength, and the plan began to form.

Tessa LeGuerre, the human who would be werewolf. It real y was ridiculously simple.

No one recognized him in Paris, and he took pains to stay on the fringes of
la société loup-garou
and always just a step or two below Alexander's social class so that whatever gossip there might be about the new werewolf in town would not reach his ears

—or if it did, he would be unlikely to take note of it.

There was at that time, as there perhaps has always been, a nonconformist element in Paris: artists, philosophers, radicals and lunatics. They passed their days on the steps of the Bibliothèque or on the Left Bank; they distributed pamphlets warning of the end of the world or drew gorgeous nudes in chalk on the sidewalks just for the pleasure of watching them melt away in the morning rain; they huddled in coffeehouses to debate the wisdom of a thousand ages and they haunted university hal ways. This, then, was where Denis chose to lose himself. And he had rarely felt more at home.

There were some things Denis missed about civilization. Alexander had reminded him of them when he visited. A good game of chess. The smel of newsprint, the taste of Beaujolais. The electric excitement of ideas buzzing back and forth among young minds. And gadgetry. He was fascinated by the technology and inventiveness that were in evidence everywhere he turned: the automobile, the gramophone, moving pictures. The only thing more enthral ing than exploring these grand new vistas was speculating upon how much grander they could be without the interference of humans.

Everything that he saw and smel ed and heard only confirmed his belief that the time was right for change. And that he was the werewolf to usher in that change.

Difficulties ensued, of course, when Alexander took his little human to the palace—although the actual fact of his doing so could not have fit better with Denis's plans had he ordered it himself, and he was immensely delighted when he heard the news. For a short time, though, the flow of information was interrupted, and Denis was left to learn patience until gossip began to filter out from the Palais gates.

Everything he heard helped him to refine his intentions, until at last he was ready to set in motion the events that would change life for al his kind—

indeed, for al upon the earth—forever.

This moment in history, when he walked out of the shadows and spoke aloud to Tessa LeGuerre, had been written before the dawn of time.

She recognized him almost immediately, which he found flattering. Her eyes grew big and her face lost some of its sun-washed color and she said in a smal choked voice, "You—you're Denis Antonov.

Alexander's brother."

And she cast a quick furtive look over her shoulder as though searching for wolves in the bushes, or judging how far she could run before being brought down like a deer. Denis was amused.

"I am indeed. And I've come to tear you limb from limb and eat you raw."

She swal owed hard and drew back her shoulders, seeming to come to a realization of her foolishness.

"Alexander isn't here."

"Curse the luck."

He continued to stand there, smiling lazily at her, bareheaded in the summer sun, shirtsleeves rol ed up and jacket carried carelessly by a hooked finger over his shoulder, looking nothing like Alexander had described him—and looking exactly as he had described him. Tessa fought a brief but visible battle to regain her composure.

"You knew that, of course," she said in a moment.

She managed to make the tenor of her voice almost indifferent.

He inclined his head in the affirmative.

"You should come to the house anyway," Tessa said. "I'll send word to your brother—"

He said, "Thank you, but it's such a lovely afternoon I think I'll sit on the hil for a while. Can you spare some time to keep me company?"

"No," she said immediately, and he laughed.

"He has made me out quite the monster to you, hasn't he?" Denis spread his jacket on the grass and folded his long legs into a sitting position upon it. Wrapping his hands around one upraised knee, he glanced up at her, eyes twinkling in the sunlight.

"Confess, Tessa LeGuerre—aren't you curious about why I've come?"

He saw the answer nicker across her eyes even as she replied stoical y, "You've come to see your brother, natural y."

"Or to kil him?"

She drew in a sharp breath and he shrugged. "I know he's told you that story. He's told everyone that I'm a brother-kil er, and frankly, I don't object. It makes me sound so much more fierce, and I'm always grateful for anything at al that enhances my reputation."

Now a shadow of curiosity, even hesitation, darkened her features and she said, "Would you have me believe Alexander lied? That you didn't try to have him kil ed?"

"I see you know very little about us after al . A wel -

told lie is a matter of pride with us, and why shouldn't he lie if he wishes? In fact, I'm not even sure Alexander knows the truth about what happened that night."

She said cautiously, "Which was?"

"There are factions among my fol owers that have always believed that those who aren't with us are against us. When Alexander fled my house under cover of night, they took matters into their own hands."

"But you did not order it?"

"Be logical. What would it benefit me to kil my own brother? Why should I risk my most valuable fighters on such a pointless mission?"

She looked at him thoughtful y. "It's true," she agreed, "that self-serving motivations are a matter of pride with your kind. But so…" Her eyes narrowed. "… is a wel -told lie."

He laughed out loud, surprised. "You
are
a clever little human, Tessa LeGuerre! I can see why Alexander is enchanted with you—as is half of Paris."

And like any human female, she responded to the flattery, whether or not she believed it was sincere.

She drew a little closer. "If you didn't come to kil Alexander, why are you here?"

"To see you."

"Why? What did Alexander tel you about me?"

"Nothing, actual y. He never mentioned you once the entire time he was with me."

He correctly interpreted that smal stammer in the natural rhythm of her breathing—undetectable to any but werewolf ears—along with the faint tightening of the muscles between her eyebrows, to mean hurt, and he was pleased. He added, "Of course, there was no reason for him to, was there?"

She chose not to answer. Instead she demanded, somewhat sharply, "Then why have you come to see me?"

"Because I think we have a common enemy, you and I."

A crease appeared between her brows, signifying impatience, curiosity or disbelief—perhaps al three.

"Who?"

"Elise Devoncroix," he replied. "The queen."

She stared at him for a moment, nonplussed. Then she made a sound which could only be described as an exclamation of laughter, and she turned away.

The ruffle at the hem of her narrow skirt swirled to show kid boots and a few inches of snowy petticoat, and the brim of her straw hat bent back when she faced the breeze.

"Good day, Monsieur Antonov," she said, starting away. "I'll be sure to tel your brother you cal ed."

"I wish you wouldn't do that."

His hand was on her arm, and she hadn't even seen him move. In a flash of outrage and fear, she tried to pul away, but his grip, though not painful, was impossible to break.

"It wouldn't be safe, you see," he said softly.

"Let me go." The eyes that she raised to him now were angry and defiant but screened uneasiness.

"Safe for whom?"

"For me, of course." He smiled, and this time when she pul ed on her arm he let her go. "Who else should I be concerned about?"

Tessa rubbed her fingers over the place on her arm he had gripped, searching for a bruise or merely trying to wipe the feel of him away. It wasn't easy to erase his touch once he'd made it memorable, and she continued to rub.

Yet she remained defiant as she said

contemptuously, "You are a fool. Alexander would never hurt you. He is too civilized. And the queen Elise is not my enemy."

His smile only gentled with puzzlement as he tilted his head toward her. "How strange. You've been closer to us than any other human has managed in recent history, you've lived in our midst, you've made a study of us, am I right?—but you know nothing about us."

He saw the working of her throat muscles and heard her swal ow her uneasiness, and though she postured angrily with a flash of her eyes and a flaring of her nostrils, he smel ed confidence evaporate from her skin and knew she was vulnerable.

"Alexander would see me dead by any means necessary if he could do it without endangering himself," he said, "and he wouldn't be much of a werewolf if he missed the opportunity. As for Elise Devoncroix, what would you cal someone who steals the thing you cherish most if not an enemy?"

Tessa's frown was chal enging and, as he had expected, she picked up on the last part of his statement, not the first. "What has she stolen from me?"

He said kindly, "I can't believe you don't know."

She cast her eyes briefly to the side, and her fingers tightened on her arm. But when she looked back at him, her expression was resolute and her tone was angry. "You know nothing. You don't belong here.

Leave now and I may not tel him you were here."

But before she could move off again, he chal enged her softly. "Who wil you turn to, Tessa? When you go back to the house, who wil you ask for help? To whom wil you make your report? There's no one in residence to protect you from me but humans—

humans who wouldn't believe your story if you told it."

She said sharply, "And do I need protection from you, monsieur?"

He smiled. His smile was and had always been his most beatific feature. "What do you think?"

For a moment she looked undecided. Then she said harshly, "I think I would do wel to cal the guards right now."

He laughed. "If only you had guards." He surprised her by extending his hand to her, his eyes stil dancing. "Tessa, come, walk with me for a while. I have no reason to hurt you, and if you know anything about us at al , you know that's true. Let me bring you my case, then tel me, when I'm done, whether I was a fool for coming here."

She looked at his outstretched hand, but she did not take it. She looked at his face, her expression skeptical and reluctant—and intrigued. "What case?" she inquired.

He picked up his jacket and gestured toward a path that led down the slope and wound through the vineyard. After a moment, she joined him.

She kept a safe distance as they walked among the vines, and when the way became narrow she held back to let him precede her. She never took her cautious, watchful gaze from him, as though she could actual y outrun him or outfight him if indeed he tried to harm her. Merely knowing how she thought made Denis smile.

She couldn't stay silent for long. Most humans couldn't.

"How do you know so much about me?" she asked when they were into the Cabernet vines. She automatical y moved to one side, leaving a width of shady tied vines between them. "If Alexander didn't tel you, how do you know?"

"I listen. I made it a point to listen for news of you.

You interest me, Tessa LeGuerre."

She was hopelessly susceptible to such innocent flattery. "Why?"

He plucked a leaf and crushed it between his fingers, inhaling the fragrance. "Ah, a wet spring,"

he said, disappointed. "Stil , the summer has been good. The press may be passable yet." He tossed the leaf away. "Less than a year ago you stole into my brother's house and tried to kil him in his sleep.

Now you cal yourself his 'secretary,' you have been introduced to some of the most important werewolves in Europe and you have entree to the very Palais itself—which I believe is a first for a human, even in the Devoncroix rule. What should not interest me about that?"

"Why don't
you
go to the Palais for the Festival?"