Luck of the Wolf

That night was not an easy one. Aria had finally agreed to use Cort’s bed, while Yuri slept on the sofa. Cort spent the night pacing back and forth in the street, every sense straining for the approach of footsteps or the smell of the men who had played against him in the tournament. No one came. When he went back inside a few hours before dawn, he could hear Aria tossing and turning in his bed, her warm body tangled among the sheets.

It was not only Aria who would have to be patient.

THERE WAS ONLY ONE SMALL, dirty window in the sitting room, and Aria spent nearly all the next three days planted in front of it, watching the parade of men and women in the street below go about their business. She had seen almost every kind of American in her journey west, from the fine ladies Cort so admired to the most common folk, like those she had been accustomed to in the mountains.

This part of the city, however, had no “real” ladies or gentlemen, except for Cort himself.

Aria had become very familiar with the dark, stinking streets of the Barbary Coast. When she’d first arrived in San Francisco, she had quickly learned that this city was almost as vast and incomprehensible as New York had been. She had discovered how difficult it was to find anything when you were alone, and how important money was when you didn’t have any.

She had managed to survive on her own for a while, moving from the brighter areas of the city into the grimy, fetid alleys where she could find food and shelter without having to pay for them, using her hunter’s senses and instincts to win her small advantages over the untrustworthy folk who knew and understood this terrible place so much better than she ever could.

But Cort had been right. She had assumed everyone she met was human because she didn’t know how to recognize one of her own kind. In the mountains, she had always known that she was stronger and faster, and could smell and hear better, than anyone else she met. Franz had finally told her that all wehrwölfe, at least those of pure blood, had such advantages over humans. She had been able to use them in the human world, but she wouldn’t have known a Carantian werewolf if she had bumped right into him.

Aria sighed and leaned her chin on the window frame. After weeks of keeping to herself, she had made one mistake. The mistake of letting hunger drive her to trust a stranger because she had not been able to fill her stomach in three days.

Now she had everything she needed to eat, and a quiet, safe place to rest. She knew she shouldn’t be so ungrateful and troublesome, but she couldn’t help it. Her feet were beginning to itch with the need to run, and her nose longed to smell the ripe scents of wood and mountain.

If only Cort could understand.

Someone shouted in the street, and Aria leaned closer to the filthy glass to see what it was. A wagon had turned over, and two men were shaking their fists at each other as the overripe vegetables were crushed on the ground beneath their feet.

The sight didn’t distract her for long. She was too busy trying to decide who Cort Renier really was. After she’d gone to bed last night, when she’d really taken the time to think, she had remembered all the expectations she had carried with her from Carantia.

She had always assumed that the wehrwölfe she met would be like her. Any werewolf would prefer the freedom of the wild to a human city with its high brick walls and crowds of people, even if they had to live among humans some of the time.

But Cort liked this place. He felt at home in it. He didn’t understand why she wanted to get out, even if it was dangerous.

Were the werewolf families, the Hemmings and the Phelans, like him? Cort had made very clear that they would want her to be a lady. Were they happy to stay in small boxes like this one, in a world where you couldn’t smell anything green or hear anything but the clatter of wheels and loud voices and clashing metal?

The itch in Aria’s feet became a nagging pain. She moved around the room, and examined each stick of furniture and the faded paintings as if she hadn’t already memorized every inch of them.

No, she couldn’t make any sense of Cort. What was worse, she couldn’t make any sense of herself. She’d never had such feelings as she had when she was with him. Unease, annoyance, frustration, confusion.

But those were not the only feelings. Nor even the strongest ones. She had been so glad when he had offered to help her and when he’d agreed to bring her the boys’ clothes. She had basked in his compliment about her French. She had wanted to tell him so much more than just her real name. She had wanted to surrender the last of her suspicions.

Maybe that was why she had embraced him. Because she finally wanted to let go. She’d wanted him to.

Her face went hot, and she touched her forehead with her fingertips. Franz had told her about men and women when she was sixteen. Humans and werewolves weren’t so different from the wild animals she’d seen mating in the woods, he’d said. They wanted to be together, male and female, and make children in the same way the forest animals did.

She had wanted to see that for herself and had gone to the edge of the village to watch the people there. What she’d observed had only confused her more. Some of the villagers spent a great deal of time kissing each other, not at all the way Franz kissed her on the forehead. It had looked very nice indeed.

But once they were in New York, she noticed something very different … men and women in shadowed alleys, the men grunting and groaning as they pushed themselves into women with paint all over their faces. Franz had turned very red and finally admitted that those men didn’t want to make babies. They enjoyed what they were doing, even if the women did not. Franz had warned her to be very careful around such men.

She hadn’t given any real thought to his warning. When the evil men had taken her, she hadn’t realized what they wanted at first. But when she listened to the things they said about her, everything fell into place.

They didn’t want to make children, either. They wanted to sell her to someone who would take his pleasure with her, just as those other men had done with those women in the dark streets. Whether she wanted to or not.

Cort hadn’t tried to do that. But when he had held her and looked down into her face, his mouth so close to hers, she had remembered what she’d seen in the village, the gentler things those people had done, and had known something wonderful was about to happen. Something she wanted with all her heart.

The sound of footsteps climbing the outside stairs pulled her out of her pleasant dreams. She ran to the door. The scent was unmistakable, like the rhythm of the footsteps themselves.

Not Cort, but Yuri. Aria backed away from the door and waited for him to come in.

He gave her a cursory smile that she didn’t quite believe, though she knew he wanted her to think he was her friend.

“Hello,” she said warily. “Where is Cort?”

Yuri eased himself into the chair with a grunt. “He is conducting necessary business.” He stared at her in a way she found disconcerting, and she stared back, trying to make him look away.

But he didn’t. He seemed to be weighing his thoughts, getting ready to say something important.

“Do you remember nothing more of your past?” he asked at last.

Aria shook her head.

Yuri stroked his beard. “Well,” he said, “we may have discovered something of interest. Cort did not want to tell you until he had made further inquiries, but …”

“What have you found?” she demanded, circling his chair.

Once again he made a show of hesitating, as if he enjoyed keeping her in suspense. “We believe we have located your relations, but they are not here in San Francisco.”

Not in San Francisco. That meant they couldn’t be the Hemmings or the Phelans or the Carantian exiles.

“Where?” she asked, refusing to give up hope.

“My dear, prepare yourself for a shock. Your kin are the Reniers of the city of New Orleans in the state of Louisiana.”

CHAPTER FIVE

HIS LUCK HAD most definitely changed. Cort laid out his winning hand, and the other players accepted in silence, grimaced or threw down their cards in disgust.

Two thousand dollars. It wasn’t much, but, added to his winnings during the past few days, it would be enough to make a serious start on Aria’s “education.”

Nodding to the other players, he gathered up his chips and went to cash them in. This was a decent establishment, aboveboard and free of the dangers that lurked in the worst of the gambling dens on the Coast. But after his recent run of luck, his reputation was beginning to make him less than welcome at the better places. If he intended to keep earning what he and Yuri needed, he would have to return to the less savory locations.

As he collected his money and secured it under his coat, he heard someone coming up behind him.

“Monsieur Renier?”

The voice held the cadences of a foreign tongue. Cort had never heard it before.

He turned and sized the man up quickly. Expensive clothes, a taut, proud bearing, a lean face punctuated with icy blue eyes, graying hair under a spotless top hat. Cort judged him to be in his fifties, and of an educated background.

He was also loup-garou.

“How may I assist you?” Cort asked.

Removing his gloves, the man bowed. “I have a business proposition for you, Monsieur Renier. One I think you will find interesting.”

Cort smiled, but he wasn’t amused. San Francisco was full of “businessmen” of every sort, many far from legitimate. “What sort of proposition?” he asked, leaning back against the bar. “Are you a gambling man?”

“Forgive me.” The man bowed again. “I am Hugo Brecht. What I propose would be no gamble for you, monsieur. It would be, as they say, a ‘sure thing.’“

“You intrigue me, sir,” Cort said, “but I am content with my winnings.” He tipped his hat. “Au revoir.”

He got no farther than a few steps before Brecht laid a hand on his arm to stop him. Cort didn’t so much as give him a glance.

“I will kindly ask you to remove your hand,” he said in a pleasant voice.

Brecht declined to cooperate. “Monsieur, you must listen. It is in regard to the girl you won during the tournament.”

All thoughts of dismissing the man drained out of Cort’s mind. He swung around, tense and ready to fight. “What about her?” he asked softly.

“Please join me in my private booth and I will explain.”

Damned right he would explain. The primitive part of Cort was tempted to drag Brecht into the alley behind the building and beat the answer out of him.

But he hadn’t yet fallen so far, and Brecht was already moving away. Cort strode after him, his heart beating fast. Brecht didn’t look like an errand boy or a hatchet man, and few loups-garous would consent to being a human’s agent. Still, it was possible that Cochrane had sent him without knowing what he was.

Possible, but not likely.

Cochrane almost certainly didn’t know that werewolves existed, or he would have behaved very differently with Cort.

Brecht’s private booth was one among several others located down a short hall. Brecht swept back the curtains and ushered Cort inside. He took a seat. When Cort didn’t follow suit, he poured himself a glass of the wine that sat on the small table in the center of the booth. Cort’s nose told him that the wine was of excellent vintage and had probably cost a small fortune.

“Since this is to be a gentlemen’s conversation,” Brecht said in a clipped voice, “I would prefer that you make yourself comfortable.”

Cort leaned over the table. “I would prefer that we get to the point,” he said.

“As you wish.” Brecht sipped his wine with a casual air, but there was nothing casual about the way he watched Cort. “I presume you still have the girl?” he asked.

“She is safe and well.”

“Excellent.” Brecht studied the contents of his glass. “You have done me a great service, monsieur, and I intend to reward you for it.”

“Indeed?” Cort settled into the vacant chair at last and pretended interest in the label on the wine bottle. “Perhaps you ought to explain your interest in the girl.”

“It is very simple, Monsieur Renier. She was lost to her family some time ago, and I have been seeking her ever since. When I learned of the tournament and the prize for the second-tier match, I planned to enter the contest. Alas, I was too late.” He met Cort’s eyes. “It is essential that I restore her to her family.”

A sharp chill of shock raced up Cort’s spine, and he bought time by making a show of considering what Brecht had said. His first thought was to wonder if Yuri had been wrong all along and Aria belonged to some local werewolf clan.

His second thought was more lucid. Lost some time ago, Brecht had said. But how long? Eight years, perhaps?

Cort picked up the second glass that stood empty on the table and filled it. “Strange,” he said. “She has said nothing about being ‘lost.’“

The other man raised a brow. “Indeed? What has she said?”

Cort had no intention of providing more information than he had to. He certainly wouldn’t tell Brecht about Aria’s loss of memory.

“She has said very little,” he said. “She has not even revealed her name. What is it?”

A tic jumped in Brecht’s cheek. “I am not surprised she failed to tell you. After what has occurred, she is doubtless afraid and ashamed to go home.”

He’d deliberately dodged Cort’s question. Brecht, too, was bent on revealing as little as possible. If he was an agent of the New Orleans Reniers …

Did they know who had won the girl? It seemed unlikely, or they wouldn’t have hesitated to approach Cort directly and demand her return. Brecht was either employed by the Reniers and was bargaining in more-or-less good faith, or he was simply a mercenary, like Cort himself, who believed he had recognized Lucienne Renier and saw a chance to claim a reward from the loup-garou clan.

Yet if he was not working for the Reniers, how could he be certain that Cort himself was not?

“The family’s name?” Cort repeated.

“You have no idea, monsieur?”

Cort gave him a taste of the truth. “I have heard nothing of any local family missing a daughter.”

“The family wishes to remain anonymous.”

“What makes you certain that she is the one you seek?”

“I was able to obtain a good description.”

“Descriptions can deceive.”

“Nevertheless, I am sure.” Brecht took another sip from his glass. “I must ask … have you touched her in any way?”

Cort began to rise. “I am a gentleman, monsieur. Your insinuations …”

“Forgive me,” Brecht said, waving his hand. “Naturally I take you at your word. I presume your intention in winning her was to help an innocent girl escape a terrible fate. The family in question has authorized me to be very generous. You may ask any price for her return.”

Any price. Cort was almost torn between asking more than Brecht could ever expect to receive from the New Orleans Reniers or rising to his feet in great offense and claiming to be a member of that very clan.

But that was too great a risk when he knew so little of Brecht or his true purpose. He settled for mild reproach. “I think you mistake me, sir,” he said.

Brecht reached inside his coat. “I am sure that we can reach some sort of agreement.”

“Are you not interested in learning if she has been used by those who put her up for auction?” Cort asked.

“That would be most unfortunate.” Brecht’s mask slipped, and Cort could see the wolf in him struggling to emerge.

Cort finished his wine and rose. “I am afraid that you have provided too little information for me to accept your offer. The girl is an innocent, and I do not intend to cast her out into the world until I am certain she will be protected.”

“Very admirable,” Brecht said, barely showing his teeth, “but your concern is unnecessary. Since you have no personal interest in the child …”

She is no child, Cort thought. But he only shook his head. “Pity has been my sole motive. Nevertheless.” He moved toward the curtains. “I must in good conscience decline until you are able to provide evidence of your honorable intentions.”

“Perhaps this will ease your doubts.” Brecht pulled out a fat leather wallet, withdrew a large number of bills and laid them on the table. The amount was staggering.

“This will surely recompense you for your time and sacrifice,” Brecht said, smugly certain of victory.

He had some reason to be. Such a sum would recompense Cort a hundred times over. He would never have guessed that he would ever turn down such an offer.

“Monsieur,” he said, “you are generous indeed, but again, I must decline.” He bowed. “Good day.” He bowed again and pushed his way out through the curtains.

Brecht released a harsh breath, and Cort fully expected the man to come after him. But by the time he reached the street, he knew he was not being followed.

That didn’t set his mind at ease. It was remotely conceivable that Brecht was telling the truth. Aria might be lying about everything, from her name to her amnesia. If Brecht was in fact honorable and Cort refused to cooperate, the man could simply tell the Reniers that Cort had her.

Yet if Aria hadn’t lost her memory, why wouldn’t she tell Cort right away that she had been kidnapped and ask to be returned to her family? Could it be that she didn’t want to go back to them? But why, then, would she appear to be so eager to find someone, anyone, to whom she belonged?

If he had to choose which one was the liar, Aria or Brecht, Cort wouldn’t hesitate. Brecht stank of deception. Cort had felt the simmering emotion beneath that cultured speech, and it was not merely concern for the girl or relief at the prospect of restoring a wayward daughter to the bosom of her family. There was something too personal in his interest.

Cort reached the boardinghouse in ten minutes. He stopped in front of the porch steps, his mind working furiously. He had made his position clear enough, but it was evident that Brecht wouldn’t give up easily. If he wasn’t able to bribe Cort, Brecht might very well take the kind of action Cort had expected from Cochrane.

The danger to Aria hadn’t diminished. If Cort wanted answers, he would have to speak to her and gauge her responses carefully. He had expected her to trust him. If he couldn’t trust her …

His body strangely heavy, Cort went into the house. He wasn’t ready to talk to Aria yet, and he didn’t believe that Brecht would send anyone to the house in daylight or so soon after their conversation. He would tell Yuri what had happened, but not now. The next few hours would be devoted to questioning the locals about Hugo Brecht.

He spoke briefly to Yuri, warning him to be vigilant, and slipped away before Aria could claim his attention. He couldn’t afford to have anything on his mind but his newest enemy.

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND what you must do?”

The men—two werewolf, two human—nodded without quite meeting his eyes. They were rough fellows, but they had been in his employ long enough to understand the consequences of failing Duke Gunther di Reinardus.

He sent them on their way and strolled out of the saloon, nodding and smiling to the proprietor, who had good reason to appreciate his taste in fine wines. The smile was a mask, of course. He felt nothing but contempt as he walked out into the street, stepping over sewage and horse droppings and the bodies of men too drunk to sit up, let alone stand.

All humans were scum, hardly worthy of treading the same earth as any werewolf. But even among his own kind there were those no better than the most loathsome dregs of this city. Cort Renier was a perfect example.

Gunther’s lip twitched as he made his way through the mud and filth. He brushed off a whining, dirty child begging for pennies and recalled the conversation. The risk had been considerable, but he had learned much of what he needed to know. He had little doubt now, even before he received the expected reply from New Orleans, that Cort Renier was an independent agent, not a member of the New Orleans clan. His trace of an accent and perfect French told Gunther that his origins were almost certainly in Louisiana, but everything else about the man pointed to inferior blood and breeding.

If Alese had told Renier her assumed name and the location of her relatives, or if he had already guessed who she was, he would now be doubly on his guard. That was only to be expected. Renier had certainly done an excellent job of pretending disinterest in the money Gunther had offered.

But pretense it was. Gunther did not for a moment believe that the man was honorable, nobly and unselfishly committed to guarding an abused girl’s innocence. One of his kind would never act simply out of altruism. It had been far too much money for such a rogue to turn down—unless he believed he could obtain more directly from the girl’s family.

The dirty human whelp stumbled and fell as Gunther pushed him away a second time. His thoughts returned immediately to Renier. Either the man was playing a deeper game than even Gunther could imagine, or he was simply stupid.

That, too, Gunther did not believe. Underestimating the man would almost certainly be a mistake.

Gunther turned the corner into an even more fetid street, attempting to close his nostrils against the stench. Perhaps Renier would think over their conversation and decide to accept the money after all, but Gunther wasn’t taking any chances. His men would dog the rogue’s footsteps and watch his boardinghouse every hour of the day and night. They were under strict orders not to act unless there was a certainty of success. Once a decisive move was made, there might very well never be another opportunity.

Pondering the obstacles that still lay ahead, Gunther slowed his pace. Renier’s boardinghouse was another block along the street, squeezed amidst a row of equally decrepit houses, saloons and bordellos. He cut into a back alley, turned and continued parallel to the street, then turned back again toward the main thoroughfare when he was across from the boardinghouse.

The porch sagged, the colorless paint was peeling from all the walls, and the roof looked on the verge of collapse. A pitiful domicile for any werewolf, especially one who fancied himself a gentleman.

There was no reason why Gunther himself should keep watch; his men would be along soon enough. Still he lingered in the shadows, leaning against the pitted brick wall beside him, and waited to see if anything interesting might happen.

Nothing did. The girl remained hidden, and there was no sign of Renier. Dusk was settling over the Coast and Gunther was preparing to leave when a man emerged from the boardinghouse, plumpish but unmistakably arrogant in his bearing. He looked right and left as he stood on the porch, pulled out his pocket watch and straightened his overcoat.

Even in the gloom of evening, Gunther’s keen wolf eyes picked out the details of the man’s face. He stiffened.

Yuri Chernikov.

Gunther watched the Russian stride away from the house in an obvious hurry. There was something furtive in Chernikov’s movements, in spite of his fast pace. But then, he had always been more rat than man, scurrying from one foul nest of schemes to another.

The wolf in Gunther urged him to pursue, relishing the image of Chernikov cowering at his feet. But he knew better than to give in to instinct without the balancing influence of intellect.

Intellect told him that the seemingly bizarre coincidence of finding the Russian in San Francisco, leaving the very boardinghouse occupied by Cortland Renier, was no coincidence at all. Yuri had been in New Orleans with Gunther eight years ago. Cortland Renier almost certainly came from Louisiana. The two of them might have known each other for years; Gunther had never bothered to vet all of Yuri’s connections once he had found those useful to him.