The Wolf Gift

by Anne Rice

  “I wouldn’t have given up that easily,” said Laura. “I would have sought better preservatives, better techniques. I would have studied the tissues for as long as they held together. I think they moved their headquarters someplace else. Remember what the guardian creature said about pluripotent progenitor cells. That’s a sophisticated term. Most normal human beings don’t know terms like that.”

  “Well, if that’s so, then Felix wants his own personal records, his own possessions, and those tablets—whatever those tablets mean.”

  “Tell me about them, please,” she said. “What are they exactly?” She approached the half-draped table. She feared to touch the tiny dried clay fragments that looked as fragile as dried dough.

  Reuben didn’t want to touch them either, but he wished for all the world he had a bright light to shine on the tablets. He wished he could make out an order to the way in which Marrok had laid them out. Had there been an order to them on the shelves in Felix’s old rooms? He couldn’t remember any discernible order.

  “It’s cuneiform writing,” he said. “Some of the earliest. I can show you examples in books or online. These were probably unearthed in Iraq, from the earliest cities ever documented in the world.”

  “I never realized these tablets were so tiny,” she said. “I always thought of them as large, like the pages of our books.”

  “I’m eager to get out of here!” Reuben said suddenly. “It’s suffocating me. It’s grim.”

  “Well, I think we’ve done enough for now. We’ve learned things that are quite important. If only we knew for sure that Marrok was the only one who’d been in this room.”

  “I’m sure of it,” said Reuben. Again, he led the way as they turned off the lights behind them and went down the stairs.

  In the darkened library, they built up the fire again, and Laura sat close, hugging herself for warmth, and Reuben sat far back against the desk, because the warmth was too much.

  He felt comfortable in his lupine form, sitting there. He felt as comfortable as he ever had in his old skin. He could hear the chirping and singing of the birds outside in the oak trees, hear the prowling things of the deep brush. But he felt no urge to join these creatures, or join their savage realm, to kill or to feast.

  They talked only a little, speculating that Reuben had the things that Felix wanted, and that Felix, known far and wide as a gentleman, had not seen it as his prerogative to come into the house and take these things in stealth.

  “The meeting means he has good intentions,” Laura said, “I’m sure of it. If he meant to raid this house he could have done it before now. If he meant to kill us, well, he could do that anytime.”

  “Yes, perhaps anytime,” said Reuben. “Unless we can defeat him just as we defeated Marrok,” he said.

  “Defeating one of them is one thing. Defeating all of them is another, isn’t it?”

  “We don’t know that they’re all here in one place. We don’t know that they’re all even still alive.”

  “The letter,” Laura said, “the letter belonging to Marrok. You must remember to take that with you.”

  He nodded. Yes, he would take the letter. He would take the watch. But he mustn’t rehearse what he meant to say in this meeting.

  Everything depended on Felix, what Felix said, what Felix did.

  The more he thought about it, the more eager he was for the meeting, the more his hopes were now being built upon it, and the more he felt bold and even a little elated that it had come to this.

  Desire was building in him now that the night was waning, not desire for the wild, but for the wild within this room.

  At last, he came to her, kissing the back of her head, her neck, her shoulders. He wrapped his arms around her and felt her body melt.

  “And so you will be my wild man of the forest again as we make love,” she said, smiling, her eyes on the fire. He kissed her cheeks, the plumping flesh from her smile. “Will I ever make love to the smooth-faced Reuben Golding, Sunshine Boy, Baby Boy, Little Boy, Boy Wonder—of the world?”

  “Hmm, now why would you want him?” he asked. “When you can have me?”

  “Here’s my answer to that,” she said, opening her mouth to his kisses, to his tongue, to the press of his teeth.

  When it was over, he carried her upstairs, which he liked to do, and set her down on the bed.

  He stood at the window, because somehow it seemed appropriate to hide his face from her, as he tensed and spoke to the power, and inhaled slowly as if swallowing water from a clear stream. At once the change began.

  A thousand fingers were stroking him, plucking ever so softly at every slithering hair on his head, his face, the backs of his arms.

  He held up his paws, watching them in the faint light of the night sky as they changed, claws shrinking, vanishing, soft padded flesh turning back into palms.

  He flexed his fingers and his toes. The light had dimmed slightly. The forest songs faded to a sweet whispering hum.

  Ah, this had been a sweet accomplishment, the power serving him, at his command.

  But how often could he make the change? Could it get away from him under the right provocation? Could it fail him utterly, even when he was in extreme danger? How could he know?

  Tomorrow, surely, he would confront a man who knew the answers to those questions and countless others. But what exactly would happen at this meeting? What did this man want?

  And even more to the point, what was the man willing to give?

  28

  SIMON OLIVER’S OFFICES were on California Street, on the sixth floor of a building with a dazzling view of the surrounding office towers, and the bright blue waters of San Francisco Bay.

  Reuben, dressed in a white cashmere turtleneck sweater and his favorite Brooks Brothers double-breasted blazer, was shown into the conference room where the meeting with Felix’s illegitimate son would soon take place.

  It was typical of the firm, this room, with its long oval mahogany table and robust Chippendale Cupid’s-bow chairs. He and Simon were seated on one flank of the table, opposite a large uninspired multicolored abstract painting that seemed no more than a glorified decoration for the wall.

  Laura was in a small comfortable room nearby with coffee and the morning papers, and a television turned to the news.

  Of course Simon went over and over his advice to Reuben. This could well be a fishing expedition on the part of this man, who might at any time offer a DNA test to prove his claim of paternity, and mount a full-scale legal assault on the estate.

  “And I must say,” said Oliver, “I’ve never much cared for men who wear their hair long, but you do look pretty good with it, Reuben, all things considered. Is this bushy hair some sort of new rustic style? You must drive the young women insane.”

  Reuben laughed. “I don’t know. I just stopped cutting it,” he answered. He knew that his hair was shining clean and thoroughly groomed, so nobody had a right to complain about it. Didn’t matter to him that it was getting pretty long on the back of his neck. He wished the meeting would start.

  It seemed an eternity of listening to Simon’s most paranoid speculations until Arthur Hammermill entered and said that Felix had just stopped at the washroom and would be right along.

  Hammermill was as old as Simon Oliver, maybe seventy-five. They were both white-haired and gray-suited men, the former a little heavyset with bushy eyebrows, and the latter, a thin man who was beginning to go bald.

  Hammermill was gracious to Reuben, warmly clasping his hand.

  “It was so kind of you to agree to this meeting,” he said with obviously carefully chosen words. He sat down opposite Simon, which left the chair directly opposite Reuben for the mysterious potential heir.

  Reuben asked how they’d enjoyed the performance of Don Giovanni, which was an opera he truly loved. He mentioned the Joseph Losey film of it, which he’d seen many times over the years. Arthur was immediately enthusiastic about that and then volunteered how much he’d been enjoy
ing Felix’s company, and that he’d be sad when Felix left again for Europe, which was his intention, this very night. He said those last words with a pointed glance at Simon, who merely studied him gravely without a response.

  At last the door opened and Felix Nideck came into the room.

  If Reuben had had any lingering doubt that this was Marchent’s uncle—and not his illegitimate son—that doubt was immediately dispelled.

  This was the impressive man of the photograph on the library wall—the smiling man amid friends in the tropical jungle; the agreeable mentor of the family from the portrait above Marchent’s desk.

  The living breathing Felix Nideck, looking no older than he had twenty years ago. No son could have so perfectly embodied the form and features of the father. And there was about him an unconscious authority and subtle vivacity that marked him off from the other men in the room.

  Reuben was shaken. Without moving his lips, he offered a small prayer.

  The man was tall, well built, and had that kind of dark skin which is golden, and thick flowing short brown hair. He was dressed almost too exquisitely in a superbly fitted brown suit, caramel shirt, and gold-and-brown tie.

  But his generous expression and easy demeanor were the real shock. His smile was immediate, his large brown eyes filled with contagious good humor, and he extended his hand to Reuben at once. He had a naturally animated face.

  Everything about the man was inviting and kind.

  He sat down directly opposite as Reuben knew he would, and they were eye to eye, of the same height. He leaned forward and said,

  “This is a great pleasure.” The voice was deep, resonant, and unaffected, without a discernible accent and very warm. “Let me thank you. I’m well aware that you had no obligation whatsoever to see me, and I’m impressed, and grateful, that you’ve come.” He gestured easily with his hands as he spoke, and they were graceful hands. There was a green jewel in his gold tie clasp, and a bit of a striped silk handkerchief, that matched the tie, just visible in his breast pocket.

  Reuben was powerfully fascinated, as fascinated as he was on guard. But more than anything else, he was excited and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. If he failed to make a favorable impression on this man—but then he couldn’t think of failure. All he could think was that every minute he had with the man had to count.

  The man went on talking seamlessly and easily, settling back a little in the chair. He was fluid in his movements, relaxed rather than poised.

  “I’m well aware that my cousin Marchent was fond of you. And you know she was so very dear to my father, his only heir.”

  “But you didn’t actually know Marchent, did you?” said Reuben. His voice was unsteady. What was he doing? He was off to a rocky start. “What I mean is, you’d never met.”

  “My father had a way of making her quite real to me,” the man said without missing a beat. “I’m sure our representatives have explained to you I would never presume to make a claim on the house or the land that she wanted you to have.”

  “Yes, they have explained,” said Reuben. “That’s reassuring. I’m happy to be here, to discuss anything you want.”

  The man’s easy smile was almost dazzling. His vibrant eyes indicated a warm response to Reuben personally, but Reuben was reserving judgment on that.

  How could Reuben really begin? How could he cut to the point?

  “I knew Marchent briefly,” Reuben said, “but I think I knew her well. She was an exceptional person—.” He swallowed. “That I couldn’t protect her—”

  “Now, Reuben,” said Simon.

  “—that I couldn’t protect her,” Reuben went on. “Well, that’s something I’ll live with till my dying day.”

  The man nodded. There was almost a doting quality to his expression. Then he said in a soft voice, “You’re a beautiful young man.”

  Reuben was startled. If this guy means to kill me, he’s the devil in hell. And the man went on.

  “Oh, forgive me,” he said with obvious sincerity and a little concern. “I take the license of an older man in making such a remark. I’m sorry. I am not perhaps old enough to take that license but there are times when I feel considerably older than I am. I meant only that your photographs don’t do you justice. You appear conventionally beautiful in your photographs, a little remote, but in person, you’re much more remarkable.” He went on with a beguiling simplicity. “I see now the writer of the articles you’ve published in the Observer. Poetic, substantive, I would say.”

  The lawyers sat there in rigid and obviously uncomfortable silence. But Reuben was charmed, hopeful, yet cautious. Does that mean you’re not going to kill me?—was on the tip of his tongue. Or does all this just mean you will be talking softly and beguilingly when you try to do it like that loathsome Marrok?

  But this was Felix sitting here, Felix across a table from him. He had to get a grip.

  “You want your father’s personal effects,” Reuben said, struggling not to stammer. “His diaries, you mean? And the tablets, the ancient cuneiform tablets—.”

  “Reuben,” said Simon immediately, hand up to cut him off. “Let’s not discuss the details of the personal effects until Mr. Nideck has made his intentions a little more clear.”

  “Ancient tablets?” murmured Arthur Hammermill, shifting in his chair. “What sort of ancient tablets? This is the first I’ve heard of ancient tablets.”

  “Yes, my father collected many ancient cuneiform tablets during his years in the Middle East,” said the man. “And indeed, these are my primary interest, I confess, and his diaries of course. His diaries are very important to me.”

  “Then you can read his secret writing?” Reuben asked.

  He sensed a quiver in the man’s gaze.

  “There’s so much of the secret writing in the house,” said Reuben.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I can read the secret writing,” said the man.

  Reuben drew the letter to Marrok out of his pocket and pushed it across the table. “Did you perhaps write this?” he asked. “It appears to be in your father’s secret hand.”

  The man stared at the letter with a sober expression, but the expression wasn’t cold. He was clearly surprised.

  He reached out and picked up the letter.

  “How did you come by this, if I may ask?”

  “If you wrote it, well, now it belongs to you.”

  “Would you tell me how you came by it?” he asked again with humble courtesy. “You’d be doing me a great service if you would let me know.”

  “It was left in the Inn in the town of Nideck for a man who thought of himself as something of a guardian for the house, and the things in the house,” Reuben explained. “Not a very pleasant man. He never received it, by the way. I collected it after he’d disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Yes, he’s gone, he’s completely disappeared.”

  The man registered this in silence. Then:

  “You’ve met this person?” Again, the eyes became soft, probing, and the voice was warmly polite.

  “Oh, yes,” said Reuben. “It was quite a challenging meeting.” Here we go, Reuben thought. Get it all out. Go to the very edge of the cliff. “Very challenging indeed, for me and for my companion, my friend who’s sharing the house with me. It was, well, you might say, a disastrous meeting, but not disastrous, as it turned out, for us.”

  The man appeared to weigh this carefully, with little change of expression. But clearly he was taken aback.

  “Reuben, I think we had better tend to the business at hand here,” Simon suggested. “We can always arrange a time in the future to discuss other matters, if we agree here—.”

  “ ‘Disastrous,’ ” the man repeated, ignoring Simon. The man seemed genuinely concerned. “I’m so sorry to hear it,” said the man. Again, his tone was humble, gracious, and concerned.

  “Well, let’s just say this person, Marrok, he objected rather strongly to my presence in the house
, to my relationship with Marchent Nideck; he was offended by other things as well.” “Things,” it was such a weak word. Why couldn’t he choose another word? He looked to the man for understanding. “In fact, I’d say he was pretty angry about the way things had … developed. He regarded me as a bit of a blunderer. He was very angry. But he’s gone, this man. Gone. He won’t ever be collecting that letter.”

  Simon made a series of little throat-clearing noises and was about to interrupt again when Reuben gestured for patience.

  The man was studying Reuben, not saying a word. Plainly, he was shocked.

  “I thought that perhaps you’d written this letter to him,” said Reuben. “That maybe he came at your behest.”

  “Perhaps we should see that letter—,” said Simon.

  Very carefully, the man removed the folded pages of the letter from the envelope, his finger running over the place where the envelope had been torn open.

  “Yes,” he said. “I wrote this letter. But I don’t see how it could have prompted an unpleasant meeting. That certainly was not my intention. The message is simple, actually. I hadn’t written to Marrok in ages. I told him that I’d heard of Marchent’s death, and I’d be arriving soon.”

  This was said with such conviction and persuasion that Reuben believed it. But his heart would not stop beating in his ears and in the palms of his hands.

  “Now regarding this man,” said Arthur.

  “Please,” said Reuben. He kept his eyes on Nideck. “What was I to figure, except that you’d written to him earlier,” he asked, “and that maybe his disapproval was your disapproval, that he was acting on your authority when he appeared in the house?”

  “By no means,” said the man softly. His eyebrows drew together in a tense little frown for a moment and then relaxed. “I assure you,” he said, “whatever happened, he was not acting in my stead.”

  “Well, that’s quite a relief,” said Reuben. He realized he had begun to tremble a little, and to sweat. “Because this man, Marrok, he wasn’t amenable to reason. He pushed things to a head.”