Changeling Dream

by Dani Harper

  The blind principle worked equally well when he wasn’t hunting, just wanting to observe. It was a good way to watch testy mother cows with new calves, or get a count of the elk herd that sometimes wandered into the south quarter to steal hay.

  He wasn’t observing cattle or elk this time. Roderick had angled Varley’s truck to give himself a clear view of his target, just a few hundred yards away. In addition, he’d parked the pickup between two rusted-out trucks in the shade of an abandoned building, a near-perfect location for reconnaissance. He had a sleeping bag with him and enough food for two days, but he wasn’t going to need it. Within the first couple of hours, Roderick was able to confirm what he had suspected since Dr. Descharme’s visit to his ranch.

  There was a werewolf at the North Star Animal Hospital.

  “The auras give them away every damn time,” he murmured as he watched a tall dark-haired man leave the building again. There were other people in the parking lot, but their auras were thin and pale, almost watery by comparison. Light yellow mostly, misty white or green. One old farmer would probably have been horrified to learn his aura was pastel pink. But the tall man’s aura was that vivid blue found at the heart of a lightning bolt. It radiated from him, pulsed with energy like a live thing. Dr. Connor Macleod was definitely a werewolf. But to Roderick’s amazement, the veterinarian wasn’t the only one. By the end of the day, five more werewolves had come and gone, two females and three males.

  The old man had seen enough. He was just reaching for the ignition key when another arrival caught his eye. A big man, tall like the vet, but more powerfully built. And blond. Roderick stared, focusing and refocusing the lenses of his binoculars, his bowels turning to ice water. “It can’t be. Jesus God, it just can’t be.”

  James Macleod had come back from the dead.

  The lab tests said wolf.

  Jillian stared at the papers in her hand and let the rest of the mail slide to the floor. The DNA results on the white hair samples revealed pure, unadulterated wolf. Jillian’s theories of a wolf-dog hybrid vanished like a soap bubble, and she was left with the uncomfortable knowledge that a genuine Canis Lupus had somehow found its way into her apartment.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have been so insistent about leaving Birkie’s house.

  She reread the letter that Ian Craddock had enclosed with the results. He complimented her on the quality of samples she had sent for testing. Yet, although the DNA was unquestionably one hundred percent wolf, his lab had been completely unable to determine which sub-species it belonged to. Despite its pure white coloration, which would seem to indicate perhaps an arctic wolf, the genetic material most closely matched the gray wolf. But not completely. Craddock said he had given her a hefty discount on the large bill because of this, although she suspected it was actually because she had been a favored student. But whatever her former teacher’s reasoning for the reduction, she was too distracted to enjoy the economic good news.

  She’d met a wild wolf. But why would it approach her, why would it be so affectionate—and protective? She supposed it could have been raised by humans, might have learned to look at humans as pack members. But if she saw it again, she’d have to remind herself that it was wild, and wild things always reverted to their true nature. Didn’t they? Animal handlers the world over concurred that to assume a wild animal was tame was not only disrespectful of the animal but also downright dangerous.

  But it was her wolf, her friend. The one who had saved her. When she thought of the attack now, it wasn’t the pain and terror she remembered most. It was the shining white shape that emerged from the darkness and chased the men away. A massive wolf, its snowy fur stroked by starlight, a creature so beautiful that she was certain she was dreaming. Until it licked her face.

  The wolf had lain beside her and kept her warm. She had thought she was going to die and was so grateful not to be alone. She remembered that she had started crying then, and the wolf had lapped away her tears. It had whined in its throat, and there was near-human expression in its vivid blue eyes. It was sad for me. It cared, I know that it cared about me. The results from a DNA test, or any other test, wouldn’t change her certainty of that.

  I guess that’s my answer. I’ve never been afraid of the wolf before, and I’m not going to start now. Maybe I won’t run outside looking for it, and maybe I’d prefer it didn’t visit me in my apartment, but if I see it again, I’m not going to be afraid.

  So far, though, the wolf hadn’t returned. Not inside the clinic, and nowhere else that Jillian was aware of. But the creature knew where she lived. Did it wander around outside at night? Had it watched over her as she came and went on farm calls and errands, when she came home late from visiting with Birkie? Or had it gone on its way—wherever that was? Maybe it had. After all, it hadn’t shown up when she had the accident. Had James scared it off?

  The last time she’d seen the wolf, it was lying on her couch, and what it was doing there remained a mystery. It was the same night that James surprised her in her apartment, and she could only conclude that he must have left a door open somewhere. Jillian couldn’t imagine any other way that the great white wolf had gained entry to the building. And how had it gotten out?

  “I feel like I’m missing something.” Did James know about the white wolf? Had he seen it? Come to think of it, the wolf had reentered her life at roughly the same time she’d met James. Was that coincidence—or connection? She really should ask James about it, see what he knew, but that could be difficult when she didn’t want to talk to the man, didn’t want to see him ever again.

  The phone rang as if on cue.

  “Jillian, we need to talk,” James began.

  “Whatever happened to ‘hi, how are you?’”

  “You keep hanging up, so now I’m cutting to the chase. Look, I have things to say to you.”

  If she was honest with herself, she wanted to hear them. She really did. But she didn’t dare. “We already had this conversation, James. I don’t think it’s a good idea to repeat it.”

  “I think it’s—”

  “Goodnight, James.” She put the receiver down. It was simple self-defense, she reasoned with herself. So why did she feel so guilty? Suddenly she banged her fist on the phone. “Damn it!” She hadn’t asked him about the wolf.

  Annoyed, she picked up the mail from the floor. It had taken her three days to get around to looking at it. She had barely opened half the envelopes, but she’d had enough for one day. She piled it back on the table next to a stack of overdue wolf mythology books. She sighed. She hated to ask Birkie or Zoey to take them to the library—her friends already did so much for her—maybe she could ask Caroline instead? The young veterinary assistant often stopped by to ask if there was anything Jillian needed.

  “Energy. What I really need is energy. Isn’t there someplace I can order some? Have it delivered like pizza?” Sudden fatigue had Jillian sliding into a chair, feeling like the gravity in the room had increased fourfold. It was frustrating, but she was learning to relax and wait for her energy to return, to have faith that it would return. It might take a few minutes or a few hours, but after a little rest, her energy would come back. If nothing else, having a concussion was a lesson in patience. Whether she wanted more patience or not. Jillian sighed, pulled a book from the stack and began turning pages. An hour later, she was still there, engrossed in werewolf legends from France and Spain.

  When she finally looked up, dusk had given way to night. She stood and stretched—very slowly and carefully—then made her way to the fridge where a quick check of the freezer revealed an appalling lack of ice cream. No problem. There was some in the staff lunchroom, and maybe some pudding or custard as well. Her stomach was touchy these days, favoring bland and easy-to-eat items. The ongoing nausea had frightened her at first. But the doctors had been thorough in their follow-up exams, determining that the queasy stomach was linked to the dizziness she could naturally expect as she recovered, not to something scary like a blood clo
t on the brain.

  Jillian pulled her comfy old bathrobe around her shoulders and headed down the hallway. It had been a hot day and the shadows on the tile floor were deep and cool. Easy on the eyes, too. She could imagine the headlines: Mole woman subsists on ice cream. Gains 500 pounds in the dark. Well maybe not. She’d noticed the past couple of days that her jeans were loose around the middle. Mole woman discovers new wonder diet—concussion and ice cream.

  Just as she neared the kitchen, there was movement at the end of the dark hall. She blinked and held her breath as a large pale object resolved itself into a canine shape. An enormous canine shape, but no dog moved with such supple grace. It was the white wolf—and it was heading in the opposite direction. She held her breath as she watched, and even at this distance, even in the shadows, she could see the orchestrated movement of muscle under the snowy coat. Omigod. How long had the wolf been here? Although it surely must have been lingering outside her door, it seemed unaware that she was now in the hallway. She took a step forward in spite of herself as the animal disappeared around a corner. It was in the livestock wing.

  Jillian hesitated only a moment. Then she was hurrying—gingerly, and with a hand trailing the wall to steady herself—down the hall as fast as her condition would permit. She rounded the corner and regained sight of the wolf just as it bounded silently to the top of the bales she’d stacked against the far wall. It leapt across an impossible distance to land neatly inside the loft door. Sheer surprise kept her frozen for an entire second. And then she was running for the ladder. At least she intended to run. The best she could manage was an embarrassing sort of rapid shuffle. Breathing hard, she clambered awkwardly up the ladder, favoring the arm with the cast on it and trying to be quiet all at the same time.

  Dizzy from the effort, Jillian topped the rungs and peered into the loft. It was easy to spot the wolf, even in the dark. It would have no trouble spotting her either, but luckily it wasn’t looking in her direction. She was trying to catch her breath and decide what to do next when she became aware of a fine vibration running through the metal ladder rungs under her hands, her feet. Her eyebrows rose as she began to feel it in her teeth too. The vibration was subtle, not an earth tremor but finer, as if the ladder was being bombarded with sound. But there was no sound. . . .

  She glanced up to see if the wolf had also noticed, and was astonished to see the massive animal begin to shimmer like a mirage. Its snowy fur gleamed with strange bluish light. A breeze picked up, swirling bits of straw and dust into a lazy vortex around the creature. Jillian could feel the cool, dry air on her face now, and with it came the tang of ozone. Her skin tingled, the hairs lifted on the back of her neck. Through it all, the wolf stood perfectly still, even when blue sparks danced in the air around it. Suddenly the animal vanished completely. In its place stood a tall, powerful man. The breeze stopped, as did the vibration. The last of the sparks sizzled into the straw and winked out. And Jillian stared, open-mouthed, as James Macleod shook himself, stretched, then walked over to the window at the far end of the loft.

  She struggled in vain to make sense of what her eyes were telling her. Then backed slowly down the ladder, praying James would not hear her. If it was James. When she reached the floor, she half-stumbled, looking over her shoulder as she walked. Thank God that she was still in her slippers—while her footfalls were clumsy, they were at least silent. She hoped. Which was more than she could say for her heart. It was pounding loudly in her chest, so loud that she could hear it herself. Jillian drew air in great shaky gulps that threatened to become hiccups until she was forced to stuff the sleeve of her bathrobe over her mouth to suppress the sound. Nausea and dizziness from the exertion nearly overwhelmed her. She paused to lean on the wall frequently for support as she made her unsteady way back to her apartment.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Something was sparkling as Jillian opened her eyes. Blinking, she realized the morning sun had caught the little crystals in the dream catcher. Or was it afternoon sun? She had no idea what time it was and didn’t feel well enough to care. Jillian lay in bed and watched the light bounce around the wall in bright colors. Amber, green, purple, red, blue. Blue. Blue sparkles, blue sparks. There had been blue sparks last night when the white wolf turned into James Macleod.

  That had been one wild and crazy hallucination. She knew it couldn’t have been a dream, at least not completely—she had only to look over at the furniture stacked in front of her door. The dresser, the table, even the magazine rack. And how dumb was that? The last weighed, what? Two pounds, maybe three? But she’d been desperate for anything she could get her hands on, anything that might keep out whatever she thought she had seen in the loft. And when the adrenaline had finally subsided, she’d paid heavily for the overexertion. She’d spent half the night in the bathroom throwing up and the other half trying to rally the strength to get to her bed.

  She was still paying for the night’s activity. She felt drained, ill. A headache maintained a steady throb just behind her eyes. And it didn’t help to know that she’d brought it on herself. “I have a moderate to serious concussion. Birkie told me not to overdo it, Connor told me not to overdo it, Lowen and Bev both told me not to overdo it, even the clinician who ran the CAT scan told me not to overdo it,” she lectured herself. “So what do I do? Go running around the clinic in the dark. Of course I saw weird things.”

  One niggling question remained, however. Was everything she saw a hallucination? The DNA tests on the white hair from her couch had proven not only that a white wolf existed but that it had been inside her apartment. Had the wolf found its way back into the clinic last night? Had she followed a real wolf or a dream wolf? But if it was a real wolf she followed, why did the event suddenly turn into complete fantasy? And at what point?

  That leap, for instance. Jillian worked it out in her head. The livestock area was huge, and the span between the stacked bales and the loft door had to be at least thirty-five feet, maybe more. No wolf could jump that. A tiger might, she supposed, but even a big cat would have to work at it. A wolf? No chance. Therefore what she saw in the livestock wing could be no more real than what she saw in the loft.

  “Duh! What did I expect after racing down the hallway? And I can’t believe I climbed up that stupid ladder. I’m lucky I didn’t pass out and fall.” And as for the wolf turning into James, that was no stretch of the imagination. She had just talked to him, was just thinking about him, and then she had read all those stupid stories. “Therefore, none of it was real. I didn’t see the wolf in the hallway, I just thought I did.” She didn’t much like the idea of seeing things, though. She got up carefully and headed to the bathroom, stared at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked more tired than usual, disheveled, but not particularly crazy. At least she didn’t seem to be foaming at the mouth or rolling her eyes back in her head. “Lycanthropy. Werewolves.” She tried out the words, watched for changes in the mirror. Saw none. “Guess I’m still sane, even if I’m seeing things. Well, mostly sane.” Her head pounded while she brushed her teeth, and she decided to forego a shower. For a moment she thought about breakfast, but her stomach refused to discuss the subject unless it involved something creamy and frozen.

  By the time she climbed back into bed, she was resigned to staying there for the rest of the day. Jillian hoped Birkie would stop by in the afternoon. It would be good to have a friend to talk to, although she might not mention that part about the ladder. Please God, let her bring ice cream. She moaned aloud as she remembered all the stuff piled in front of her door. “Dear God, skip the ice cream. Please let her bring a forklift.”

  Roderick Harrison was just as Douglas remembered him. Just as devoted to the Pine Point Ranch as ever. Just as hardworking and active as always. Just as bullheaded and bossy too. But gradually it became apparent that Roderick was also as fixated as ever on something Douglas would rather forget.

  It began as a stray comment over dinner. “Wolf tracks in the northwest pasture
, Dougie. We’ve got to keep an eye on the stock.”

  It probably didn’t mean anything more than that, Douglas told himself sternly, but still, his stomach clenched and he found himself unable to finish the meal. When he retreated to his room, it took a tall glass of Jack Daniels to help him calm down. More to ensure he didn’t dream that night.

  It was mid-morning before Douglas finally made his way downstairs again. He was on his way to the kitchen, intent on putting something gentle in his stomach, maybe poached eggs and toast. Maybe just toast. Something to soak up the acid so he could have a drink to start the day.

  “Dad?” He was startled to find his father still in the house. Shouldn’t he be out riding the goddamn range or something? Roderick didn’t appear to notice him though. He was standing in the living room, staring at the collection of family photos on the stone mantel. There was still a photo of Douglas’s mother there, a tall, pretty woman, her hair dark red and wavy just like her son’s. Douglas had always liked the picture but now wished he’d followed his instincts months ago and put it away. He took a careful step backward, then another, hoping to exit the room, but it was too late.

  “Corena was a good woman.” Roderick continued to stare at her photo. He was still as stone with his hands at his sides, but they were clenched hard enough to make the veins stand out. “It wasn’t her fault, not really. Damn werewolves, they laid claim to her. I fought to keep her with me, but they claimed her and in the end, they got her. I should never have listened to her. I should’ve shot every damn one of them when I had the chance. She’d still be alive if I’d done that.”

  “Dad, I—”

  “They’re back, you know. We didn’t finish the job and now they’re back.”

  “Goddammit, Dad, give it up already,” Douglas burst out. The fleeting thought crossed his mind that if he’d had that drink, he would have been mellow enough to keep his mouth shut, but maybe he’d been silent too long, much too long. “I’m sick of hearing about your fucking werewolves. You already shot two people that I know of, and God only knows how many others.” He was shouting now.