Skin of the Wolf

by Sam Cabot

  What surprised Livia was something she was sure only she caught, though that had more to do with her long friendship with Spencer than with her Noantri senses: a tiny quaver in his voice. He had told her he was touched by Michael’s bravery and attentiveness and felt that a debt was owed. But this was something more.

  Spencer was in love.

  16

  Thomas wondered if he himself, not Spencer George, was delusional. Was he really sitting in a New York town house listening to two European vampires accuse an Abenaki Indian of being a werewolf?

  To be fair, it wasn’t phrased as an accusation, and only Spencer George had said it. Livia, though, didn’t look shocked, wasn’t suggesting gently to Spencer that he might want to go lie down. Her gaze stayed steady on Michael Bonnard, with a look on her face that Thomas could only read as guarded hope.

  In Rome, having finally acknowledged the truth of the Noantri and what they were, Thomas had asked Livia about other peoples whose natures might be beyond what Thomas had understood, up until that day, as “human.” Her answer had been that if such others existed, the Noantri had no knowledge of them. Thomas had accepted that; contemplation of the Noantri nature itself was more than enough spiritual labor for a lifetime.

  What had not occurred to him until this moment, seeing Livia’s face—and Spencer George’s, for that matter—was what the Noantri might feel, if such others were found to exist.

  The Noantri were alone. For millennia, each individual had been literally alone, unaware of others, forced into furtive and degraded lives by hungers they couldn’t control. With the signing of the Concordat they’d slowly begun to gather, to create a Community. The ability to live openly—their natures still hidden, but their lives assimilated into the world of those they referred to as “Unchanged”—was, Livia and others had impressed upon Thomas, an enormous relief and a joy to them. No Noantri lived isolated any longer, unless he wanted to.

  Still, Thomas suddenly understood, the Community did. In spite of their wide geographical distribution, living in every corner of the earth, at roughly ten thousand, their numbers were small. The overwhelming majority of humans were of one nature; they were of a different one. The discovery, if such it were, of another—what to call it? variety of human?—would fill a void for them that Thomas could only begin to imagine.

  It would, if it happened. But this could not be that. Michael Bonnard, standing before them in this room, could no more be a shapeshifter than Thomas himself. Spencer George, weak and delirious, had obviously dreamt what he’d seen in the park. Bonnard’s brooding dark gaze as he regarded Spencer, then turned to Livia and lastly, now, to Thomas, expressed concern for a man he cared about and a hope that his friends could help. Nothing else.

  Secure in that thought, Thomas was stunned by the words Bonnard finally spoke.

  “You should have died,” he said to Spencer. He looked around the room. “Now, you should all die.”

  17

  Livia saw Thomas grow pale when Michael Bonnard spoke but she heard no real threat in Bonnard’s dark tone, saw none in his stance. She threw Thomas a warning look. He met her eyes and stayed silent.

  Spencer smiled. “Why, Michael. I rather thought you’d grown fond of me, too.”

  Bonnard locked his gaze on Spencer. “You spoke of the laws of your people. In the tradition of my people, one who sees what you say you saw—the Shift—must die. The identities of Shifters, our stories tell us, must be protected at all costs.” No one moved, no one spoke. Slow-drifting headlights of a car out on the street swept the room, briefly illuminating dim corners, then vanished.

  Bonnard grinned. “Luckily, you were hallucinating. I’m just a guy who chased off a dog. Nobody Shifted and nobody saw it. So everyone’s safe.”

  “Michael,” Spencer said gently, “we can go around like this as many times as you like, or we can move on to more important matters. If the Shift is what you call it, then the Shift is what I saw. If on that account your tradition requires my death, however—and by extension, the deaths of my companions, now that they’ve heard me speak of it—we have a conflict in which I’m afraid your tradition must be the one to step aside. While the death of Father Kelly is possible, it is not something that will be accomplished in this room without a good deal of opposition. The deaths of Livia and myself are flatly outside your capability. Michael, we do not die. I suppose your people have their own name for our kind. We call ourselves ‘Noantri.’ The English word is ‘vampire.’”

  Closely, Livia watched Michael Bonnard receive this news. A brief flash in his dark eyes was the only visible evidence of astonishment, but Livia sensed the almost-undetectable tightening of his shoulders, his back. It was a victory of self-discipline that he remained still.

  “You’re bleeding, Michael,” Spencer said. “Your wound was not as bad as mine, yet under that bandage your flesh remains torn. I’m almost completely whole. As a scientist you can’t be trying to deny that sort of evidence.”

  “I grew up on the reservation. I’ve seen a good deal of healing that science can’t explain.”

  “Not like this. I know it. Unless you had Noantri among you. Which, now I think of it, is of course possible.” Spencer leaned forward, tugged open the drawer in the coffee table, and removed the brown bottle. “This is what Livia fetched me from the cellar. It’s human blood. Sniff it, you’ll see.”

  Thomas blanched and turned away. Bonnard took the bottle, looked at Spencer, and did as instructed.

  “It’s blood,” Bonnard confirmed. “Whether it’s human, I can’t tell. All it proves is that you believe you’re a vampire. Or that you’re straight-out kinky.”

  “In the weeks we’ve been together, have I done anything to make you think I might be ‘straight-out kinky’? Our condition, Livia’s and mine, is the result of a micro-organism introduced into the body. The presence of Father Kelly notwithstanding, it has no inherent spiritual or mystical dimension. Come, you’re a scientist. Surely you’re willing to grant the possibility of phenomena outside your current field of vision?”

  Bonnard didn’t answer.

  “Michael,” said Spencer. “This is an historic event.” An imploring note crept into his voice. “Maybe not for you. Maybe you’ve met a dozen different strains of human, maybe your people have a rainbow of abilities the Noantri haven’t even dreamt of. But for us. For Livia and myself. Whatever your secrets, we shall keep them. Father Kelly is a priest, he can be counted on to keep secrets, too. Please, Michael. Acknowledge the truth of this stunning moment.”

  “I might,” Bonnard said, “if it were true.”

  Spencer gripped the arm of the sofa and blew out a frustrated breath. He turned to Livia, but she had no idea what to do, how to help.

  Breaking the silence, Thomas Kelly spoke in a strained voice. “But it is true.”

  All eyes turned to him.

  Thomas spoke slowly. “I refused to believe it when I first found out,” he went on, his voice wavering but resolute. “I had to have it proved to me, and even then I tried to twist what I’d seen and been told to try to make it mean something else. I don’t know what your truth is, Dr. Bonnard. Whether Dr. George is right about what he saw in the park, or whether it means what he thinks it means. But what he’s saying about himself and Livia, I know that to be true.”

  Bonnard kept his gaze on Thomas for a long moment. He shut his eyes and his lips moved, saying words too soft for Livia to hear. Then his eyes opened and looked at Spencer, at Livia, at Thomas. Slowly, he nodded. He lowered himself into an armchair with the air of an exhausted swimmer finally reaching shore. In that moment Livia understood the effort the past hours had cost him.

  “Michael?” Spencer said gently. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Livia rose and brought him the brandy she’d poured earlier. He was ashen; sweat had broken out on his forehead. She said, �
�I wish you’d let me look at that shoulder. I think that wolf did you some damage.”

  “Not as much as he wanted to.”

  Livia slipped the jacket from Bonnard’s shoulders and began removing his bandage as Spencer asked, “That wolf—you know it, am I correct? You’ve encountered that same beast before?”

  “I’ve known him all my life,” Bonnard said. “He’s my brother.”

  18

  Thomas felt less in a cloud than he had since arriving at Spencer’s home. Part of him wondered about that, given that he’d just heard a man identify a wolf as his brother. Maybe it was the brandy, two disorienting forces neutralizing each other. In case it was, he drank a bit more as Spencer said, “I see. A contentious sibling relationship?”

  Michael Bonnard laughed. “You really are unflappable, aren’t you?”

  “No,” said Spencer. “But I’ve seen a good deal. Nothing as momentous as this, in the scheme of things. Yet everyone’s life consists largely of personal concerns. History has seen many murderous sibling pairs. Did your brother come here to kill you?”

  “I don’t know. If he did, I don’t know why.”

  Livia, having cleaned the torn flesh on Bonnard’s shoulder, applied a fresh bandage. “That’ll do for now, but I think it should be stitched up.”

  “No. I’ll be all right. I heal fast, too. I mean”—he gestured at Spencer—“nothing like that. That, by the way, is why I didn’t want to let you in, you and Father Kelly. Even in the park I could see something extraordinary was going on. I didn’t know what it was, and until Spencer could tell me, my instinct was to keep everyone away. I’m sorry.”

  “You were protecting my friend. I appreciate that.”

  “I do, also,” said Spencer, with a smile.

  Bonnard leaned forward again and addressed them all. “What you’ve told me—it doesn’t surprise me as much as you might think. Maybe not as much as . . . as what I am surprised you. There’s always been room in our world for . . . others. The vampire, the blood-drinker, he’s not part of our stories. But when we heard the white people’s stories we were ready to believe.” He turned to Thomas. “Just as we were ready to believe in Jesus.”

  Thomas wasn’t sure how to respond, but Bonnard didn’t seem to expect him to. He went on, “Now that I’d hook up with one, okay, that’s unexpected.” He smiled at Spencer; then his face and voice grew serious. “I’m sorry. I want to stay and talk. Share our stories. Desperately, I do. But I’ve got to find my brother. It troubles me that he came here. He doesn’t like to leave our land, and he hates this city.”

  “And you, apparently,” said Spencer.

  “Yes, but I don’t think this was about me. He might not even have been looking for me, until he sensed that I was close. But he’d already Shifted.”

  “What does that imply?” Spencer asked. Bonnard didn’t answer. He started to stand, got halfway, and his legs gave out. He crumpled. Livia caught him and lowered him back into the chair.

  “I think not,” she said. “You may heal fast, but you’re not healed yet.”

  Bonnard let his eyes close. “Damn city Indian. Getting soft.”

  Spencer got to his feet, lifted a blanket from the sofa and tucked it around Bonnard. “Please. At least give yourself an hour to recover. All right, perhaps half an hour. You can’t go out like that in any case. Give me a few more minutes and I’ll be strong enough to locate some clothing that will fit your admirable physique. While we wait . . .” He sat and gave a rueful smile. “I must compliment you, Michael. This news has me so nonplussed I don’t know what to ask first.”

  Bonnard opened his eyes and reached a hand from under the blanket for his brandy. “Then let me ask you one. You said, ‘micro-organism’?”

  Thomas blinked. All the possible questions, all the secrets, all the knowledge, and that was where Bonnard wanted to start?

  Spencer, though, laughed. “Spoken like a scientist. Yes, a microbe. It alters our DNA. Our cells repair themselves endlessly. That’s one of the effects.”

  “There are others?”

  “Our capabilities improve. Strength, agility. And our senses. It’s all part of the same process. There’s no breakdown, you see. Another effect,” he added, before Bonnard could respond, “is the need for human blood.”

  “But that bottle. You get it in bottles?”

  “Courtesy of Father Kelly’s branch of the family.”

  “I don’t understand.” Bonnard looked to Thomas.

  “By agreement,” Thomas said, “the Church supplies the Noantri with blood from Catholic hospitals.” He was surprised to find his tone as steady as Spencer’s had been. “So they no longer . . . feed . . . on the Unchanged.”

  “The Church? You’re telling me the Church knows? About them? Priests know?”

  “Not priests. Only a very few Cardinals in the highest ranks. Some Popes have known, others haven’t. The agreement’s a closely held secret.”

  “But you know. Wait, are you . . . what’s the word? Noantri? Are you one, too?”

  “No. I’m in a—special position.”

  “Father Kelly did our people a great service,” Spencer said. “In return the Conclave—our ruling body—has granted him access to knowledge the Noantri generally take great care to conceal.”

  “I see.” Bonnard nodded slowly, a scientist digesting new facts. Thomas remembered his own panicked reaction the day he’d first heard this same news. “And the hospitals—where do they think the blood goes?”

  Spencer said, “They only know they’re instructed to sell drawn and donated blood to certain private blood banks. Catholic hospitals are everywhere. The distribution is wide, the supply is steady, and the hospitals can count on a dependable source of income. The system has been working smoothly for six hundred years.”

  “And before that?”

  Thomas felt himself redden.

  Spencer answered calmly, “We were hunted. Hounded. Driven out.”

  Thomas saw a look of mutual understanding pass between the two men. “‘Noantri.’” Bonnard tried out the word. “And ‘Unchanged’? That’s the rest of us?”

  “Well, it’s Father Kelly,” said Spencer, “and those like him. Perhaps, I venture to say, not you.”

  Bonnard grinned. “No, I guess not. When did you . . . come to be?”

  “Me, personally? In 1548.”

  Bonnard laughed aloud. “It’s a good thing I never worried about dating older men. But I meant, the first Noantri.”

  “Ah. Our scientists say possibly twenty thousand years ago. They’re still working on that question.”

  “You have scientists?”

  “Why, did you think all Noantri were effete arts-oriented intellectuals like myself?”

  “Until tonight, Spencer, I didn’t think there was anyone like you at all.”

  Spencer spoke in a voice that was quiet, hopeful. “Michael? Will you tell us your story?”

  Bonnard sipped his brandy, looking across the room, to the window, to the dark night. “My people say stories have lives of their own. They know when they’re being told, and why.” A long silence settled. Just when Thomas was beginning to think Bonnard wouldn’t go on, he said, “We’re twins, Edward and I. Fraternal, not identical. To look at us you might not know we’re related. But we both have the Power. Shapeshifting, in English. You’d call us werewolves, maybe, I don’t know. We have a word in the Abenaki language but it doesn’t matter. We’re almost gone.”

  “The Abenaki?” Spencer asked.

  “No. Though Edward and I didn’t grow up on Abenaki land. Our father was Mohawk. The reservation we grew up on is a Mohawk one, that’s the language we speak. But the Shifters. The Shifters are almost gone.”

  “There are—few of you?” Thomas heard a sad note in Spencer’s voice. Bonnard must have caught it, too; he looked almost apologetic wh
en he nodded.

  “I think it’s one reason Edward hasn’t killed me yet. He hates me. But without me, he’d be alone.” Bonnard finished his brandy. Livia reached across and poured him more. “The Power seems to be genetic. It’s not clear why some children inherit it and some don’t, but I imagine it has to do with a cluster of genetic requirements.”

  “And are you saying only the Abenaki have the gene? Among the indigenous people?”

  “You can say ‘Indians,’ Spencer. We do. I told you that.”

  “And I’ve told you, it doesn’t sound right coming from my mouth. ‘Indian.’”

  “Sounds fine to me.”

  The men’s eyes met, and Thomas could have sworn he saw Spencer George blush. That, he decided, called for more brandy.

  “Anyway, no,” Bonnard went on. “My— The research is very new, so a lot of this is still hypothesis, but the gene seems to be widespread throughout the tribes. Not common, but widespread, like other genetic anomalies—somewhere between albinism and left-handedness, say.”