“Yes.”
“No, I don’t mean a house. I mean a home.” She looked at him again, her tawny eyes dark with questions. “A place where you belong. A home of the heart.”
He thought about it. “I’m not sure.” His heart belonged in the forest of Russia, a long way from his stone manse in Wales. “I think there is—or used to be—but I can’t go back to it. Who ever can, really?” She didn’t answer. “What about you?”
Chesna made sure the maps were folded crease to crease, and then slid them into a brown leather map case. “I have no home,” she said. “I love Germany, but it’s the love for a sick friend, who will soon die.” She stared out a window, at the trees and golden light. “I remember America. Those cities … they can take your breath away. And all that space, like a vast cathedral. You know, someone from California visited me before the war. He said he’d seen all my pictures. He asked me if I might like to go to Hollywood.” She smiled faintly, lost in a memory. “My face, he said, would be seen all over the world. He said I ought to come home, and work in the country where I was born. Of course, that was before the world changed.”
“It hasn’t changed enough for them to stop making motion pictures in Hollywood.”
“I’ve changed,” she said. “I’ve killed human beings. Some of them deserved a bullet, others were simply in the path of them. I have … seen terrible things. And sometimes … I wish that more than anything, I could go back, and be innocent again. But once your home of the heart is burned to ashes, who can build it back for you?”
For that question he had no answer. The sunlight shone through the window into her hair, making it glint like spun gold. His fingers ached to lose themselves in it. He reached out, started to touch her hair, and then she sighed and snapped the map case shut, and Michael closed his hand and drew it back.
“I’m sorry,” Chesna said. She took the map case to a hollowed-out book and slipped it into a shelf. “I didn’t mean to ramble on like that.”
“It’s all right.” He was feeling a little fatigued again. No sense pushing himself when it wasn’t necessary. “I’m going back to my room.”
She nodded. “You should rest while you can.” She motioned to the parlor’s shelves of books. “A lot of reading material in here, if you like. Dr. Stronberg has a nice collection of nonfiction and mythology.”
So this was the doctor’s house, Michael thought. “No, thank you. If you’ll excuse me?” She said of course, and Michael left the parlor.
Chesna was about to turn away from the shelves when a book spine’s faded title caught her eye. It was wedged between a tome on the Norse gods and another on the history of the Black Forest region, and its title was Volkerkunde von Deutschland: Folktales of Germany.
She wasn’t going to take that book from its shelf, open it, and look at its page of contents. She had more important things to do, like getting the winter clothing together and making sure they’d have enough food. She wasn’t going to touch that book.
But she did. She took it down, opened it, and scanned the contents.
And there it was. Right there, along with chapters on bridge trolls, eight-foot-tall woodsmen, and cave-dwelling goblins.
Das Werewulf.
Chesna shut the book so hard Dr. Stronberg heard the pop in his study and jumped in his chair. Utterly ridiculous! Chesna thought as she returned the volume to its slot. She strode to the doorway. But before she got there, her strides began to slow. And she stopped, about three feet from the door.
The nagging, gnawing question that would not be banished returned to her again: how had the baron—Michael—found his way to their camp through the black woods?
Such a thing was impossible. Wasn’t it?
She walked back to the bookshelves. Her hand found the volume and lingered there. If she read that chapter, she thought, would it be admitting that she might possibly believe it could be true? No, of course not! she decided. It was harmless curiosity, and only that. There were no such things as werewolves, just as there were no bridge trolls or phantom woodsmen.
What would it hurt, to read about a myth?
She took the book down.
3
MICHAEL ROAMED THE DARK.
His hunting was better than the night before. He came into a clearing and faced a trio of deer—a stag and a pair of does. They bolted immediately, but one of the does was lame and could not shake the wolf that was rapidly gaining on her. Michael saw she was in pain; the lame leg had been broken, and grown back at a crooked angle. With a burst of speed he hurtled after her and brought her down. The struggle was over in a matter of seconds, and thus was nature served.
He ate her heart, a delicious meal. There was no savagery in this; it was the way of life and death. The stag and the remaining doe stood on a hilltop for a moment, watching the wolf feast, and then they vanished into the night. Michael ate his fill. It was a shame to waste the rest of the meat, so he dragged her beneath a dense stand of pines and sprayed a territorial circle around her, in case the farmer’s dog wandered this way. Tomorrow night she’d still be worthy.
The blood and juices energized him. He felt alive again, his muscles vibrant. But he had gore all over his muzzle and belly, and something had to be done about that before he returned to the open window. He loped through the forest, sniffing the air, and in a while he caught the scent of water. Soon he could hear the stream, rushing over rocks. He wallowed in the chilly water, rolling in it to get all the blood off. He licked his paws clean, making sure no blood remained on the nails. Then he lapped to quench his thirst, and started back to the house.
He changed in the woods and stood up on two white legs. He walked silently to the house, his feet cushioned on May grass, and slid through the window into his bedroom.
He smelled her at once. Cinnamon and leather. And there she was, edged in dark blue, sitting in a chair in the corner.
He could hear her heart pounding as he stood before her. Perhaps it was as loud as his own.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
“An hour.” She was making a valiant effort to keep her voice steady. “Maybe a little longer.” This time her voice betrayed her.
“You waited all that time for me? I’m flattered.”
“I … thought I’d look in on you.” She cleared her throat, as if only incidentally getting around to the next question. “Michael, Where have you been?”
“Just out. Walking. I didn’t want to use the front door. I thought I might wake everybody in the hou—”
“It’s past three in the morning,” Chesna interrupted. “Why are you naked?”
“I never wear clothes past midnight. It’s against my religion.”
She stood up. “Don’t try to be amusing! There’s nothing at all amusing about this! My God! Are you out of your mind, or am I? When I saw you gone … and the window open, I didn’t know what to think!”
Michael eased the window shut. “What did you think?”
“That … you’re a … I don’t know, it’s just too insane!”
He turned to face her. “That I’m a what?” he asked quietly.
Chesna started to say the word. It jammed in her throat. “How … did you find the camp that night?” she managed to say. “In the dark. In a forest that was totally unfamiliar. After you’d spent twelve days on starvation rations. How? Tell me, Michael. How?”
“I did tell you.”
“No, you didn’t. You pretended to tell me, and I let it go. Maybe because there was no possible rational explanation for it. And now I come into your room, I find your window open and your bed empty. You slide back in, naked, and try to laugh it off.”
Michael shrugged. “What better to do, when you’re caught with your pants down?”
“You haven’t answered me. Where have you been?”
He spoke calmly and carefully, measuring his words. “I needed some exercise. Dr. Stronberg seems to think that I’m not ready for anything more strenuous than a match of chess�
��which, by the way, I beat him at today, two out of three. Anyhow, I went out last night and walked, and I did the same tonight. I chose not to wear clothes because it’s a fine warm night and I wanted the feel of the air on my skin. Is that such a terrible thing?”
Chesna didn’t reply for a moment. Then: “You went out walking, even after I told you about the wolf?”
“With all the game in the forest around here, a wolf won’t attack a human.”
“All what game, Michael?” she asked.
He thought fast. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I saw two deer from my window this afternoon.”
“No, you didn’t tell me.” She stood very still, close enough to the door so she could reach it in a hurry. “The wolf I saw … had green eyes. Just like yours. And black hair. Dr. Stronberg has lived here for almost thirty-five years, and he’d never heard of a wolf in these woods. Fritz was born in a village less than fifty kilometers north of here and he’s never known of any wolves in the area either. Isn’t that very strange?”
“Wolves migrate. Or so I’ve heard.” He smiled in the darkness, but his face was tense. “A wolf with green eyes huh? Chesna, what are you getting at?”
The moment of truth, Chesna thought. What was she getting at? That this man before her—this British secret agent who had been born a Russian—was a bizarre hybrid of human and beast? That he was a living example of the creature she’d read about in a book on folklore? A man who could transform his body into the shape of a wolf and run or all fours? Maybe Michael Gallatin was eccentric, and perhaps he had a keen sense of smell and an even keener sense of direction, but … a werewolf?
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Michael said as he walked closer to her. A floorboard creaked softly under his weight. Her aroma lured him. She took a step backward. He stopped. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
“Should I be?” A quaver in her voice.
“No,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.” He walked toward her again, and this time she didn’t retreat.
He reached her. She could see his green eyes, even in the gloom. They were hungry eyes, and they awakened a hunger within her. “Why did you come to my room tonight?” Michael asked, his face close to hers.
“I … said I … wanted to look in on—”
“No,” he interrupted gently. “That’s not the real reason, is it?”
She hesitated, her heart hammering, and as Michael slipped his arms around her she shook her head.
Their lips met, and melded. Chesna thought she must truly be losing her mind, because she imagined she tasted a hint of blood on his tongue. But the coppery tang was gone in an instant, and she grasped his back and pressed her body against his with mounting fever. His erection was already large, and its pulse throbbed in her fingers as she caressed him. Michael slowly unbuttoned her nightgown, their kisses deep and urgent, and then he stroked his tongue between her breasts and gently, teasingly, licked up from her breasts to her throat. She felt goose bumps erupt over her skin, a sensation that made her gasp with pleasure. Man or beast, he was what she needed.
The nightgown drifted down around her ankles. She stepped out of its folds, and Michael picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.
On that white plateau their bodies entwined. Heat met heat, and pressed deep. Her damp softness gripped him, her fingers clenched to his shoulders and his hips moving in slow circles that rose and fell with graceful strength. Michael lay on his back, Chesna astride him, and together they made the bedsprings speak. He arched his spine, lifting her as she held him deep inside, and at the height of his arch their bodies shuddered in unison, a sweet hot pulsing that brought a cry from Chesna and a soft gasp from Michael.
They lay together, Chesna’s head cradled against Michael’s shoulder, and talked in hushed voices. For a short time, at least, the war was somewhere far away. Maybe she would go to America, Chesna said. She had never seen California, and perhaps that was the place to begin anew. Did he have anyone special waiting for him in England? she asked, and he said no one. But that was his home, he told her, and that’s where he would return when their mission was done.
Chesna traced his eyebrows with her finger, and laughed quietly.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Oh … nothing. It’s just … well, you would never believe what I was thinking when I saw you coming through the window.”
“I’d like to know.”
“It’s crazy, really. I think my imagination’s been running wild, ever since that wolf scared the daylights out of me.” She turned her attention to the hair on his chest. “But … I thought—don’t laugh now—that you might be a …” She forced the word out. “… werewolf.”
“I am,” he said, and looked into her eyes.
“Oh, you are?” She smiled. “Well, I always suspected you were more of a beast than a baron.”
He made a growling sound, deep in his throat, and his mouth found hers.
This time their lovemaking was more tender, but no less passionate. Michael’s tongue lavished her breasts, and played with joyful abandon across the fields of her body. Chesna clung to him, arms and legs, as he eased into her. She urged him deeper, and like a gentleman he met her request. They lay facing each other, merged iron to silk, and they moved in slow thrusts and circles like dancers to music. Their bodies trembled and strained, glowing with the moisture of effort. Chesna moaned as Michael balanced above her and teased her soft folds until she was near the point of release, then he plunged into her and she thought she might sob with the sheer ecstasy of it. She shivered, whispering his name, and his rhythm took her to the edge of delight and then over it, as if she’d leaped from a cliff and was falling through a sky that shimmered with iridescent colors. Michael’s sure strokes did not falter, until he felt the hot clenching followed by an eruption that seemed to stretch his spine and muscles almost to the point of pain. He remained part of Chesna, nestled between her thighs, as they kissed and whispered and the world turned lazily around their bed.
The following morning Dr. Stronberg pronounced Michael well on the way to recovery. His fever was gone, and the bruises on his body had almost faded. Lazaris, also, was stronger and able to walk around the house on stiff legs. Dr. Stronberg turned his attention, however, to Chesna, who appeared not to have gotten much sleep the night before. She assured the doctor that she was feeling fine, and would make sure she got at least eight hours of sleep tonight.
After nightfall a brown car left the house. Dr. Stronberg and Chesna were in the front and Michael and Lazaris, both wearing their baggy gray-green jumpsuits, sat in the back. Stronberg drove northeast on a narrow country road. The trip took about twenty minutes, then Stronberg stopped at the boundary of a wide field and switched his headlights on and off twice. A lantern signaled back, at the field’s opposite side. Stronberg drove toward it and pulled the car beneath the shelter of some trees.
Camouflage netting had been draped over a framework of timbers. The man with the lantern was joined by two other men, all in the simple clothing of farmers, who lifted an edge of the netting and motioned their visitors in.
“This is it,” Chesna said, and Michael saw the airplane in the lanterns’ yellow glow.
Lazaris laughed. “Saint Peter’s ghost!” he said, speaking a mixture of crude German and Russian. “That’s not a plane, it’s a deathtrap!”
Michael was inclined to agree. The tri-engined transport aircraft, painted dark gray, was large enough to hold seven or eight passengers, but its airworthiness was suspect. The machine was covered with bullet-hole patches, its wing-engine cowlings looked as if they’d been attacked with sledgehammers, and one of its wheel struts was badly warped.
“It’s a Junkers Ju-fifty-two,” Lazaris said. “That model was built in 1934.” He looked under the aircraft and ran his fingers along a rusted seam. He muttered with disgust as he found a hole as big as his fist. “The damned thing’s falling apart!” he said to Chesna. “Did you get this from the garbage
pile?”
“Of course,” she answered. “If it was perfect, the Luftwaffe would still be using it.”
“It will fly, won’t it?” Michael asked.
“It will. The engines are a little rough, but they’ll get us to Norway.”
“The real question,” Lazaris said, “is will it fly with people in it?” He found another rust-edged hole. “The cockpit floor looks as if it’s about to fall through!” He went to the port wing engine, reached up, and put his hand past the propeller into the machinery. His fingers emerged slimed with dirty oil and grease. “Oh, this is wonderful! You could grow wheat on the dirt in this engine! Goldilocks, are you trying to commit suicide?”
“No,” she said tersely. “And I’ve asked you to stop calling me that.”
“Well, I thought you must like fairy tales. Especially now, since I’ve seen this wreck you call an aircraft.” Lazaris took a lantern from one of the men, walked around to the fuselage door, and ducked low to enter the plane.
“This is the best I could do,” Chesna told Michael. “It might not be in the best condition”—they heard Lazaris laugh harshly as he shone the lantern around in the cockpit—“but it’ll get us where we need to go. Regardless of what your friend thinks.”
They had to travel more than seven hundred miles, Michael thought. Part of that journey would be over the bitterly cold North Sea. If the airplane developed engine trouble over the water … “Does it at least have a life raft?” he asked.
“It does. I patched the holes in it myself.”
Lazaris emerged, swearing, from the Junkers. “It’s all rust and loose bolts!” he fumed. “If you sneeze too hard in there, you’ll blow the cockpit glass out! I doubt if the damned thing can do over a hundred knots, even with a tail wind!”
“No one’s twisting your arm to go with us.” Chesna took the lantern from him and returned it to its owner. “But we’re leaving on the twelfth. The night after tomorow. Our clothing and supplies should be ready by then. We’ll have three fuel and security stops between here and Uskedahl. With luck we should reach our landing strip on the morning of the sixteenth.”
The Monster Novels: Stinger, the Wolf's Hour, and Mine Page 107