Luck of the Wolf

by Susan Krinard

  The knowledge struck him all at once, stealing his breath. He had been more of a fool than even he had realized. This girl wasn’t merely some unfortunate who had run afoul of the most vicious elements of the Barbary Coast. It was remarkable that she had been taken at all.

  For she was loup-garou. And he understood then why he had been compelled to rescue her.

  There were a number of very colorful curses Cort had learned in childhood, before he had become a gentleman. He swallowed them and smiled.

  “Come,” he said. “It is time to leave this place.”

  Her tongue darted out to touch her lips, but she didn’t acknowledge his words in any other way. Her shoulders slumped, and her chin fell to her chest.

  Werewolf or not, it was clear that she couldn’t walk without help. Gingerly Cort reached for her arm. It was firm under his fingers, not at all like that of the passive doll she appeared to be.

  Taking hold of her shoulders, he raised her from the chair. For a moment it seemed that she might stand on her own, but that moment was quickly gone. Her legs gave way, and her head lolled to the side. Her eyes rolled back under her eyelids.

  “Cochon,” Cort growled. “You have given her too much.”

  Only the guards were there to hear him, and their indifference couldn’t have been more obvious. Cort lifted the girl into his arms, looking for a door that didn’t exit into the main room. There was another narrow doorway at the back of the room that Cort’s nose told him led outside. He strode past the guards, shifted the girl’s weight to the crook of one arm while he opened the door and walked into an alley heaped with rubbish and stinking of urine.

  Early morning fog was rolling over the city, bringing with it the damp chill so familiar to San Francisco’s residents. Knowing that he was more vulnerable while he was carrying a helpless female, Cort moved quickly into the street, listened carefully and continued at a brisk pace away from the saloon.

  The cacophony of smells—exotic spices, liquor, unwashed bodies, brackish water and things even Cort couldn’t name—nearly choked him, even after so many months as a regular visitor to the Coast. Inebriates and opium-eaters crouched at the sides of the street, some so lost in their foul habits that they didn’t notice him pass, others stretching out their hands in a pitiful plea for money. Shanghaiers, lingering in the shadows, followed Cort’s progress with calculating eyes. On more than one occasion he heard footsteps behind him, too regular and furtive to be those of a drunkard.

  But his stalkers refrained from attacking him, no doubt recognizing that he would not be easy prey, even with the woman in his arms. Still, Cort released a sigh of relief as he turned onto Washington Street, where he shared a two-room apartment with Yuri. The woman who ran the boardinghouse never asked questions of either of them, and she wasn’t likely to begin now, no matter what strange cargo Cort brought home with him.

  The girl still hadn’t stirred by the time he walked up the creaking stairs and passed down the hall to his room. He kicked the door, wincing at the idea of possible damage to his highly polished boot, and waited for Yuri to answer.

  Fortunately, the Russian had taken his advice and gone directly home. Yuri opened the door, grimaced and stepped aside. Cort carried the girl to the moth-eaten sofa that graced what passed for a sitting room and laid her down, taking care not to jar her.

  “Chyort,” Yuri swore. “What are we supposed to do with her?”

  Cort took off his hat and hung it from the hook on the wall by the door. “That is my concern.”

  “It’s as much mine as yours as long as she is here. I trust that will not be long.”

  “I do not intend to keep her,” Cort said, returning to the sofa.

  “Even a day is too much. Cochrane is not easily thwarted. He will have no difficulty in finding us.”

  That was indeed a danger, but Cort was in no mood to cower in fear from a man like Cochrane. “You are free to move on if you wish, Baron Chernikov.”

  Yuri drew himself up. “I am no coward.”

  “Bien. If she has any family in the city, we shall find out soon enough.”

  “Family? What family would allow this to happen?”

  Indeed. There were few enough werewolves in this part of California, and those of any honor would hardly permit one of their own young females to roam alone on the streets or be exposed to the rough elements of San Francisco’s less polished neighborhoods. Yet it was also true that most of the loups-garous with whom Cort was personally acquainted were hardly models of virtue—lone wolves all, making temporary alliances with each other only when circumstances demanded it.

  “I don’t know,” Cort said, “but as she is loup-garou, I do not believe she can be completely cut off from her own kind.”

  The Russian’s eyes widened. “She is oboroten?”

  Cort gave a curt nod, and Yuri breathed a laugh. “Ah. Now I see why you saved her.”

  “I would have done the same had she been human.”

  “Would you?” Yuri brooded as he looked the girl over. “Werewolf females don’t usually wander about in the city unescorted, do they?”

  “Not as a matter of course. The men who took her could have had no idea what she was.”

  “Then—” Suddenly Yuri grinned, showing his even white teeth. “Someone must want her back very much.”

  “Naturally. There are only two established loup-garou families in San Francisco. If she doesn’t belong to them, we will inquire—” He broke off, struck again by his own stupidity. It should have occurred to him the moment he recognized what she was—hell, he should have thought of it when he first set out to win her.

  “We could get back some of what you lost,” Yuri went on, recognizing Cort’s comprehension. “Most of it, in fact, if we handle this correctly.”

  “You do realize that we are speaking of loups-garous?”

  “You are one of them. Have you lost confidence in your ability to charm anyone you wish to?”

  He had certainly not charmed Cochrane. There were limits even to his abilities.

  But Yuri was right. There was no reason why they shouldn’t benefit from Cort’s act of charity while restoring the girl to her own people. It would, indeed, have to be handled carefully, and it would be necessary to make the girl fully aware of what he had done. A little gratitude on her part would go a long way.

  Rubbing his hands, Yuri paced across the room. “As soon as she is well again, you must visit these families. I will look out for Cochrane.”

  Cort turned back to the girl. “She has been given far too much opium. The fact that she is loup-garou means she is likely to recover with rest and care, but she must be watched carefully.”

  The Russian clapped his hands, in high good humor. “I will leave that to you.”

  “After you make yourself useful by fetching water and a cloth.”

  Yuri shrugged and went into the bedroom. Left in peace for the first time in hours, Cort studied the girl as he had not had the chance to do before. The vividness of her eyes was hidden, and her virginal gown had seemed opaque from Cort’s place at the table, but now he could see that the cloth, molding as it did to the curves of her body, concealed nothing at all.

  And what it did not conceal almost brought him to his feet. She was most decidedly not a child. Her breasts were small and firm, the nipples pale brown and delicate. But her body was very much a woman’s, down to the soft triangle of blond hair between her thighs.

  “Ha!”

  Yuri’s triumphant shout brought Cort around in a movement so sharp and swift that the Russian was forced to skip back several feet to avoid Cort’s clenched fist. Cort quickly lowered his arm, but he knew what Yuri had seen: the rough, hot-tempered, uncivilized boy Cort had been when he’d left Louisiana. The boy who still refused to be silenced after all the years Cort had worked to bury him.

  The grin on Yuri’s face broadened. “Well,” he said, “I believe this is the first time I have ever been able to catch you unaware.”

&
nbsp; Cort relaxed. “Should I be on my guard against you, mon ami?”

  Yuri harrumphed, offered Cort a towel and basin of water from the washstand in the bedroom, peered at the girl and frowned. Cort recognized the very moment when he saw what Cort had seen. He glanced at Cort, eyes narrowed.

  “Perhaps it is not I whom you should guard against,” he said.

  Cort set down the basin, strode into the bedroom, and returned with his pillow and the tattered blanket that served as his sole bed covering. He dropped the pillow at one end of the sofa and spread the blanket over the girl, touching her as little as possible.

  “You should go to bed, Yuri,” he said coldly.

  “She is no child.”

  “She is young enough.”

  Pursing his lips, Yuri stepped back. “Just as you say.” He turned again for the adjoining room, his expression thoughtful. Cort felt an unaccountable burst of irritation, which he quickly suppressed. He picked up one of the cloths Yuri had brought, dipped it in the basin and hesitated.

  She is young enough. He’d said that not only for Yuri’s benefit but for his own. How young—or not—might be revealed when he cleaned the paint from her face.

  Cort wrung out the cloth and brushed it over the girl’s cheek. The paint came off on the towel, and the water made streaks across her face like the tracks of tears. Her lips, gently curved, parted on a moan.

  When she subsided into silence again Cort finished cleaning her face as best he could, allowing himself to pretend that his hand was separate from the rest of his body and that his eyes saw nothing but a girl in need of rescue. When he was finished and her clear ivory skin had been stripped of the obscene “adornment,” he rocked back on his heels and blew out a long, slow breath.

  The question of her age was not entirely solved, but now that he could see her face, he knew she was at least a half-dozen years older than she had appeared in the saloon…and far more beautiful than even he had guessed. Her lips, no longer smeared with some pale tint designed to give her a more childish appearance, were softly rounded and womanly in a way no child’s could be. Her eyes were framed with long lashes, darker than her hair, and her features were mature and defined, with high cheekbones and a firm chin.

  Cort closed his eyes to shut her out. She was still helpless, and the last thing he wanted was to feel anything more than a detached interest in the girl’s usefulness to him and his empty wallet. He certainly had no desire to acknowledge any attraction to her, even of the most primitive physical kind.

  She was nothing to him. And while he could reluctantly accept that he had been instinctively drawn to her because she was loup-garou, she could not be as helpless as she appeared. If he’d let matters take their natural course and allowed Cochrane to win her, she would have been able to defend herself once she recovered from the influence of the opium. Her potential buyers were all human, and no match for even the smallest female werewolf.

  Unless she came from a family like the New Orleans Reniers, the loups-garous who ruled all the werewolves in that city and much of human society besides. They seldom Changed, and when they did it was only for ritual occasions and to remind themselves why they were superior to mere humans, and other werewolves not as privileged as they were. Madeleine had been delicate, sheltered, never expected to take wolf shape in defense of her life or her honor.

  If this girl were like Madeleine…

  Cort laughed. He was constructing a life for her that might bear no resemblance to reality whatsoever. He had never made any effort to learn how the San Francisco families lived, whether or not they hewed to their animal roots or preferred to ignore them altogether. Until the girl woke up, it would all be fruitless speculation.

  With a quick glance at her face, Cort crouched over her. Her breath, still tainted with laudanum, puffed against his face. He lifted her head.

  The contact sent a wash of sensation almost like pain through his body. The last time he had felt anything like it had been when he was with Madeleine. He had assumed then that it had sprung from his love for her, and that such feelings could never come again.

  And of course they had not. That was impossible. Whatever he felt now was merely a pale imitation.

  Cort quickly tucked the pillow under her head, adjusted the blanket once more and got to his feet. He pulled the room’s single chair close to the sofa and sat, stretching his legs and leaning as far back as the rickety chair would permit.

  Think of the reward, he told himself. Yuri had been correct; they could be comfortable again, perhaps more than that, if they played their cards right. If he did.

  And then, at last, he might find the means to take his revenge.

  He closed his eyes again, focusing all his senses on the girl. He could safely rest for a time, knowing that he would be aware of any change in her condition and would be fully wake long before she was.

  And then, in a matter of days, she would be gone from his life forever.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ARIA WOKE SUDDENLY, her head pounding and her eyes stinging. Her mouth was dry and her tongue leaden, coated with a foul taste that made her gag.

  For a moment all she could do was lie still, listening to her pulse boom behind her ears. She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid to see what might lie on the other side of her eyelids. Memories fought a furious battle in her brain, some so unbearable she tried to force them away.

  But she couldn’t. They were too strong, etched into her senses in sound and scent and taste. Hunger. Confusion. Harsh, mocking voices, and a rag soaked in bitter poison slapped over her mouth.

  Had those been the last memories, she might not have struggled so hard against them. But there were others far worse.

  She tried to swallow the bile in the back of her throat. She didn’t know where she was, but it might be somewhere even worse than the last place she had been before they had forced her to take the potion.

  You must face it, she told herself. Hiding from her fear would gain her nothing, and knowing the truth would allow her to make a plan to escape. How many others were here? She had a hazy vision of many men looking at her, and the low hum of many voices. There had been one man in particular, though she could not recall his face. Someone who had touched her gently.

  Open your eyes.

  She did, and the room swam into focus. Peeling paint on a low ceiling. A few scraps of mismatched furniture. A wall covered with torn and faded paper. She was lying on some sort of couch, and a blanket covered her up to her chin.

  She breathed in slowly. Mildew, dust, stale cooking. Bread and cheese closer by, setting her stomach to rumbling.

  And another scent she recognized, cool and clean and masculine.

  The room spun as she turned her head. The man sat a few feet away, long legs stretched before him, his head resting on the back of his chair. He was tall, well formed and elegantly dressed; his hair was deep auburn, and what she could see of his face was as handsome as that of any man she had seen in her long journey west.

  He was not one of the men who had captured her. But she knew his face.

  Cautiously raising herself on her elbows, Aria pushed the blanket aside. Sickness spiraled up from her stomach, and she had to sit still for several minutes. She watched the man’s face for any sign of waking, but he seemed completely unaware of her. Once again she tested her strength. This time she was able to sit up, and after a moment the hammer beating inside her skull fell silent.

  Wherever she was, it wasn’t what she had expected. Despite the voices she could hear outside the room, she felt no sense of threat. She still wore the gown they had put on her, but when she touched her face she realized that it was clean again.

  They meant to sell me, she remembered. They had spoken of it when they were certain she couldn’t hear. She was to become the “property” of the man who won her in some sort of card game, like the ones she and Franz had sometimes played on snowy evenings. Property just like the sheep who belonged to Matthias the shepherd, or the pony she
had left behind in Trieste.

  She looked hard at the man. Had he been the one to win her? Was he waiting to do the kinds of things to her that she had seen men doing with women in the back alleys of New York and San Francisco?

  Even if he was, he seemed to be alone. She had some chance of escape.

  Biting her lower lip, Aria pushed the blanket below her knees and swung her legs over the side of the couch. Her feet touched the bare, pitted floorboards. She put a little of her weight on them, testing her steadiness and the surface beneath her soles.

  The boards made no sound as she pushed herself up. Another wave of dizziness caught her, and she stopped, half crouched, her heart drumming under her ribs. There was a door across the room, not far. All she needed to do was open that door and find her way to freedom.

  Aria straightened, ignoring the protest of her stiff muscles. She took a single step. The man didn’t move. She took another step, and another, until she was passing him and only a few feet from the door.

  “You had best stay here, ma petite,” the man said behind her. “You are not well enough to leave just yet.”

  The words were as soft as lamb’s wool, the English touched with the pleasant lilt of an accent, yet she was not deceived. There was steel behind the voice, and she knew she would never escape without a fight.

  “You need not fear me,” the man said, getting to his feet. He turned, and she could see he was indeed very handsome…and very dangerous. Though his face was almost expressionless, his eyes, more yellow than brown, seemed kind—but Aria did not believe for a minute that this man was kind.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “One who means you well.”

  She retreated until her back was against the door. “You’re one of them,” she said.

  “You remember?” he asked, arching his dark brows.

  Aria curled her hands into fists. “You were with them,” she said. “You were in that place.”