Renegade

by Donna Boyd

  The helicopter dipped below the cloud cover into a blinding sunburst of green tree canopy and blue lakes and then, suddenly captured by a wind shear, shot upward into gray oblivion again. The loup garou pilot, casually accustomed to the caprices of nature that protected the destination below, banked, circled, bided his time, and rode the next downdraft to the landing pad. The massive machine hovered for a moment, fighting the whims of nature with its blades, lost a few dozen feet, won another dozen, and settled its mass firmly upon the stone surface at last, blades whirring in a steadily slowing whooshing rhythm.

  As soon as the pilot cut the engine, an opening appeared in the wall that flanked the landing pad and two liveried stewards emerged, their sensitive ears shielded by headphones to protect them from the noise of the slicing blades and their hands clad in the traditional white gloves that would protect the guests of the castle from the scent of those who served them. They moved quickly across the carpeted walkway to greet the new arrivals and to escort them to their quarters in the vast complex. The scene had been repeated dozens of times over the past forty-eight hours, sometimes as often as once every five minutes.

  The door of the helicopter opened and a ramp began to lower automatically from it. The prince descended first, wrapped in a cashmere coat and stylish white muffler, his dark hair tossed by the wind and his nostrils flaring as he took in the scents that assailed them: pine forests and crisp bright glaciers, the musky hot blood of herd beasts; the intoxicating taste of ancient earth and brittle stone and werewolf, of secrets long dead and secrets not yet discovered; of home. One could not come to Castle Devoncroix, no matter what one’s place of origin or family affiliation, without feeling a sense of profound connection, as though the very rocks themselves were wrapping themselves around you in welcome. He drew deeply of the air, and let it fill him with power.

  The princess was next, and his leather gloved hand came out to assist her automatically. Her eyes were protected by dark glasses against the brilliance of the sun, and her aristocratic profile half-shaded by a wide-brimmed black hat that was trimmed with the same silver fox fur that adorned the collar of her coat. Lara clung to her other hand, looking small and awe struck in a blue velvet coat and matching beret. The wind kept whipping long strands of her hair across her eyes, obscuring her vision, until she caught her hair with one hand and held it tight against her shoulder, not wanting to miss a detail of the moment.

  One of the stewards collected the luggage from the cargo hold, and the other fell into place behind the family, keeping a stiff and sentry-like pace as they followed the plush carpet back to the door. As soon as the heavy steel door closed behind them, he bowed deeply and said in French, which was the language of protocol at Castle Devoncroix, “Family Fasburg, it is my very great pleasure to welcome you, on behalf of our pack leaders and all of their family, to Castle Devoncroix on this most illustrious occasion. You will find an agenda of activities in your suite, along with a light meal and certain other items of comfort which we hope will make your stay more enjoyable. Also ...” He took a breath here, signifying the importance of his next statement. “Madame and Monsieur Devoncroix request the pleasure of your company at a private dinner in their quarters this evening.”

  As he spoke, he gestured toward a bank of smoked-glass elevators set into the stone wall, each of them octagonal shaped and lit from within by a bronze light. The prince and princess exchanged an amused glance as they stepped into the elevator. “Can we bear the honor?” murmured the prince in Italian, and the princess replied to the steward in French, “Kindly inform Madame Devoncroix that we await her pleasure, of course.”

  “You do too much to endear yourself, my love,” said the prince in a bored tone.

  The princess replied tartly, “My manners have never been found wanting. And,” she added sternly to Lara, who had begun to absently chew her gloved thumbnail, “neither have my daughter’s.”

  Lara quickly folded her hands in front of her and tried to look as bored as her papa, although inside she was bursting with excitement.

  The glass bullet of the elevator shot downward through the stone tunnel, slowed to a gentle bouncing stop, and then took a horizontal course down a maze of corridors until it delivered them to their rooms.

  Five thousand years ago, perhaps ten, a long-forgotten race of werewolves had made their home on the then-verdant plains of the Alaska wilderness, feasting on the abundant game, running the wild mountain ranges, luxuriating in the crystal lakes and mineral-rich hot springs. They dug into the mountainside for shelter, building rudimentary sleeping caves and cooking rooms, giving birth and nursing their young secure from the elements within the rock walls. As they evolved, so did their shelter, expanding outward and downward in an elaborate labyrinth of chambers, deep water wells, light tunnels and air shafts. They harnessed the power of nature for heat and light, they built complex indoor waterfalls, pools and gardens. Artisans carved detailed portraits and story panels into the rock walls, floors were polished smooth and set with rubies, sapphires and emeralds as large as goose eggs. Entire rooms were lined with that soft, abundantly plentiful metal that would later be known as gold. Bathing pools were fashioned of onyx and amethyst, and coffered ceilings were lined with hammered silver. There were amphitheaters and observatories, playing fields and reservoirs. The structure was clearly the work of an advanced culture with abundant leisure who took pride in their legacy, and its creation spanned several centuries. Then abruptly, some time before recorded history, the compound was abandoned, and no trace of the race who built it was ever found.

  The complex had been rediscovered at the beginning of the twentieth century during an expedition that Alexander and Elise Devoncroix, the newly anointed leaders of the pack, made to Alaska. It was named, appropriately enough, Castle Devoncroix. Within a decade the pack headquarters was moved from the grand palais in Lyon, France, to the fortified underground compound in Alaska.

  Seventy-five years later, modern day engineers were still marveling over the elegant simplicity of the architecture, and trying to decipher the subtleties of the geothermal energy system that supplied the entire complex with an apparently endless source of power. It was widely speculated that much of the structure, and perhaps many of its most advanced secrets, were yet to be uncovered. Already the compound encompassed an area of over two square miles, and could, if need be, shelter the entire pack in an emergency. On state occasions and during festivals and specials events, like this one, it regularly hosted thousands of guests.

  Prince Fasburg pointed out all of this to his daughter in properly stentorian tones as they were escorted down the tall wide corridor and through the double doors of their suite, even though she had of course studied the history of Castle Devoncroix since she had first learned to read. No amount of reading or lecturing could have prepared her for the reality of actually being there, however. The room to which they were escorted smelled of sandalwood and beeswax, crisp cotton sheets, down pillows, well-turned books, dark chocolate, and flowers, a multitude of flowers. It was a richly appointed suite, with high arched ceilings timbered with heavy scarred beams and paneled in gold leaf. The walls were upholstered in beautifully embroidered tapestries, some of them centuries old. There were two fireplaces, one at each end of the room, and each gave off the merry glow of dancing flames. There were bouquets of white roses on the tables that flanked the large sofa, and in the center of the room, arranged on a marble topped table that was easily large enough to have commanded the lobby of any one of Prince Fasburg’s international hotels, was a staggering arrangement of delphiniums, hollyhocks, hyacinths and roses whose collective aroma filled the suite with a heady perfume.

  Beside the flowers was a bottle of the finest Devoncroix cabernet sauvignon, crystal glasses and a covered tray beneath which Lara smelled smoked salmon, roast venison, an array of cheeses and soft white bread with melting butter.

  There was also a small silver plate containing a dozen perfectly formed chocolates, each in t
he shape of a different flower and infused with the essence of that flower—orange blossom, lavender, narcissus, rose. Though Lara’s mouth watered with the smell of so much lovely chocolate, it would be poor manners indeed to beg for a treat. She waited until the princess selected a tulip, tasted it, gave an appreciative nod of her head and then, with a smile, offered a chocolate rose to Lara.

  The prince shrugged out of his coat and gloves and tossed them aside. “A bit over the top, don’t you think, my dear?”

  That made the princess laugh, and she choose another chocolate and offered it to her spouse with her teeth. He accepted the gift with a small sound of approval and licked the lingering chocolate from her lips.

  Lara nibbled politely on her chocolate rose and tried hard to pretend that being in this incredible place was just another ordinary day in her life. She was well accustomed to luxury and certainly, at age nine, old enough to behave in as sanguine a fashion as her parents might wish. Still, it was all she could do to restrain herself from running from room to room, eyes big, exclaiming like a child. It was more than the gold-plated ceilings or exotic candies or the bath that appeared to be carved from a single piece of marble. More than the high feather beds and stained glass chandeliers. The place itself was magical; the smell of it, the taste of it, the simple fact of it.

  There was a window. They were four stories underground, yet the view was of a garden flooded with yellow sunshine. A riot of mandevilla, bougainvillea and hibiscus tumbled down rock walls on three sides toward an emerald lawn that framed the centerpiece—a gilded fountain formed of four giant wolves standing upright, their backs toward each other, their massive heads thrown back in joy, their upraised forelimbs ending in human-formed hands that caught the water as it splashed from above. Guests of the castle strolled the courtyard or lounged about the fountain, some of them nude, some of them clad in gauzy garments that flowed around their slender, elegant figures, some of them in wolf form. Even though the thick glass and fabric-clad stone walls were designed to protect sensitive werewolf ears from intrusive sounds, Lara could hear their laughter, and smell their contentment. Instinctively, and without meaning to at all, Lara pressed her fingers to the glass, and she felt herself smiling back.

  That was when she noticed the young, athletic blond wolf leaping from the base of the fountain to the peak of a climbing rock some thirty feet away. He did it effortlessly, without scrabbling for purchase as another his age might have done, and he landed on the pads of his paws without extending his claws, as light as air. He sat in perfect posture, his tail curled around his feet, as though preening himself. Across the distance, over the heads of the people below, through the silence of the glass, his crystal blue eyes met Lara’s, and she knew instinctively that she had locked gazes with the heir designee. The chocolate was forgotten in her hand, and she stared at him. For the first time in her life Lara knew envy: to be him, to be bathed in such power; to live in such a place, to belong here. She looked at him for a long time, and even when her mother called her away from the window, she did not want to look away.

  For a girl who had never been away from the company of her family, the splendor of Castle Devoncroix during a major celebration was more than a little overwhelming. Lara was not shy, but she had been raised in an environment that was greatly humancentric, her lupinotuum playmates had been carefully chosen and mostly were members of her own extended family. She found the exposure to such a vast and varied quantity of her own kind both bizarre and exotic ... and a little unsettling. These werewolves had a strange wild smell to them, and their eyes were fierce even in laughter, even in pleasure. They were wanton and ambitious and they smelled too much of blood. They thrilled her and they frightened her, and after less than a day in their presence she felt out of place and self-conscious, yearning for home but strangely, inexplicably titillated by their presence, wondering what it would be like to be one of them and feeling guilty for even wondering.

  On their first evening, while the prince and princess dined with the Devoncroix, a Night Run for the children would be led by Nicholas Devoncroix himself. A Night Run with the heir designee should properly be considered the highlight of a young werewolf’s life. Here a youth would prove his ambition, his bravery, his skill, and very possibly begin to build a relationship with the heir designee that could insure his future. No one said that out loud, of course. Out loud they said what an exciting opportunity it was to run the wilds of Castle Devoncroix beneath the moon without adult supervision, and how generous it was of the heir designee to lead them, and how this would be an experience they would never forget, though they lived to be two hundred.

  Lara did not see the appeal.

  The children’s welcome tea, however, was fabulous. Lara wore her white frock with white stockings and black patent shoes and her shiny black hair pulled back in a perfect pink velvet bow, and she was without a doubt the most perfectly attired young lady there. Later she had her portrait painted in that outfit and it became quite famous; hundreds of thousands of greeting cards were sold to humans over the next few decades featuring her likeness.

  There was a musical pageant performed to honor the heir designee, and afterwards Nicholas Devoncroix, in black trousers and an open-necked flowing white shirt, came out and took a bow. His blonde hair fell like a curtain over his face when he bowed. The curve of his calf was exquisite. The crowd went wild. Lara thought he looked like a character from one of those black and white movies her father kept in his film library.

  Afterwards, she filled her plate with sweets—sugared tangerines and almond cookies and buttery scones and chocolate dipped strawberries and pastries filled with hazelnut cream and a feathery white cake piled with icing—and enjoyed every morsel. Nicholas Devoncroix moved through the crowd, greeting each and every child, from the three-year-old who was barely able to maintain his human form, to the sixteen-year-olds who struggled to make themselves appear smaller in his sight. These were his people, and this was his noblesse oblige. His mother’s eyes, of course, never left him. And he conducted himself in a manner that would make her proud.

  When Lara turned, dabbing the last of the frosting from her lips with a heavy linen napkin, she found herself looking directly into the ice blue eyes of the heir designee. Her heart began to pound, upsetting her digestion.

  He said, “Hello. I saw you through the window.”

  Lara’s hair began to crackle with static electricity. She tried to smooth it down, but when she moved her hand away the top layer of it stood away from her shoulders, still crackling, in a most annoying fashion. She said, trying to ignore the phenomenon, “I saw you too.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re the Fasburg girl, aren’t you?”

  She straightened her shoulders. “I am Lara Fasburg. Who are you?”

  He laughed. When he laughed, he did not seem so intimidating. But all too soon the laughter was over, and his eyes were sharp again. He said, staring at her, “What the devil happened to your face?”

  Self-consciously, her hand flew to her face, wondering if she had food there. She used her napkin. Nothing.

  Nicholas turned his head and commanded imperiously, “Mother!”

  Elise Devoncroix took her time moving through the groups of children to reach her son. She stopped to speak to several young ones, and secured a drink for another. She was the Queen of the Pack, and answered no one’s bidding.

  She was a beautiful woman with silver blonde hair that flowed to her waist and the famous Devoncroix blue eyes. She wore an aqua blue caftan shot through with silver, and a single diamond, thirty carats or more, at her neck. She smiled at Lara.

  “Hello, my dear. Are you having a good time?”

  Lara had no chance to respond. Nicholas demanded, “Mother, look at her face. What is that?”

  By this time more than a few of the attendants were staring, and Lara had spread her fingers over most of her face. Her cheeks were flaming. She had no idea what was wrong with her face. She wanted to sink through the flo
or.

  Elise Devoncroix bent close and gently moved Lara’s hand away. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. Gently she touched the scar that bisected Lara’s eyebrow. “It’s a bite mark.”

  Nicholas said, “Can’t you do anything about it?”

  Elise straightened up, a look of pity in her eyes. “I’m afraid not. It’s a human bite. The bacteria in their mouths prevent healing. There’s nothing I can do.”

  Nicholas stared at Lara. “How did such a thing happen?”

  His mother touched his arm, aware of the silence that had filled the room, and the eyes that had turned toward them. “Perhaps now is not the best time,” she said quietly. “The story is complex.”

  Nicholas looked at her, then at Lara. He frowned. “Pity,” he said. “It quite ruins her looks.” And then he moved on.

  It was a casual encounter, and doubtless not meant to wound. But Lara would never forget it. And neither, unfortunately, would any of the other members of the young pack before whom she had been singled out that day. In a very real way, with a single careless comment, Nicholas Devoncroix shaped the woman Lara would grow up to be, and the choices she would inevitably make that would define his future as well. Though he could not have known it, he sealed his fate that day, and the fate of the pack, twenty years before anyone guessed that both were already in danger.

  In their culture, there was no room for weakness, or even the appearance of such. In their human forms they displayed such niceties as tolerance, graciousness and sympathy, much in the same way humans had learned political correctness, but at their core they were still the fierce and savage race that had ruled the African plain and the snow-drenched tundra with nothing but a ruthless determination to survive.