Renegade

by Donna Boyd

  Lara, even as a child, enjoyed none of that savagery. She surrendered to her wolf form only as necessary for the exercise that Teacher insisted would keep her muscles strong, and sometimes to amuse Emory, but in her opinion everything that was interesting to do was done in human form. She might have enjoyed the Night Run under ordinary circumstances; after Nicholas had made a spectacle of her at the tea she knew what would happen to her. Nonetheless, she joined the others for the Night Run but stood far at the back of the pack, trying to stay out of notice. For a time she thought she might succeed. The others were so excited about the coming adventure, and so puffed up with their new sense of self importance, that they could barely focus on anything until Nicholas Devoncroix strode through the crowd, quelling the most exuberant youngsters with a look, and sprang lightly to the top of the calling rock.

  The moon was low in the sky and the air was blue with its reflected light. The calling rock had been chosen not only for its high visibility but for its location on the northern side of the compound where a steady breeze always blew. The wind buffeted Nicholas’s white changing robe and combed back his long hair as he turned to face his young pack, infusing the moment with all the drama it deserved. In twenty years, he would be facing the pack who ruled the world. In twenty years, they would remember this moment. Even Lara, standing far at the back and doing her best to make herself small, felt the thrill of excitement that charged the crowd.

  Nicholas discarded his garment and the wind carried it away like a great white bird as he raised his arms, tossed back his head, and lifted his voice in a single long high note of ululation that incited the primal center of the brains of every werewolf who heard it. The glow of his Change was yellow white and the electric current it sent through the crowd was vital, immediate and irresistible. Lara felt it in her skin, in the static swirling charge of her hair, in the tingling of her throat and her teeth and her toes, and she could no more resist the magnetic pull of her nature than could anyone else. The glory of the change—that sweet electric instant when light and dark, sound and color, breath and wind are one, when one’s essence is neither wolf nor human but sparks of pure thought, pure wonder, the simple rapture of it—was the only thing Lara would care to remember about that night. That, and perhaps the moment that Nicholas stood for the first time upon the calling rock with the wind streaming through his hair and tossing about his robe, and he raised his arms to the pack.

  The energy of a hundred young werewolves only seconds after the change was wild and uncontrolled. They reveled in their new and powerful forms. They tested their muscles, they snapped their teeth, they chased each other and knocked each other to the ground. Lara was quickly trampled in the melee. She tried to run but someone caught her tail. Another tore a patch of hair from her flank. Another grabbed her neck. Strong hind feet battered her face, sharp teeth pierced her forearm. Another set of teeth tore at her ear. Lara had never fought in wolf form, and was not very skilled at it. She fended them off as best she could but it seemed the entire pack wanted a shot at her, charging, nipping, chasing her down. She yelped in pain and showed her throat in surrender, but still they jeered at her, feinting and charging, nipping and snapping, enjoying the game.

  Nicholas watched with cool blue eyes until he grew bored, but he would not intervene for anything less than the spurt of arterial blood. Eventually he turned to run, and the pack, of course, flowed after him. Lara, bruised and whimpering, bleeding from a dozen tiny wounds, turned and limped away.

  __________________

  Chapter Eight

  To be invited to dine in the private quarters of the leaders of the pack was no small thing. Behind those luxuriously appointed, sound-proof walls fortunes had been made, governments had fallen, assassinations plotted. It was well known throughout the pack that the Devoncroix and the Fasburgs had been financial and personal rivals for centuries; it was in fact rumored—although not widely believed—that the only person in the pack whose personal fortune could approach that of Alexander Devoncroix was Geof Fasburg. Otherwise he would never have had the temerity to conduct himself as carelessly as he did, flaunting about the ridiculous title of “prince” and virtually making his own rules when it came to both his business and his social affairs. It was therefore unsurprising that of all the dignitaries and potentates in attendance on the occasion of the heir designee’s Ascension Festival, the Fasburgs should be singled out for attention. Firstly, it was honorable. A wise leader will always give credit where credit is due. Secondly, it was practical. Alexander Devoncroix knew the value of keeping one’s friends close, and one’s enemies closer.

  There was of course no question of the Fasburgs accepting the invitation. This was, in essence, why they had crossed an ocean for the occasion.

  The princess wore a silk caftan of peacock blue embroidered with colorful tropical birds in glittering jewel-toned threads around the wide sleeves and hem. The prince wore a loose changing robe in gradients of pewter, silver and white. Because the changing of forms within the boundaries of castle Devoncroix was such a casual, almost wanton thing, the fashions of the outside world were quickly discarded for more practical one-piece garments, or, when appropriate, no garments at all. And it would be very bad form indeed to accept an invitation to dine with the leaders of the pack in their private quarters attired as a human.

  They were welcomed graciously, the ritual amenities were exchanged, and a cocktail of oxblood wine fortified with brandy was consumed. They stood on the stone walled balcony outside the Devoncroix suite at dusk with a strong cold wind tossing about the hundred thousand complex scents that was the pure green wilderness, and they watched the puffs of light and tasted the sweet electric smoke that was the Change of a hundred young werewolves. The horizon was lit with peach and aqua and gold and electric blue and rose and purple; a hundred colors, a hundred scents, the future of the pack painted on the sky. In some places in the world, humans still worshipped the mystical glow of those lights.

  They turned out of the wind and into the warmth of the pack leaders’ living quarters, a vast and elegant room with gold-leaf walls and a high-domed ceiling frescoed in the manner of the old palais in Lyon. The carpets were hand woven and depicted magnificent scenes of the pack’s glorious past: the Gathering of 1202, in which clans from across the globe filled the Plain of Salisbury, the union of Caan and Ansal, parents of the modern pack, the birth of Romulus and Remus, the first reading of Eudora’s Vow. The furniture was silk brocade, and muraled panels decorated the walls.

  Their hosts, the two strongest werewolves in the pack, filled the room with a charge of electric energy that actually raised the indoor temperature a couple of degrees and, to sensitive werewolf ears, hummed like music in the air. As is customary with long time mates, they had grown to resemble each other over the years; their movements and their thoughts in easy synchronization. Elise, tall and svelte, had ivory skin and silver blonde hair that rippled past her hips, braided this night with a long silver thread. Her eyes, like her mate’s, were glacier blue. Alexander was lean muscled and sharp featured, broad of chest and quick of gaze. His rich platinum hair swept back from a high forehead and fell like silk around his shoulders. When he moved around a room, the very air through which he passed seemed to crackle.

  Alexander served the prince’s favorite Armagnac, and Elise complimented the princess on her daughter, as was proper. The prince admired the young heir, and congratulations were offered regarding his early Ascension. They ate cheese and grapes and pretended to be friends.

  Later they would run, and there would be no pretense.

  They dined at a table set with heavy silver and beeswax candles, and damask napkins embroidered in gold with the Devoncroix crest. There was cold salmon and cream sauce, followed by crystal bowls filled with a delicate broth trimmed with caviar. There were haunches of meat seared crisp on the outside, wild and bloody on the inside, and steaming bread mounded with soft cheese and ripe fruit. The Devoncroix wine was rich with the taste of p
lums and wild honey and the black earth of the Loire.

  Alexander said, “I heard you’ve taken in a human boy.”

  The princess smiled and sipped her wine. The goblet was silver, which kept the wine at the perfect temperature, and lined with fine crystal, to preserve the taste. “I have always enjoyed human charities.”

  Elise returned a similar smile and a regal nod of her head. “How surprised they would all be if they knew how much of their civilization they owe to you and your family, my dear.”

  The prince agreed, “Our dedication to the betterment of the human population has a long and honored tradition. But of course you know that.” His tone was mild, and not a flicker of expression crossed his face. Nor did any change of demeanor register upon the face of the queen, or her spouse.

  “How long do you intend to keep him?” inquired Alexander.

  “I hadn’t given the matter any thought.”

  “I should be careful if I were you.” The queen used her knife to cut the bloody meat, and took a portion between her small white teeth. “Humans can be quiet unpredictable, and treacherous when one least expects it.”

  The prince nodded to her politely. “So I have heard. Mine is quite bright.”

  Alexander seemed surprised. “So you intend to educate him? To what purpose, may I ask—aside from your own amusement, of course?”

  The prince took up his own goblet, regarding the pack leader pleasantly. “It has been done for less worthy reasons, if memory serves. The young human girl you used to squire about Paris in your youth—what a scandal that was. She was educated to the point of being allowed into the very heart of the palais, if I recall.”

  The temperature of the room remained unchanged, the air infused with nothing more than congeniality and dark wine, and in the brief silence not even the pulse of a heartbeat altered. The queen of the pack took a sip of her wine, touched the heavy napkin to her lips, and replied, “We were exceedingly fond of the child. Her death was a tragedy.”

  “Of course it was,” murmured the prince. “My apologies for bringing up unpleasant memories.”

  “She was also treacherous,” added the queen with no emotion whatsoever. “It is their nature. I advise you again to have a care.”

  “Perhaps I shall have better luck,” the prince said, “having taken mine in from such a young age. At any rate, it will be an interesting experiment.”

  “It will indeed.” Alexander’s gaze was easy, almost disinterested, upon the other man. “And what about your lovely daughter? You aren’t concerned he will defile her?”

  The prince replied simply, “I’ll snap his neck and drop him into the Canal first.”

  “The sexual impulses of young human males are notoriously difficult to control,” Elise pointed out.

  The prince smiled. “I’ve often observed the same of young males of our species.”

  There was light laughter, and Elise moved the topic toward the activities that were planned for the remainder of the week. A rich cake was brought in, wrapped in dark chocolate and glazed with spun sugar, followed by a collection of pastries stuffed with sweet cream and cherries. They drank dark port and strolled through the corridors of the private sections of the castle, ending at last in the Grand Gallery, where the greatest art treasures of the pack—indeed the world—were stored.

  There were sculptures by Michelangelo unknown to the common world, and treatises by Galileo that had never been seen by the public eye. Floating inside a vacuum-sealed glass case was a fairly sophisticated drawing of a lupinotuum in Change on a parchment believed to be over thirteen thousand years old. It was illuminated by a narrow-bandwidth light that allowed only the most harmless rays to penetrate, and it had never been exposed to human breath. There were archetypical drawings of inventions dating back two thousand years, blueprints of ancient coliseums and temple cities, displays of carvings and artifacts from the Ancient Ones that had been discovered when Castle Devoncroix was first opened, and that were so old they defied even the most sophisticated dating technology of their race.

  Alexander said, “How are you finding your first visit to Alaska, Geof?”

  “A bit cold for my taste. However …” the prince stopped before a magnificent floor-to ceiling-painting. “I do envy you your art collection.”

  The painting was legendary among their kind. For generations pack leaders had protected it, preserved it, fought for it. It was considered the most valuable possession the pack owned, and was well over five thousand years old. It depicted the mating of a wild eyed, savage-mouthed human woman and a yellow-eyed wolf against a backdrop of cascading history—human wars and wolf-formed corpses, humans torn asunder in the jaws of wolves, wolves at rest in verdant meadows, humans struggling to survive in filthy cities, The sky was filled with the ghostly images of creatures half human, half wolf, so cleverly depicted among the clouds that their features seemed to change from human to wolf even as one looked at them, and like gods of old they serenely regarded the scene below. The painting was called The Conception, and was traditionally believed to be symbolic of the origin of their species.

  Their spouses strolled onward toward another gallery, talking quietly, while the two men stood solemnly and respectfully before the painting. “Remarkable,” said the prince at last. “One cannot help but feel small in its presence.”

  Alexander said, “I am always struck by the savagery in the eyes of the human, and the seduction of her smile.”

  “An accurate depiction of the nature of the species, I should say.”

  The silence between them was like a breath half drawn.

  The prince said, still gazing at the painting, “How odd it would be if this painting were proven to be, after all this thousands of years, more than a symbolic rendering of our origins. If it were, instead, a simple statement of fact.”

  “Hardly the first time the possibility has been the subject of a philosophical debate. It is of course, physically impossible. Wolf and human cannot mate. And even if they could, their DNA is too disparate to produce offspring.”

  The prince gave a careless lift of his shoulders. “Today, perhaps. Who can say what conditions existed a millennia ago?”

  Alexander’s tone was perfectly neutral. “You may be right. But it is not a question that will be answered tonight.” He gestured toward the adjacent corridor. “Shall we join our mates?”

  Geof did not move, and his gaze remained fixed upon the painting. “What very great fools we make of ourselves,” he observed softly, “when we try to contain the uncontainable.” He turned and met Alexander’s gaze calmly. “I know your secret. I can’t imagine how you ever thought I would not.”

  The temperature in the room dropped a degree, but nothing in Alexander Devoncroix’s voice, or in his eyes, was altered. “I have imagined nothing. The détente you and I have formed has always been a matter of consent, not coercion.”

  The prince inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Well said. A fitting thing, I think, that we should share this secret. If you consider it, there has been a Devoncroix and there has been a Fasburg at every great crossroads in history. What we face today is no different.”

  Alexander replied, with eyes like stone, “I stand ready to play my role. Are you?”

  Prince Fasburg turned back to contemplate the painting, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his head slightly upturned to better examine the nuances of the artwork. “I can’t help but speculate how the pack would react if they knew how far from grace their leader has fallen—far enough, in fact, to corrupt and endanger our entire race. We are a people united by arrogance and an unshakeable belief in our own superiority. The Devoncroix regime has built an empire by exploiting those characteristics. How quickly, I wonder, would it unravel should its foundation prove to be unsound?”

  Alexander said, “Fortunately, this is a debate that need not concern us now.”

  Prince Fasburg looked at him, his eyes cold. “The mighty Devoncroix have committed a crime against nature a
nd the pack. You are destined to fall.”

  Alexander’s met him with an expression as hard as ice-carved rock. “If I fall, the pack falls with me. Is that what you want?”

  “If it were,” replied the prince, “we would not be standing here discussing the matter.”

  “I will protect my people,” Alexander said, lowly.

  And the prince answered, in a tone that was mild but steady, “You must know that there is only one who will fight more fiercely for the welfare of this pack than you, and it is I.”

  Alexander met his gaze. The air was charged yet static, shimmering and hard, as though encased in ice. Alexander said, “There is a marvelous hot spring, not two hours run from here. Let us collect our spouses, and take to the night. I find I’m quite in the mood to run.”

  The prince did not flinch, and his smile was cool. “Excellent,” he replied. “So am I.”

  No one knows the details of a private run of the pack leader; no one can guess what may or may not have occurred. The prince never spoke of it, nor did his mate. But there was blood on his garment when it was discarded the next morning.

  One might speculate the same was true of the garment of the leader of the pack.

  __________________________

  Chapter Nine

  The Present

  Rolfe’s expression was thoughtful. “So Fasburg knew, even then.”

  Emory said, “I later came to realize that there was very little the prince did not know.” He glanced around the room. “I would like to use the lavatory.”

  Rolfe gave an apologetic tilt of his head. “Of course. I’m afraid I’ve been inconsiderate. There’s a small door there, beside the bookshelf.”