by Donna Boyd
Emory stood. “You’re not worried I’ll try to escape?”
Rolfe spread his hands congenially. “Where would you go?”
A light came on automatically when Emory opened the door to the small bathroom. It was tiled in green glass with a blue wave pattern on one wall. The vessel sink looked to be carved from a single piece of lapis. The toilet and the bidet were onyx. The mirror was highly burnished copper. The faucet was a single gooseneck fountain with motion-sensitive controls. The exposed pipes were all of one piece. When Emory tried to open the back of the toilet he found that it, too, was solid.
He urinated, and the bowl was pink with blood. Afterwards, he was lightheaded and had to lean against the cold blue tiles until he pinpricks of perspiration evaporated from his forehead.
The flushing mechanism was automatic, and a stream of jewel blue liquid soap was dispensed via a motion sensor, as was the gush of warm air from the wall that dried his hands. There was no window, no closet, no cabinet, nothing removable or breakable and nothing that could be fashioned into a weapon. He was not surprised.
When he returned a platter of food had been arranged in the middle of the table—bunches of grapes and rounds of cheese, thick sliced white bread, juicy slabs of rare roast beef. Surrounding it were bowls of ripe black olives, pears, apples and figs. Rolfe was working a corkscrew into a bottle of wine with the distinctive gold Devoncroix label.
“Say what you will of them,” he observed as the cork slid free, “they were masters at the art of making wine.” He passed the cork beneath his nose and took in the scent, closing his eyes appreciatively.
Emory sat down. Rolfe poured a small measure of wine into a tasting glass and passed it to him. “It should breathe,” Emory said.
“No doubt.” Rolfe took a pear from the bowl and tossed it lightly across to the table to Emory. Emory caught it one-handed. “Since you have the knife, do you mind peeling the fruit?”
Emory said nothing.
“Cleverly done, by the way,” Rolfe observed, “but if you try anything like that again I’m afraid I’ll have to break your arm, which would be inconvenient for you and a great deal of trouble for me. So try to be sensible, will you?”
Without taking his eyes off Rolfe, Emory slid the fruit knife he had stolen from the platter out of his sleeve. He sliced the pear in half and spun the knife across the table to Rolfe. He offered Rolfe half of the pear with an open hand.
“You were right,” he said, “I’m not much of an assassin.”
Rolfe took the fruit and bit into it, watching him with a mildly curious expression. “But that was not your intention, was it?”
“In the current circumstances,” replied Emory, “you will understand if I prefer to choose the time and method of my own demise.”
Rolfe nodded. “And you will understand that I cannot allow that. However, I may reconsider once you have finished your tale.”
“And now I am Scheherazade.”
That seemed to amuse him. “More or less. By the way …” He reached inside his jacket and took out a smart phone. “This might interest you.” He tapped a few keys and slid the phone across the table to Emory. “The American government has begun to crumble. Washington is under military rule, public services in New York and Chicago have been suspended, no flights are landing from anywhere outside the country. Riots and mayhem everywhere. It’s really quite terrifying.”
Emory barely glanced at the video scrolling across the screen of the phone. “I am a British citizen residing in Canada with dual citizenship in Italy. It doesn’t concern me.”
He shrugged. “Only in as much as its cause can be traced, directly or indirectly, back to you.” He nodded toward the phone and added, “There’s no need for you to trouble yourself trying to take that from me, in case you were wondering. Feel free to dial anyone you like, or use the Internet. I want to be a good host.”
“Thank you.” Emory stretched out his fingers, which were once again seized by tremors. “Perhaps later.”
Rolfe gave a small shrug and allowed the phone to remain on the table. He reached for a cluster of grapes, and popped one into his mouth. “You should have killed him,” he said. There was no expression whatsoever. He took another grape. “Why couldn’t you simply do as you were told?”
“That,” replied Emory, “was never an option.”
Rolfe looked at him, chewing thoughtfully. “You are a puzzle.”
Emory said, “I know you aren’t with the CIA or Interpol. Do you work for the World Security Organization? What is your authority?”
Rolfe simply smiled. “I need no authority.” He gestured gracefully with one hand toward the platter of food. “May I serve you something?”
Emory glanced over the contents of the platter. “Meat,” he said, “and cheese.”
“Excellent choice.” Rolfe used the fruit knife to slice the wheel of cheese, and to transfer it with a portion of meat to a small plate. “Protein will restore your neural function.” He passed the plate to Emory. “Eat,” he invited. “Enjoy. And when you are ready, I pray you continue. These Devoncroix. They fascinate me. Aside from their wine ….” He lifted the bottle in a small salute. “They seem to be a most remarkable and unpredictable people. Tell me what you know. Did you eventually meet them?”
Emory tore the meat with his fingers, wrapped it around a piece of cheese, and put it into his mouth. He held out his glass for wine. Rolfe filled it.
“I did,” he said at length. His eyes were steady on those of the other man. “I did eventually meet them.”
_________________________
Chapter Ten
I was thirteen before I came to know the Devoncroix as anything other than names in a history book. They crossed the prow of my life and, as it always is with them, left everything profoundly changed. In many ways this was for the better. In most, it was not.
Despite my burgeoning adolescence, I was at this point still young enough, and protected enough, to believe that—all my education to the contrary—our idyllic existence in Venice was a normal way of life and, because it was normal, secure and unthreatened. I knew who they were, of course. But until what I like to call The Summer of The Devoncroix, I didn’t really know them.
During the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, when Elise and Alexander Devoncroix began to organize the pack into what was to become the most powerful consortium of financial, scientific, commercial and natural resources the world has ever known, the Fasburgs were the only clan who maintained independence. Because their small principality was the source of almost unlimited wealth in the form of uranium, coal and—perhaps most importantly—a certain rare mineral essential to the proper functioning of what we now know as orbiting communications satellites, they had little motivation to join the global pack initiative, and the Devoncroix had every reason to want them to. It took decades for an agreement to be reached, but in the end the Fasburgs ceded political control of Auchenstein to the humans—under, one assumes, the discreet guidance of the Devoncroix—and entered into a financial agreement with the pack whose terms were hugely favorable to the Fasburgs. Resentments over the finer terms of the agreement, though never resolved to the complete satisfaction of either party, remained disguised by the veneer of polite civility. The Fasburgs still, for the most part, lived outside the pack, far more comfortable in the society of humans than in that of their own kind. The Devoncroix, for all practical purposes, ignored them. But now and again, perhaps to keep up appearances, perhaps simply to assert their authority, the leaders of the pack would make a grand gesture in which the Fasburgs were expected not only to participate but to welcome. Such was the case in 1983, when the leaders of the pack decided to favor the Fasburgs with a long and festive visit at their summer home.
The Fasburgs owned a small island in the Aegean called Tyche, and each summer the entire clan would reunite there for several weeks or a month at a time—aunts, uncles, grandchildren, cousins. Free from the restraints of schedules and
instructors, Lara and I ran as wild as little goats all over the white cliffs and fragrant fields, exploring brilliant blue pool caves, splashing in the surf, building castles from seashells. Sometimes Lara would join in the night games with her cousins, but not very often, which was disappointing because I liked to watch the young wolves running and tumbling and picking playful fights with one another along the beach. I liked to watch and pretend I was one of them, and later advise Lara how she might play better next time, or outwit her bigger cousin Marcel, or run faster than Ursa. Not surprisingly, she didn’t find it nearly as much fun listening to my critiques as I did formulating them.
Often the prince and princess would entertain their human friends or business associates on Tyche, and we would dine in the big open air pavilion with the sea breeze billowing white curtains and tossing about the flames of torches while the sun set in brilliant colors over the Aegean. The adults would drink ouzo and smoke Turkish cigarettes and laugh and dance far into the night. Sometimes they swam naked in the moonlit turquoise ocean, and made love on the beach. It was all very abandoned and thrilling , but civilized. I never realized just how civilized our uninhibited little island of Tyche was, until suddenly it was not.
Of course the prince resented the Devoncroix’s proposed visit from the moment it was announced, but there was never a question of refusing. To deny hospitality, no matter how great the provocation, was simply not an option in their culture—not to mention the fact that, in this case, it would have been impolitic. It was implicitly understood that there was, of course, an ulterior motive in this visit, but if the prince and princess knew what it was they did not share the information with us.
They arrived on a bright blue Aegean morning in a magnificent forty-foot, mahogany-prowed yacht that flew the blue and gold flag of the family crest—“bloody arrogance,” muttered the prince when he saw it—and whose hold was loaded with enough wine, caviar, Kobe beef, French cheese, and Mediterranean seafood to sustain a small nation for the summer. We all came down to the beach to greet them—the prince and princess, the aunts and uncles and cousins, and the small army of servants and support personnel that were required to properly entertain dignitaries of such import. Although we had been told the exact time and place to assemble, I had insisted that Lara and I be there two hours early, so that we could watch them approach.
I had never seen anything so marvelous in my life as that yacht, emerging out of the blue horizon like a gift from the gods and growing bigger, shinier and more impressive with every moment. Brass glinted and sparked. The hull glowed whiter than the Greek sun, and I was mesmerized by the brilliant gold half moon crest painted on the side. These were the leaders of the pack. I had read about them in history books. They were responsible for shaping the world we knew today. They did not have to work very hard to impress me.
“Papa doesn’t like them,” Lara said, holding on to my hand as the great boat lowered its anchor and a veritable fleet of small tenders was dispatched across the water to greet it.
“I know,” I said, and added importantly, “it’s all because they want the Fasburg’s money.”
Lara replied darkly, her gaze fixed on the yacht, “Not all.” I wanted to question this, but then she wound her arm around mine and snuggled in closer, as though for protection. “I don’t like them either.”
I reminded her that the unhappy events of the Night Run at Castle Devoncroix had been a long time ago, and all involved had been children. That was no reason to hold a grudge against the entire family.
She looked unhappy and ill at ease. “It’s not just that,” she said. “Can’t you smell it? They’re so … intense. So loup garou.”
I laughed and tugged at her hair where it tumbled over her shoulders. “So are you, silly.”
I suppose, in looking back, that her unhappiness must have increased at that, but I was far too occupied with the activities on the yacht to notice. I bitterly regretted the fact that Prinze-Papa had assured me binoculars would not be appropriate for the occasion, and had confiscated mine the minute he saw them.
As the dignitaries boarded the first tender I gently unwound Lara’s arm from mine and stepped away. “You should go stand with your cousins,” I told her.
She stared at me. “Why?”
“Because it’s not respectful to be here with me when they arrive.” I had been doing a good deal of reading on the subject of pack protocol since I learned we were to be hosts to such illustrious guests. “They’re the leaders of the pack and I’m—“
“A member of our family.” The princess came up behind us and placed a hand upon each of our heads. I twisted around to look at her and she smiled at me complacently. Her hair was upswept into a Grecian knot, and she was wearing a gauzy sea green caftan that highlighted her nipples and the contours of her waist, and turned her eyes to emeralds. Without shifting her gaze or her expression, she stretched out her fingers and the prince came into them, dapper in sailing whites and a sea blue silk ascot. They leaned into each other, arms around their waists, free hands embracing Lara and me in a perfect portrait. I swelled with pride and contentment.
But I privately thought the prince should have taken the tender to the yacht to greet the pack leader. It was protocol, after all.
The first tender was boarded and the second loaded with the priority luggage of its occupants, and my mouth dropped open as the small boats grew close enough for me to recognize some of the occupants. I nudged Lara hard in the ribs. “Look, it’s—”
She gave me a quelling look. “I know who it is.”
I snapped my mouth shut and tried hard not to show my lack of sophistication again. The werewolf who had caught my eye was a rock star of gargantuan proportions; I had been collecting his recordings for years without knowing he was one of them. Next to him was a face I recognized from the BBC, and a movie star who had won three Academy Awards. Over the course of the next few days I would meet captains of industry and technology, world-famous athletes, an opera star, a Nobel prize winner, a statesman whose photograph had been on the cover of Time magazine only the month before. Lupinotuum, all. As I have said, until that point I don’t think I truly understood who they were, these grand, outrageous creatures among whom I had lived so complacently, nor how far and wide their influence was spread.
And none of them would impress me quite so much as Nicholas Devoncroix.
As we watched the tenders approach the beach, a tall blond youth on board the yacht shed his clothes and dived overboard. The prince stifled an exasperated sound that was half laugh, half groan.
“Behold,” he said, “the heir designee to the pack.”
Unlike the human monarchy, the reins of power in loup garou culture pass to the youngest in the line of descent, which prevents the occasional embarrassing incidence of the old ruler outliving his heir, and always ensures strong and vigorous leadership. Nicholas was the last of the progeny of Elise and Alexander Devoncroix, and although he had not been officially named, everyone knew he was being groomed to take over the pack. If he proved himself worthy, he would be ceremonially anointed at age thirty, and would co-rule the pack until his father either stepped aside in his favor, or died.
But on that day, when the Devoncroix first anchored their yacht off the coast of Tyche, he was just a sixteen-year-old show-off, and I have to admit I was fascinated as I watched him plow through the water, clearly intending to outrace the passenger motorboat to shore. A cheer rose up from the crowd on the beach, urging him on. I was hard put not to add my voice to it as the wake created by the youth began to outdistance that of the motor boat. Even the driver of the boat, throttling up the engine, could not help but spare a grin of encouragement as the sleek blond head, diving in and out of the water like a dolphin, began to pull steadily ahead of him. By the time he reached the shallow green-gold water of shore, a good ten meters ahead of the boat, the crowd on the beach was roaring approval, and I could hardly contain my own grin.
He stood and shook out his long light
hair like a dog, then smoothed back the water from his face with his hands, wading toward us with the effortless stride of a god of old. One of the most distinguishing characteristics of the loup garou is that they do not develop body or facial hair, although the hair on their heads grows at an extraordinarily rapid rate and, if they choose to wear it short, must be barbered every day. You’ll notice that most of the nudes painted by Renaissance masters have no body hair, and often are graced with long, flowing curls. I don’t know whether the models were werewolf. But I know the artists were.
Nicholas Devoncroix put me in mind of one of those Renaissance paintings as he approached the beach, lithe, lean and perfectly formed. He came first to our party, as was only proper, and the tender that bore his parents to shore was just docking when he bowed to the prince.
“Sir,” he said. “The compliments of my father, the leader of the pack.”
I could hear the dour amusement in the prince’s voice as he replied, “You might have saved yourself a swim, young Nicholas, and allowed your father to present his own compliments.”
The sky blue eyes of Nicholas Devoncroix twinkled in the sunlight, but his face remained properly sober. “That would not have been nearly so interesting, sir.”
The prince replied ruefully, “I suppose not. Kindly make yourself known to my mate …” Nicholas bowed again. “And my daughter Lara …” A slight nod in her direction. “And Emory Hilliford, a human.”
He looked at me, and, because I was thirteen, my eyes went, inevitably and uncontrollably, to his genitalia—which was, as I recall, somewhat impressive. He noticed, and grinned, and clapped me on the shoulder. “Never mind, little human,” he said, “yours will grow.”
My face flamed and I was speechless, and he bowed again to the prince and princess and sauntered off down the beach, toward the tender that was just tying off on shore. Lara said, quite clearly, twining her hand about mine, “Forget him, Emory. He is a prick.”