He raised his eyebrows. “Which is more than enough reason to see it?”
“He has been too long among the mortals. He has forgotten what delight there is to be had in their amusements—such as they are.”
The man leaned in. “You are planning something.”
Her eyes slid sideways to Julian. “Leave us.”
Julian was only too pleased to obey. He slid from the high table, making for the safety of the shadows at the corners of the room. From his vantage point, he scanned the corridor. No one looked in his direction at all. Across the room, he spotted the brown-haired woman, topping up the wineglass of another reveller.
Julian picked his way around the room to join her.
“Still here? You are either brave or foolish.” She walked so quickly down the corridor to the kitchen Julian had to jog to keep up with her. “You’ve had one lucky escape. You cannot count on another.”
“There’s no way you can come with me?” Julian asked.
She stopped. Her fingers clenched the handle of the jug she held. “None.”
Julian looked back at the dining hall. “And the other guests?”
Her shoulders stiffened. “I could not warn them in time. They have eaten and drunk the food of this house. They are lost.”
Just like him that first night in Paris. Julian saw again the trepidation in Pip’s face, melting to relief as he saw his son. There would be no relief for the families of those present in the dining hall, no joy, nothing but a mystery that would never be solved. “Has no one ever left?”
“Not a single person, not in all of the time I’ve been here. Which, before you ask, is long enough.” She balled up a fist. “It makes me sick to think of it.”
Julian tilted his head. “Do you think that would work?”
“What?”
“Being sick.”
She stared at him.
Julian tugged his collar. His fathers insisted that bodily functions were not discussed publicly, but she’d mentioned them first… “They’d have eaten but not ingested. Might that make a difference?”
She followed his gaze, frowning at the occupied crowd. “It would be a long shot. Eating so much as a crumb is enough to trap you here.”
“But it’s our only shot.”
She pressed her lips together. “You’d have to be very foolish to try this. They go in for revenge in a big way.”
“My schoolmasters considered me remarkably foolish.” Julian tugged his collar. “This is the one time it might be an advantage.”
Her mouth flickered into a brief smile. “All right. I’m in. Let’s see what we can find by way of an emetic.”
19
The cook ladled out her mysterious concoction to the line of servers, not giving any sign of noticing the woman rifling through the cupboards only metres from her. None of the waiting servers met Julian’s eyes, even when the handle of the cupboard he opened gave way at his tug, and he fell backwards.
Under some spell? Or deliberately avoiding noticing? Julian dusted himself off. Better not question this unexpected stroke of luck.
The woman rejoined him. “Found anything?”
“Only this.” Julian held out a grimy bottle of vinegar. “It smells rancid.”
“It will have to do.” The woman uncorked the bottle and divided its contents between two pitchers. She picked up one. “Let’s go.”
Julian did not reach for the second pitcher. “What if we’ve got this wrong? We could make someone too ill.”
“Death would be better than what awaits them here.” She took three steps before she realised Julian wasn’t following. “Look at me. How old do you think I am?”
Julian tugged his collar. “My father told me that a gentleman never commented on a woman’s age unless it was to wish her a happy birthday and even then, on no account to mention numbers.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m over a hundred, at least.”
“But that is—” He was on the brink of accusing a lady of lying.
“Impossible?” Her smile was grim. “Time is malleable in their place. I’ve counted ninety-three winters pass, and yet here I am, in very good health for a woman in her hundreds.”
One never contradicted a lady. “You are indeed.”
“I will likely continue to be a woman in good health in her thousands, but if we can spare any of those poor souls the same fate, we must.”
Julian looked at the pitcher. Purposefully poisoning someone was a definite no—but so was letting someone become a fairy prisoner. “What’s your name?”
She blinked. “My name?”
“If we are going to commit a serious misdemeanour, we should be introduced.” He held out his hand. “Julian Westaway, your humble servant.”
“Rosemary.” Her eyes were misty. “My name is Rosemary.”
Julian offered his handkerchief. “Have I upset you?”
She waved him away. “It’s been a long time since anyone cared enough to ask my name.” She took a deep breath. “Come on.”
They split up, taking half the dining room each. Julian looked for those wearing modern clothing and topping up their drinks with his spiked brew. He poured the last of his pitcher into the young gendarme’s cup with hands so clammy he almost dropped the pitcher. He pressed himself back against the wall to watch. Would it work? Or had they made a serious mistake?
Prison could not be much worse than boarding school. At least he would be spared the agony of seeing his father’s disappointment in him because he would not see Pip, ever again—
Across the hall, the charcoal seller jumped to his feet and ran for the garden, followed closely by the fashionably dressed woman. The gendarme muttered, ‘Excusez moi,’ to his companion, and staggered towards the door. Julian, following, saw him sway to a bush. The sound of retching followed.
Julian approached hesitantly. “Are you all right?”
The man said something in French that Julian didn’t catch.
The language barrier again. Julian offered his handkerchief to the woman. More people staggered out of the house. It seemed like all those who wearing modern clothing were assembled there.
“What is the meaning of this?” The antlered man towered behind him. His voice would have made an iceberg shiver.
The fashionable woman pressed her hands over her mouth. “Le diable!”
“Êtes-vous…?” The gendarme’s eyes widened. He made an attempt to sound strong even as his knees shook. “C’est quoi ça!?”
The enchantment had worn off in a big way. Julian backed away carefully. The man stood half in shadows, the dark emphasizing his pale skin in such a way it almost looked as if he wore not merely antlers but the skull of a deer—
“Leaving so soon?” The flame-haired queen spoke, her words a caressing summer breeze. “Surely you don’t mean to go?”
The fear in the people’s eyes dulled as they gazed at her. Their mouths went slack, limbs relaxing.
“Don’t listen to her. She’s enchanting you!” Why had he not paid more attention in French classes? “N’ecoutez pas. Elle n’est pas bonne.”
Her smile sharpened. “How unkind. We have been so hospitable to you.” She darted her gaze back, eyes catching his.
Julian, caught by surprise, stared. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. How could he suspect her of anything unpleasant? She was loveliness itself. Julian tugged at his collar, causing the metal key around his neck to brush against his skin.
The iron was cold, so cold it bit. Julian blinked. The woman stared at him, the softness gone from her gaze. Beautiful still, but cold, proud beauty, wielded like a knife. She was even lovelier like this—but Julian could not ignore her danger.
He jerked backwards. “We must run! Um—” He racked his brains. “Allez!”
He met blank stares.
The woman chuckled. “You must do better than that, my dear child.”
Julian sucked in a sharp breath. Non-existent hackles raised. Better was it? His fingers clutched
the key at his neck. Neither father would approve, but all he had left was his other self.
Fabric ripped, helped by sharp, snapping teeth. Cold night air ruffled fur, and the wolf stood in the Paris night. Shouts of terror filled the air, but he did not hear running feet. He leaped towards the gendarme. If he fled, the others would follow.
A snarling wolf did not require translation. The gendarme ran.
The wolf darted back, herding the remaining people towards the gate, away from the false safety of the house. They followed the gendarme as he knew they would. The fashionable woman stumbled, his teeth snapping at her heels. There was power in this, knowing himself the superior predator—
Instinct warned him. The wolf dodged aside, an arrow glancing off the stones where he’d stood.
The man with the antlers held a bow in his hand, his smile gloating. “It has been long since we hunted, my dear.”
“Indeed, my love.” An attendant placed a bow in the queen’s outstretched hand. Some of her companions transformed into horses, others into hounds, still others into hunters.
He did not stay to see if there was a logic to their transformations. The wolf fled.
There was no sign of the people from the house as the wolf barrelled down the road, but he caught their scent and turned in the opposite direction. There were few carriages on the road this late. He gloried in the wideness of the road, the darkness of the night.
The sound of hooves behind him, followed by the twang of a bowstring. He wove to one side, then the other before darting down a thin alley between two buildings.
The hounds continued after him, but his other pursuers were forced to slow. “We’ll catch him up.” The antlered man sounded unconcerned. “He cannot outrun us.”
The wolf concentrated on staying ahead of the hounds snapping teeth. The thinking part of him chewed over those words. Cannot outrun? What did that leave?
He changed directions, turning down a sideroad. A high wall ran along one side. He remembered the cat’s trick and scanned for something that would let him scale it.
Success! A crate had been left in an alley. He scrambled up, climbing first to the top of the wall, then leaping for the roof of an outhouse. He needed hands for the next step, climbing the emergency ladder that took him all the way to the roof.
The hounds yapped at the base of the wall. A few made it onto the crate but no further. Why didn’t they transform? Controlled by the desire of their leaders?
Once on the roof, he settled back onto four paws, wanting the wolf’s agility and fearlessness. He shot across the roof tops, putting as much distance between himself and the hunt as he could.
An inhuman screech ripped through the air. A scream? No—the train station. The wolf directed his flight towards it. He clambered down another ladder, landing in a garden on two feet. Julian peered over the fence. No sign of pursuit. He recognised the street as one he’d walked down with Scott. He unlatched the gate and slunk out of the garden as his other self.
His nose twitched. Roses—in winter?
He realised just in time to leap out of the way. The spear clattered onto the stones, the hunt rising out of the side street they’d hidden in. They’d anticipated his direction?
No time for tricks now. He flew over the cobbled stone of the streets, the sound of hooves fast behind him. These streets were still busy, even at night. He wove past a carriage, heard the horses whinny, hooves striking the stones as they reared, the startled exclamation of their driver, the relentless clatter of his pursuers.
An arrow whizzed past, so close it grazed his fur. It struck the carriage ahead of him, clattering onto the stones. As he leaped over it, his thinking self noted the stone tip.
Who used arrows with stone tips? Come to think of it, who used arrows? Wasn’t hunting done with guns these days?
The wolf growled. Distraction was fatal. He must concentrate on outrunning his pursuers.
The metal key thudded against his chest.
Metal. He’d snapped out of the woman’s spell when the metal brushed his skin. The iron horseshoe to keep the fair folk at bay.
Instinct screamed. He leaped, twisting mid-air to avoid the hooves swinging down at him. Antlers grazed his side, but he regained his legs and was off, full tilt down another alley.
His lungs burned, a dull, growing heat. The wolf slowed his pace. He needed to lick his wounds and regain his breath, but the hunt would be on him. He padded forward on feet that were raw.
Did the hunt wait on the other side of the alley? He scented the air, caught a familiar tinge of cologne. The pack leader! The wolf darted forward.
The pack leader walked down the side of the road, the lone one at his side.
The wolf caught the rattle of hooves behind him. The hunt close on his heels. The pack leader would be caught up in it.
He could not allow it.
There is one chance, the thinking part of him said. The only one you have.
The wolf dived forward, across the road. He caught the pack leader’s sleeve in his jaws and tugged.
“Good heavens! Where did that beast come from?” Dawson raised his walking stick.
“Leave him.” Cross looked across the street. “We have bigger problems.”
The wolf jerked the pack leader’s sleeve and growled. Run!
The pack leader understood. He shoved Dawson in the direction the wolf led him and sprinted. The wolf led them through the traffic, across the intersection towards the railway lines.
Metal horseshoes scraped over metal. Wood creaked. A carriage shuddered to a halt, the lead pair only inches from the man with the antlers. Other carriages slowed to a stop, forcing the hunt to weave around them.
An advantage! The stopped traffic blocked the hunter’s view of the wolf and his companions. By the time they regrouped, the wolf stood in the middle of the railroad tracks, the pack leader and the lone one herded out of sight behind a packing crate.
The approaching horses slowed. The antlered man looked from the railway tracks crossing the ground between them to the wolf, his eyes as hard as ice. “You escape—this time.”
The wolf stared back. To flinch would be to admit weakness, and the antlered man could not know that it was not bravado that caught him out in the open like this, but exhaustion. He could not move.
Light glinted over the antlered man’s shoulder, soft but growing stronger. It ignited as it spread, catching the fair folk in its blaze. Their shapes were illuminated, like the shadows left after staring hard at a bright object. And then they were gone.
The wolf did not move. He could not—he was too footsore and weary.
Rock crunched behind him, the pack leader picking his way over the train tracks. “We seem to have very different definitions of discreet.”
The wolf shut his eyes, letting the world slip away. The pack leader would manage everything.
20
Julian lay on the bed of his hotel room. The cold sheets soothed his aching muscles. His limbs felt heavy, except his feet and hands which throbbed.
The door creaked open. He did not turn his head to see who entered. He did not care to move ever again.
“Awake?” There was no bite in Cross’s question. “I brought lunch.”
Julian’s body protested even the thought of sitting up. His stomach growled. “I am too sore to eat.”
“Even for soup?” Cross set the bowl he carried down with a clatter.
Julian caught the scent of it, and his aching muscles lost their battle. He heaved himself up slowly.
He did not remember putting his nightshirt on. Nor did he remember the bandages wrapping his hands or his feet.
“Spoon?” Cross offered.
Julian considered the effort necessary to hold the spoon and shook his head.
Cross placed the bowl very carefully in Julian’s hands. “We can forego table manners this once.”
Julian smiled faintly before hunger took over. He drank the soup, the liquid hot on his dry throat.
&
nbsp; There was a knock at the door. Dawson opened it a crack. “No luck. I went through Leighton’s room top to bottom, but I couldn’t find a single drop of laudanum.”
“I should have expected that,” Cross said. “Dr Mereweather has a marked aversion to laudanum. I’ve never known him prescribe it.”
Julian wiped a stray dribble of soup from his chin. Was the laudanum intended for him? “I’ll be fine. I just need to rest.”
“He’s slept half the day,” Cross agreed. “Another half day should just about do it.”
“I certainly hope so.” Dawson stepped into the room with a hesitation entirely unlike him. He studied Julian with an intensity entirely out of proportion to a boy eating soup—
Julian caught his breath. Had Dawson seen him last night?
Cross cleared his throat. “When you lost consciousness last night, your body returned to your human form. Dawson helped me carry you back to the hotel. I decided an explanation was preferable to having him form an erroneous conclusion.”
Julian hung his head. “I didn’t mean to—I was so tired. The hunt…” He couldn’t bear to lose Cross now. Something wet ran down his cheek.
“Steady.” Cross lifted the soup bowl out of his shaking hands and substituted a handkerchief. “Tell us what happened last night.”
Julian dabbed at his eyes, his shame complete. “All right.”
His narrative was delivered in short bursts, with pauses to assess the impact of his report on Cross. His guardian’s face remained impassive, no sign of his thoughts flickering across his face. Only twice did he see any trace of emotion—a deepening frown when Julian described his first meeting with Rosemary, and a raise of his eyebrows at their plan of making the other guests sick.
“And then I saw you.” Julian twisted the handkerchief. “I couldn’t let them see you or Dawson. And I thought if a horseshoe keeps them out of a house, metal train tracks might stop them following.”
“Interesting.” Cross leaned back in his chair. “The modern world would pose many challenges to the fair folk if that is the case. Thanks to the myriad advances made in manufacturing, there is not a house in the land that does not possess some item containing iron. No wonder sightings of them are so few and far between.”
The Worst Behaved Werewolf Page 11