The Worst Behaved Werewolf

by Gillian St. Kevern

  “Lord Cross?” Dawson scanned the hall. “Perhaps he’s in his study.”

  Julian couldn’t breathe. Cross’s pistol rested on the floor as if it had slipped from his sleeping hand…

  “Julian.” Dawson put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions.”

  “He wouldn’t leave,” Julian said. “He wouldn’t.” The fair folk had taken him. Julian had gone too far and now Cross was gone—just as Pip had gone.

  Dawson gave him a worried look. “Lord Cross! This is a joke in very poor taste!” He threw open the door, first to Cross’s bedroom, and then to Pip’s, and finally the living room.

  Julian put his hand on the chair. It was cold. Cross must have been gone hours, shortly after they’d heard the music. Had that been the point? A song to lull them to sleep. Cross would have been helpless to stop himself being stolen away…

  Alone. Julian swallowed the urge to howl. They’d told him he couldn’t let his other self out, and he hadn’t listened, and now both his fathers were gone, and Cross was never coming back, and Pip…

  He did not want to think about Pip’s reaction to this news.

  “Now, Julian.” Dawson’s tone was the too calm tone the masters used when they were out of their depths and did not want the students to know it. “Lord Cross would not want us to panic. I’m going to ring for some good, strong tea, and we can assess the situation.”

  Dawson took his tea with a generous helping of Cross’s best Scotch. After a moment’s thought, he added a drop to Julian’s. “Medicinal purposes. You’re looking peaky. Sure you won’t lie down?”

  “I’m not sleeping ever again.”

  “Good luck with that. Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment.” Dawson downed his cup of tea with a gusto not usually reserved for Earl Grey. “Scott and Cross disappeared at night, as the hunt did when dawn broke. There’s something there… If only we knew for sure.”

  “Father would know.” Julian stared at his reflection in his cup.

  “Yes…And he is your father. Without Cross here… I think the only thing to do is to take you to him at once.”

  Julian’s head jerked up. “You’ll take me to Nice?”

  Dawson nodded. “I don’t see any alternative. You are in danger here, and Mr Leighton is best equipped to take care of you.”

  A week ago nothing would have delighted him more than being returned to Pip’s side. Now… Julian’s dry throat made swallowing difficult. “And abandon Mr Scott and Lord Cross?”

  “Your safety is more important,” Dawson assured him. “Once you’re safely with your father and I’ve had the chance to consult him, I’ll return to Paris to look for them.”

  He would not find them. Lord Cross was undoubtedly with Scott, trapped in the other place that Rosemary had told him about. Julian’s shoulders sagged lower.

  “Drink your tea like a good fellow. I’ll make the arrangements.” Dawson slapped Julian on the shoulder and made his way to the door.

  Julian picked up his teacup. The hot china scorched his hands. It was a pleasant warmth, like that of the fire at Foxwood Court. He’d spent hours basking in its glow. He’d never known what it meant to be warm before that fire… Without Cross, was Foxwood Court still home?

  “You haven’t taken a sip. Go on. We don’t have all day. Porter’s gone to get us tickets on the next train.” Dawson slapped a telegraph form down on the table. “We’ll wire your father to expect us. You think of what to say while I pack for you.”

  Julian stared at the paper with dread. Was he to break the news? What was he to say? You were right about vengeance stop—no, never.

  I’m sorry? No words could ever make amends for this loss.

  I should have listened to you, but now it’s too late and Cross and Scott are gone, and nothing will ever be the same again. Julian swiped the back of his palm across stinging eyes.

  Pip deserved the truth, the whole truth, even if that meant confessing everything.

  He put pen to paper. The cat I chased wasn’t a cat. It was a boy. A fairy boy. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to get in trouble but also because I liked him and didn’t want you to tell me I couldn’t see him again.

  He felt better having the words out of his head and down on paper, even if he’d completely filled the telegraph form. Julian turned over the page, writing on the back.

  He liked my other half. He said I should be allowed to run where I liked. Spending time with him felt exciting. I should have known better, but I’d never had a friend like him, and I suppose… Julian swallowed. These words felt like a betrayal, when Pip and Cross had devoted so much time to his care, and Scott to his education. I was lonely.

  There. He’d said it. Julian’s heart thudded in his chest. He’d lost Cross and he was an ungrateful son. Pip… How would he take this double loss? He was not very strong. What if the shock was too much? What if he never left the sanitorium? Julian would be alone forever…

  Alone. Just like the boy…

  Julian sucked in a deep breath. Just like the boy?

  What was it the boy had said? He was stuck in the mortal world, and it was the fault of people—just like the silver-haired lord was trapped in the story Dawson had found.

  His heart thumped, skin prickling as though his other self had caught a trace of danger.

  “How are you getting on?” Dawson bustled back into the room holding a travelling case. “Finished?”

  “No,” Julian said. “Far from it.” If he was right, then there was still a chance.

  Dawson put the case down and pulled up a chair. “Listen, Julian. I know that this has hit you hard, but we can’t go to pieces. We have to get you to Nice.”

  “We can’t leave.” Julian looked down at the back of the telegraph paper. “I know a way that we can rescue Mr Scott and Lord Cross.”

  Dawson stared at him. “You’re sure?”

  “No,” Julian admitted. “But we have to try it. Lord Cross wouldn’t give up. And neither would Mr Scott.”

  Dawson smiled thinly. “Let’s hear it. What’s the plan?”

  Julian was silent. Everything rode on his instinct. He thought of Scott casually attaching the horseshoe to the inside of his room, protecting the rest of them, and Cross taking up his position of guard outside Julian’s room. “I need a painting.”

  23

  “I thought you said the house was nice?” Dawson surveyed the dusty interior of the abandoned house, clutching the wrapped canvas he carried protectively. “I’m not sure it’s safe to enter.”

  Julian had suspected this ever since they’d arrived to find the wild jungle of a garden exactly as he’d seen it with the boy. The lawn where the couples had sat was entirely consumed by weeds, the bushes overgrown. “Must have been part of the enchantment. Just like how we saw our hosts as glamorous and beautiful. Not that they weren’t glamorous and beautiful, of course. But they seemed…” He groped for the right word. “Softer.”

  His skin prickled as they walked further into the house. The house might look empty, but they were far from alone. He felt eyes on the back of his neck.

  As he trailed Dawson into the ballroom, Julian caught a whiff of vanilla. He turned, just in time to see the boy push the door shut behind them.

  He seized Julian’s wrist, jerking him off-balance and close. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming back here.”

  Dawson whirled around, letting fly a muffled curse. Julian didn’t allow himself to react. “Good morning, Lord Dian.” He used his best social manner. “I hope you’ll forgive us turning up uninvited like this.”

  Dian stared at him, blue eyes narrowed. His fingers dug into Julian’s skin, sharp enough to hurt. “My name will not avail you any. I know yours.”

  “It’s no secret,” Julian agreed. “May I present a friend? Mr Francis Dawson, artist.”

  Dian’s eyes flicked from Julian to Dawson. He shoved Julian away. “Come to bargain for your lost friends? That’s not happening. After what you’v
e taken from me, you should be begging for your safety.”

  Julian just managed to keep his feet. “I didn’t suggest the opera. They would have gone at dawn anyway.”

  Dian scowled. “That was my time. They should have been with me, not jaunting through Paris with a brat like you.”

  His arms and feet were still swollen with the effort of outrunning the hunt. “If I could have sent them back to you, I would have done so, gladly.”

  “It’s very lucky that your friends didn’t do Julian a greater injury,” Dawson snapped. “I have a good mind—”

  Julian caught his eye and shook his head. They couldn’t lose their cool with Dian. Everything depended on him.

  Dian noticed Julian’s gloves. “Show me your hands.”

  “Very well.” Julian peeled off the first glove. His hands were red, the ointment Cross had found him providing only temporary relief.

  Dian leaned in to inspect them, placing a cold hand on Julian’s palm. “You’ll think twice before abusing our hospitality.”

  “I will.” Julian’s chest gave a nervous hitch. Having Dian so close made it hard to breathe. He swallowed sudden agitation, forcing himself to stay still as Dian turned his hand over. “I’m here to apologise and make amends.”

  Dian’s fingers stilled. “You think amends are possible?”

  “I do not know,” Julian admitted. “But I would try.” He wrenched his gaze back to Dawson and nodded.

  Dawson watched with pursed lips. He unwrapped his canvas.

  Dian cocked an eyebrow. He sauntered over to lean against the wall, arms crossed. “So that is my apology—a mere painting?”

  “Dawson’s are not mere paintings.” What to do with his hands? He couldn’t reach again for Dian, much as he wanted to. Julian pushed his hands into his pockets. “They’ve allowed you to bridge the divide between the world of your people and this world, temporarily bringing them back.”

  Dawson removed the brown paper protecting the canvas and held it up. The painting revealed a sun-drenched forest, the late afternoon giving a mellow light to the yellow leaves that made up the background. In the foreground two young birch saplings wound together, branches forming a natural archway. A light haze obscured the interior of the arch, but Dawson had somehow, with mere paint and brush, managed to hint at myriad possibilities.

  Dian’s expression tightened. He looked hungry. “Is that…?”

  Dawson ducked his head. “At Julian’s request, I’ve painted you a way home.”

  “I remembered our conversation that day in the park. You want to be with your people, but you can’t. You said it was something the humans did. That wasn’t entirely accurate, was it?” Julian felt like one patting a cat known to bite. For the moment, he was unscathed, but he knew that he walked a dangerous line. “It was something one human did.”

  “You’ve got it all figured it out, don’t you?” Dian’s tone was mocking. “All right. The iron made things more difficult, but there were enough who remembered us, who dreamed of us or whispered our stories after sunset that we could still come and go. And then the musician.” He stared at the painting. “You forget. You’ve brought me a way home I can’t take. Thanks to your precious Mr Scott, I’m trapped here—just as he slumbers there.”

  Having Scott confirmed as the musician of the story shocked Julian, even though he’d expected it. What did Dian mean—slumber?

  “Dreaming.” It snapped into Julian’s head, like the meaning of Latin sentence once he reached the final clause. “Lord Cross too. It’s not enough to have the painting. You need dreams to keep your people in this world. That’s why they left at dawn, and why they tried to take the people back with them.”

  Dian’s mouth twisted. “Are you only figuring that out now? How do you expect to make things up to me if you don’t know something so basic?”

  “Considering you have kidnapped two of our friends, and done both Julian and myself personal injury, you should be grateful we’re even talking about amends.” Dawson had removed his jacket and was in the process of rolling up his sleeves. Preparing for a fight.

  Just what they didn’t need. Julian breathed in quickly. “I’ve been thinking about what’s keeping you in this world. The song the musician played. It made you feel.”

  Dian’s scowl deepened. “An underhanded blow. What villain deals such an injury?”

  “Mr Scott didn’t intend to injure you at all.” Julian tugged at his collar. “At the park, you said my father kept me in a cage by making me want to do things. Lord Cross too. You didn’t understand why I would want to please them. You said it was a trick, that my feelings were used against me. You said that because you’re trapped here by the feelings the song woke in you. But you don’t have to be.”

  Dian snorted. He turned his cold gaze on Julian. “Are you suggesting I can just cast off more than a century of isolation?”

  “Actually, yes.” Julian licked dry lips. “It’s hard for you to understand, because you’re so different from people, but feelings aren’t good or bad. They’re just feelings.” Dian shifted restlessly, and Julian hurried on. “They can feel good or bad, and make you want to act in a certain way, but you’ve still got control over them. I could go out and hunt at night, but I know that if I do, I’ll disappoint Father and Lord Cross.”

  Dian raised a cold eyebrow. “And that’s not being trapped?”

  “No.” Julian kept his voice even. “Because they’re not using my feelings against me. I feel for them because I like them, and they like me. They look out for me, even when I do things they disapprove of. That’s how much they care for me. Knowing that, I don’t feel disappointed I can’t indulge my other self. I feel happy because I can return the care they give me.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better if your wolf ran wild and they did not have the burden of looking after you?” Dian’s stare pierced. “Your father’s literally worried himself sick about you. You liked running through Paris with me a lot better than you liked being confined to your room. You can’t deny it. Why wound yourself like that?”

  “Because the other half of that wound is love.” His tongue felt far too big for his mouth, his throat as dry as a desert. “I enjoyed roaming Paris at night, but I liked roaming with you. Sharing the night with you made it more special. That’s why feelings matter, even if sometimes they hurt. They bring us together.”

  Dian tilted his head. “Are you saying that you love me?”

  Julian gave the question due consideration. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I am.”

  24

  “Julian.” Dawson’s tone was strained. “This was not part of the plan we discussed.”

  Dian laughed, clapping his hands. “Unplanned then—real? This is too delightful!”

  “I like you.” Julian’s cheeks burned. “I like you a lot.” This was harder than the sensation novels made it seem. “Whenever I’m with you, I feel more alive. More me. I want you to feel that way too.”

  Dawson cleared his throat loudly. “This is not a good idea.”

  Dian held up a hand. “I will not have this interrupted.” His manner was autocratic. Dawson fell silent. Not surprising. Dian looked like a boy, but his manner was that of the silver-haired lord.

  Dian sauntered over to stand in front of Julian. “What have you to offer for my heart?”

  “You’re lonely.” Julian clenched sweaty fingers together. “You don’t need to be. You can accept having feelings and live with us at Foxwood Court. We could be...” He hardly dared say the words, he wanted it so much. “A family.”

  “A family,” Dian repeated. “A wolfpack, you mean.” His words were mocking, but his tone soft.

  Julian’s heart jolted. Dian considered his offer!

  “Your father, Lord Cross, they would never approve.” Dawson held himself tightly, his shoulders tensed, braced for action. “This man—he’s dangerous.”

  “So is a wolf. That doesn’t stop them caring about me.” Julian couldn’t read Dian’s expression. He s
tumbled over his next words, heart thundering like a train pulling out of Gare du Nord station. “Foxwood Court is deep in the country. There’s a park with a forest and everything. At night, you cannot see the lights of another house, and the moon and stars are so much brighter than in the city. No one notices if you go out at night, no one hears you howl at the sky. And in winter, there’s always a fire in the drawing room.”

  He fidgeted with the buttons on his jacket cuff. Why didn’t Dian speak? “We could play hide and seek anytime. Or leave the park and explore the countryside. There’s so much out there, I haven’t seen half of it yet.”

  “You would like that?” Dian’s eyes rested on Julian, as though he’d found the answer he sought.

  Julian’s heart catapulted into his throat. “Very much. I—You see, I’m lonely too. I didn’t realise how much until I met you, but you... I’ve never met anyone who understands things like you. I can think of nothing I’d like more than you coming to Foxwood.”

  Dian smirked, his fingers skimming over Julian’s cheek. “I have your heart. An unexpected prize! But does it make up for what I’ve lost—or what you’ve lost?” His eyes narrowed. “You have not asked me to return your friends.”

  “No,” Julian said. “You can’t trade on feelings. I mean, you shouldn’t.” Things were getting muddled again. “I’m hoping that you will do the right thing.”

  Dian laughed. “You do not understand my kind.” He dropped his hand, walking over to Dawson. The artist took a step back, but it was the painting Dian put his hand to.

  He ran his fingers over the surface of the canvas. “You say I have the choice between remaining trapped by my feelings, unable to return to my people, or that I can accept them, and by accepting, take control of them, and make a home in your world—living and loving as a human would.” Dian’s lips curled. “There is a third option you didn’t mention. I can reject my feelings entirely and reunite with my people.”