The Wrath of Wolves

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The Wrath of Wolves Page 4

by Kelley York


  Someone whispers against my ear, garbled, nonsensical. As though I’m listening to something from under water. There’s pressure against my back and shoulders. Someone—something—is leaning into me, its arms around me. A cold embrace.

  I cannot seem to move.

  Open it.

  The box needs to be opened.

  I need to know what’s inside.

  A sudden startling, ear-piercing sound floods my ears. Not a scream. A howl. A wolf. One and then two until an entire chorus of howls seems to fill every corner of our small room and I cannot understand why it isn’t waking everyone on the ship.

  There’s another voice beyond it all, far away.

  “—enji?”

  I try to open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

  “Benjamin!”

  A stuttered gasp catches in my throat. I tear my hands from the box, whipping around to see Preston seated on the edge of his mattress. My eyes are wide and wild and I feel as though I’ve just been woken from the throes of a deep nightmare. “What?”

  “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

  I blink once, opening my mouth, though no sound comes out. He starts to get up. I don’t give him the chance before I’m scurrying across the floor and crawling into bed beside him. The confusion is evident in his voice and his face even as he gathers me into his arms. “Hey, hey, easy. It’s all right.”

  I press my face into his shoulder. Shiver. My skin feels cold and clammy to the touch when compared to his. “There’s something attached to that box.”

  He shifts, head turned to look. “Ah? What sort of something?”

  “I don’t know,” I mumble. “I noticed it the moment Mr. Wilkerson brought it into the room.”

  “But… Is it a feeling? Or did you see something?”

  “I thought I felt…something. I heard whispers. Howling.”

  “Howling?”

  “Like wolves. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  He hugs me to his chest and the tremors wracking my body begin to subside, slowly but surely. “No matter. Why were you messing with it anyway?”

  “I… I don’t honestly remember. I hardly recall getting out of bed.” The memory of doing it is there, but not why.

  Preston lays back, drawing me with him. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. We’ll get this job over with and be rid of it soon enough, hm?”

  While carting it thousands of miles across the ocean and a country, yes. I know he’s trying to comfort me, but it isn’t quite working. Not when I still feel eyes on us from the shadows.

  The bed is so small that it makes for tight quarters, but I’m not inclined to move and Preston doesn’t appear to want to make me. I murmur a thank you as I nestle into his arms and go still. He strokes my hair until he drifts back off to sleep and I lie awake, listening to the silence.

  I really hope we haven’t got in over our heads.

  ◆◆◆

  We spend eleven full days at sea. Preston’s seasickness never does fully subside, although it occasionally fades enough for him to come topside with me and enjoy the view. When we begin to see dry land in the distance, Preston perks up immensely. The last few hours of sailing toward port and docking drag at a snail’s pace.

  Preston looks like he wants to drop to the dock and kiss it. I flash him a smile at the relieved sigh he heaves upon setting foot on dry land once more.

  From the docks, we’re ushered into a building that smells far too much like sweat and unwashed bodies for my liking. Men with clipboards stand poised to question the passengers as they arrive. It does not go unnoticed that we’re channelled into different lines—the first-class cabin passengers seem to bypass much of this process—and those from steerage seem like they will be stuck here far longer than Preston and me.

  I also cannot help but notice that several families with skin as dark or darker than mine or whose English is not the best are being pulled aside for more intense questioning. It isn’t the first time I feel nervous at the prospect of being singled out. I wonder if I will undergo the same treatment, if they’ll notice the subtle differences in my skin tone or my dark eyes. But the man who comes to question us and look us over for any sign of illness passes me over without interest and we’re instructed to be on our way. I feel a niggling sense of guilt that I’m permitted to go while so many others are held back.

  Set loose outside the building, we stop on the side of the street to take our first real, proper look at Boston. It’s so very different from home while not being that different at all, really. The buildings are taller, newer, the streets a bit wider. A flagpole sits in the very centre of the road, flying an American flag. It’s much colder here than it was in Liverpool.

  The most shocking bit, I suppose, would be the snow. It snows plenty enough back home in the winter, but the snow here feels so...much. Many of the horses are carting along sleighs instead of carriages and the people on the street are hunkered down, bundled up tight in furs and coats and scarves.

  I fear we’re underdressed for this weather. My wool overcoat is warm, but not much else on my person is and I suspect if I’m already feeling the chill then Preston likely is, too.

  “What do you think, Benji?”

  I shiver, readjusting the strap of my bag. “It’s…ah, beautiful. Bit nippy, though.”

  “Just a bit,” he agrees in amusement. “Where to next?”

  I fish out the paper from my coat pocket. “Let’s stop and ask for directions. The hotel ought to be nearby.”

  We nip into a nearby general store. While Preston asks the clerk where we’re headed, I have a look at the goods for sale, noting all the differences and similarities between here and back home. Even hearing the conversations around us as we head outside and up the road is strange. I’m bombarded by a world full of accents that I’ve previously only encountered in passing. It’s quite fascinating.

  The Parker House Hotel is an impressive building. As we stand across the street, heads tipped back, gawking up at it, I’m positive there’s been a mistake.

  Preston shakes his head. “Check the address again. This can’t be it.”

  I expected—oh, I don’t know. Something more like the small inn we stayed at back in Liverpool. Something that suited our needs but no more. This place is grand. Five, perhaps six storeys, and the men and women I see coming in and out of its front doors are dressed far too finely to be of our ilk.

  I offer him the paper. “No, this is it. The Parker House hotel. We’re to ask for a Mr. Wilmer Cushman when we go in.”

  “If they even let us in the front doors,” he jokes, adjusting his coat. Preston’s wardrobe has never been impressive. Mine is hardly lavish either, but it’s a sight more passable than his in such an extravagant setting.

  We cross the street to head inside. The two doormen give us peculiar looks, perhaps on the brink of stopping us, but Preston walks by with purpose, not looking for a second as though he doesn’t belong there. I stick fast to his side and try to do the same, though I do offer the men a polite smile.

  The interior of the Parker House is even grander than the exterior. Gas sconces line the walls and when mixed with the crystal chandeliers hanging overhead the entire place is brightly lit, showing off the array of browns and reds and golds in everything from the panelled walls to the carpeting. Upholstered chairs sit in clusters of three and four about the massive lobby, some occupied by men and women conversing, reading, or simply waiting.

  We approach the front desk side by side. The desk clerk doesn’t seem terribly fazed by our travel-worn appearance and offers us a smile.

  “How may I help you, gentlemen?”

  I slide the letter from Mr. Wilkerson across the countertop. “We’ve been told to ask for Mr. Wilmer Cushman. He should be expecting us.”

  The clerk takes the letter and skims it. He excuses himself to disappear into a back room. When he returns, it’s with another man at his heels that I can only presume is Mr. Cushman.

  �
��Afternoon, gentlemen,” Cushman greets, his voice the low and gravelly sound of a man who has smoked far too much tobacco. He looks us over before rounding the desk and thrusting out a large hand.

  I take it without hesitating. “William Esher,” I introduce myself. “This is my partner, James Spencer.”

  Preston smiles, a touch of amusement twinkling in his eyes. He gives Cushman’s hand a shake as well.

  “Glad you made it in one piece. Can’t stand ships. God awful things. I’ll be glad if I never have to make that trip.” He sniffs and turns back around to the clerk. “Jeremy, room four-oh-two, please.”

  Jeremy the clerk fetches him a key from the numbered rack and Mr. Cushman proceeds to escort us from the lobby to a door nearby.

  The door, as it turns out, opens into a small mechanical lift. Oh! I’ve only seen these a few times, most recently in Paris. Preston halts abruptly, eyeing it with caution. Fair enough; the last time anything took his feet off the ground, he ended up seasick. I catch his elbow gently and give him a nudge. We step into the cart and the lift operator pulls a lever, bringing the rickety machine into motion. It’s loud and unsteady, though aside from the initial dip of my stomach, it’s actually quite fun. Preston flashes a grin over at me and I smile and wink at him in return.

  “Are you the owner of this hotel, Mr. Cushman?” Preston asks.

  “Just a manager,” he grunts, sniffing and rubbing at his moustache. “Did Wilkerson tell you anything before sending you on your way?”

  “Not much, sir.”

  “Ah. Well, figures. He’s my wife’s brother. We haven’t seen each other in years. I’m honestly surprised he asked for this favour, in fact. He’s unbearably polite, like all of you Brits. Never wants to ask for a thing.”

  I’m trying not to look amused as I raise an eyebrow at Preston, thinking that as charming as he can be, he is hardly what I would consider excessively polite.

  The lift finally comes to a halt, and the operator slides open the door for us to step out. The hallway is a bit dimmer, but no less grand than the lobby. Every flickering sconce casts dancing shadows upon the gold-and-crimson carpeting and the dark wood panelling. Cushman escorts us to a door at the far end, unlocks it, and steps aside for us to go in first.

  I venture in with Preston on my heels. My eyes widen. This far exceeds anything I would have expected to be offered to us on this trip. Every immaculate detail is a sight to behold, from the warm golds and bronzes, to each neatly placed throw pillow decorating the settee and the basket of fresh fruits and candies atop the table. A set of French doors opens into the next room, revealing a double set of beds. Another door leads into a room with both a tub and a toilet. I’m not certain I’ve had cause to be in any building with such new amenities. It’s fascinating.

  Cushman lingers in the doorway, arms folded behind his back. He doesn’t smile, but he seems to seek our approval all the same. “Is it to your liking?”

  Preston lets out a sound not unlike a stifled laugh. I’ve ventured into the centre of the room, eyes wide with barely contained excitement and awe. I swallow back a smile. “Yes, this will do nicely. Thank you.”

  “Excellent. I presume you’ll be leaving first thing in the morning?”

  “Not terribly early, no. I should think we’ll enjoy sleeping in a bit.”

  He nods curtly. “Well, please help yourselves to dinner and breakfast in the restaurant downstairs, compliments of the house.”

  He’s scarcely left the room before I’ve made my way across it and thrown open the drapes—crimson and shot through with gold embroidery. “This is incredible. Preston, come, look at the view!”

  Preston moves to my side. We gaze out at the stretch of snowy city beneath us. It’s a remarkable sight.

  “Does this beat the lodgings in Paris?” he asks.

  I look up at him. “This far exceeds Paris. Are you certain we can’t just stay here a few days?”

  “Lord, wouldn’t that be nice.” He draws back and we go to explore the rest of our room. The beds in particular look far too tempting to pass up. Preston drops his bag, places the box-satchel beside it, and flings himself onto the mattress. He sinks into the down-filled blankets and groans.

  I linger in the doorway, toeing off my shoes and slipping my coat from my shoulders. “Oh, Preston. You’re filthy and lying all over that nice clean bed.”

  He grins, folding his hands behind his head. “I’m staying right here until I can get a bath.”

  “Go on first, then. I’m feeling generous.”

  Preston hesitates, seeming to debate if that offer is worth getting up for. His curiosity over our fancy bathroom clearly wins out, because he gets to his feet and trots past me with a smile. A few moments later, I hear the water running.

  In his absence, I dig through my bag for a clean set of clothing. A faint prickling slides up the back of my neck. I twist around, eyes falling right upon the satchel containing the box. The last thing I want is a repeat of that night on the boat. Hurriedly, I gather my clothes and retreat to the main room to wait outside the bathroom for Preston to finish his bath.

  He takes his time and I don’t begrudge him that. When he finally emerges, it’s with a towel wrapped around his waist. I cannot help but let my gaze travel along his bare torso, the lines of his chest and shoulders and collar bones, and the way the droplets of water dot his skin. My cheeks grow warm and I divert my gaze, as though we didn’t spend a school year and several holidays sharing a room and dressing in front of one another.

  “At your leisure,” he hums, brushing past me. The gesture seems almost intentional. The heat rolling off his damp skin makes me shiver as I inch into the bathroom.

  A layer of condensation covers the mirror and the steam from Preston’s bath still lingers. I draw myself an equally hot bath, undressing and sinking into the water with a sigh. It feels like it’s been ages since I last had a proper wash in anything other than a bowl. I take my time scrubbing the weeks’ worth of dirt, grime, and salt from my skin and hair.

  By the time I finish, my skin is flushed from the heat of the water and I’ve grown remarkably sleepy. When I find Preston, he’s scarcely bothered to get into a pair of drawers before sprawling out across his bed, and he’s dozed off. I let him sleep while I dry off and dress. Only then do I lean over and poke a finger into his ribs.

  “Come on. It’s about time for dinner. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  He grunts, making a grab for my hand. “If I lay on you, we won’t be going anywhere,” he mumbles. I chuckle, avoiding his attempts to catch me and prodding at him until he gets up and finishes making himself presentable.

  We venture downstairs to take dinner in the restaurant. There’s no question about it that I’ve never eaten in such a fine establishment. Given that Mr. Cushman said it was on the house, we only need to give Spencer and Esher’s names to our waiter and then are able to eat our fill. For dessert, I order something our waiter refers to as the Parker House Chocolate Cream Pie and it is the most delicious, decadent thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating.

  Rather than retire to bed immediately, we leave the hotel to take a walk. It would be a shame to arrive in a new city and not have a look around. It’s cold and the streets are flush with people hurrying about, unfettered by the snowfall. I hold my overcoat snugly around myself and stick close to Preston’s side.

  “Do you think all winters here are like this?” I ask. “With so much snow?”

  “Maybe.” He halts in front of a bakery window, admiring the cakes on display. “Everyone here looks used to it.”

  “I don’t mind the cold, but this is a bit much even for me.” I stop beside him, eyes widening as I lean forward to peer through the window. My breath fogs the glass. “Can we go in?”

  He chuckles, even as he’s opening the door and holding it for me. “Didn’t you have your fill of sweets at dinner?”

  “We don’t travel abroad every day, Preston! What if they’ve got somet
hing unique?”

  “By all means.”

  The aroma of chocolate and baked goods greets me upon entering, immediately bringing a smile to my face. As I peruse the display cases of pastries, candies, and pies, a wave of nostalgia and sadness sweeps over me.

  I’m standing in Paris again, Mother’s arm linked with mine. I can see her face so vividly. Her smile. Her eyes crinkling at the corners. She picks out a small tartlet and points out the truffles to me. They’re one of my favourite sweets.

  Preston touches my back, pulling me away from the past and to the present. My chest aches.

  “What looks good?” he asks.

  I swallow hard, trying to regain my bearings. “Ah. Those, there.”

  We come away with a bag of truffles and fudge, walking in the snow near the boardwalk. I alternate between eating my sweets and tipping my head back, tongue sticking out to catch the occasional snowflake. Preston, however, has been oddly quiet.

  “Say, Benji…”

  I make an inquiring noise, popping another truffle into my mouth.

  “Are you all right? That is…” A pause. “I noticed your arm the other day.”

  My steps falter ever so slightly in the snow, just a hitch in my movements. I say nothing at first, facing straight ahead, keeping my expression carefully unreadable.

  I had tried to keep the bruises hidden. No sense in worrying him. No sense in bringing up something I would just as soon forget about.

  “If you don’t want to talk about it…” Preston begins.

  I roll closed the paper sack containing the rest of my candies. “There isn’t much to say. Father and I had a few words when he found out I was leaving.”

  Oh, how the tension practically radiates off him. “Bruises aren’t exactly words, Benjamin.”

  Silence.

  What do I say to that? It’s done. Over with. I likely will never see Franklin Hale again. He’s as good as dead to me and I do not care to revisit any memories in which he’s present.

 

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