The Wrath of Wolves

by Kelley York

  Preston heaves a quiet sigh. “We don’t have to get into it. But I’m here, if you need me.”

  “I know. Thank you, Preston.” I turn a smile his way, though it’s a little tight round the edges and I know it.

  I suspect Preston knows me too well to be fooled.

  CHAPTER 5 - PRESTON

  A knock upon the door startles me out of a dead sleep because of course I’d be woken. I’d been looking forward to my first solid night’s rest in a while and having that interrupted makes me open my eyes and cast a sullen glare in the direction of the door. What bloody time is it? Maybe someone has the wrong room.

  They knock again, louder. Benjamin stirs in the other bed. I don’t want him to wake up too, so with a sigh, I fling back the blankets and get up to answer it.

  A curly-haired man with dark eyes stands there, hands clasped behind his back. He blinks at me once, as though surprised that I—what, actually opened the door?

  I squint at him. “Can I help you?”

  “Good morning. I was told this room had a wake-up call scheduled for Mr. Spencer and Mr. Esher.”

  I run a hand down my face and sigh. Without really thinking about it, I grumble, “Wrong room.”

  A pause. “I’m terribly sorry, sir.”

  With an apologetic smile, he turns away and I shut the door. Well, I had not asked for any wake-up call, but here we are. Benji is still sleeping though, and I have half a mind to crawl into his bed, which is undoubtedly warmer than my own.

  I scrub my hands over my eyes and shuffle across the room, pausing at the table. The bag containing our cargo sits upon it and I find myself reaching for it, to slide it out and have a look. The early (very early) morning sunlight glints off the iron fastens. I pull out a chair and have a seat.

  Ever since I woke that night to find Benji in a near trance-like state staring at the damned thing, I’ve been trying to keep a closer eye on it. Still, I get no supernatural feelings from it—not that that means anything. Even Aunt Eleanor has said Benji is far more sensitive to these things than I am. If Benji says he senses something about this thing, then I believe him wholeheartedly.

  I scoot closer to the table and place my palms flat against the sides of the box. Eyes closed. Focusing. In the quiet of the early morning, without a rocking ship to distract me, surely I ought to sense something.

  Nothing. Just wood against my skin and me feeling incredibly foolish.

  I open my eyes.

  A woman’s face, mouth agape, hangs just in front of me.

  She screams. Ear-piercing. Dragging blades down my bones.

  The chair clatters to the ground as I scramble away. A shout catches in my throat. But she’s gone, just as suddenly as she appeared. The room is silent and still again.

  My heart is racing. What was that? Or should I ask, who was that? What the hell is inside that box?

  Benji never could properly convey to me what he saw or heard. Any time I’ve asked, he’s tried, but ended up shaking his head and looking away. He had said it was a feeling more than anything, and now I can understand what he meant. I could describe that I saw a woman, that I heard her screaming, but I could not have said what she looked like.

  No, that’s not entirely true. She looked like agony.

  I advance to the table, grabbing hold of the box again, willing the woman to return and bracing myself for it. This time, I think perhaps I feel an inkling of something, but beyond that…nothing.

  “Preston?”

  I turn to see Benji standing in the double doors of the bedroom, his hair adorably sleep-tousled.

  “Good morning,” I say, careful to keep my tone easy and light as I let go of the box. “Why are you up so early?”

  “I thought I heard…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. What are you doing?”

  “Some staffer mistakenly thought we wanted to be woken before the sun was fully up.” I sigh, turning to upright the fallen chair. “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

  “Not sure that I can.” He casts a wary look in the direction of the table as he crosses the room to me. “Did you…see something?”

  After seeing him so shaken from his encounter, I really don’t want to worry him. But I also know Benjamin has gone so much of his life being unable to discuss the things that he sees with anyone that pretending I saw nothing might do more harm than good.

  “I saw a woman. Just briefly. Not getting anything now, though.”

  Instead of looking shaken by this revelation, Benji seems relieved. “Did she say anything?”

  “Not a word. Did she speak to you?”

  “I think she tried, but…” He shivers, hugging himself and turning away from the box. “I couldn’t move. Felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

  I can’t help but place a hand against his back, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades. “Do you think we ought to try to communicate with her? Going to be quite a long trip if she’s popping up as she likes.”

  “We aren’t Esher and Spencer, Preston. Do you think we’re experienced enough to try without making it worse?”

  Shrug. “Esher loaned me a book of his notes. I’d wager there’s enough in there to walk us through it. Haven’t looked at it, though.”

  Benji cracks a small smile. “Of course you haven’t. I’ll give it a read on the train.”

  Oh, thank God. “Have I told you lately that I appreciate the way you spare me from having to read anything ever?”

  “You have not, but after all these years, it goes without saying. Now, since we’re up anyway, let’s see about breakfast and purchasing our train tickets. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.”

  ◆◆◆

  We leave the hotel early and when we drop off our key at the front, we are presented with an envelope containing a note informing us we have pre-purchased tickets waiting at the train station. I had expected the cost would come out of our own pockets, so it’s a pleasant surprise.

  However, upon arriving at the station, I find we are not as lucky with the train as we were with the boat. First-class seating is limited, and so the tickets waiting under not-our-names are second-class. Ordinarily this would not make me bat an eyelash. We’ve both travelled by train plenty back home, often seated near strangers. I’m quite good at making acquaintances with anyone I sit near, in fact.

  The transcontinental railroad is nothing like the trains in England, though.

  We’re ushered into the cars in an orderly enough fashion, but then crowded in along with several others—families and individuals alike. Among them, there’s a friendly Scotsman who smells strongly of bourbon, who keeps trying to chat up a Chinese woman with three little ones clinging to her skirts. She smiles weakly at him, but by the uncertain look on her face, she’s having trouble keeping up with his heavily accented English.

  The inside of the car is lined with benches that convert into cots, with a single water closet at the far end. It stinks of sweat and smoke, and that much is not unlike home. For the next two weeks, we will be sharing our daily living, sleeping, and eating space with these people, all while dealing with a box that may be haunted. Sounds like a grand adventure.

  I keep the bag with the box slung about me at all times, even when the strap begins to make my shoulder ache. With the multiple conversations, the sound of the train roaring down the tracks and away from Boston, Benji and I do not try to speak much for the first few hours. He stays pressed to my side, hands in his lap, quietly observing the people around us. Near lunch, he leaves me long enough to investigate the dining car but returns largely empty-handed after seeing how expensive the food is.

  As the sun begins to set, the atmosphere aboard the train shifts drastically. What began as a buzz of excited, anxious energy swiftly diminishes into an irritable sort of exhaustion, exacerbated by the cramped spaces and crying children and language barriers making communication difficult. The din of voices amongst the other passengers dies down as the sun vanishes, and people begin to crowd into the sea
ts and bunks to claim their place for a spot to sleep.

  We’re lucky enough to snag a set of bunks at the far end of the car, close to the door. They’re not really large enough for two people to fit comfortably—though Lord knows plenty of people are trying—so Benji decides to take the bottom cot while I plan to take the top.

  Then I see him pause, looking back to a row of seats across the way, at the mother with her three children as she tries to wrangle them all into one small bunk. It would appear she plans to sleep on the floor with the youngest in her lap; there’s no room for them all on the thin mattress.

  It takes me only a second to predict what Benji’s going to do, and it makes me smile. He crosses over to crouch down before the woman, speaking to her softly in Mandarin. Her eyes widen a fraction, confused, then flick to the bed where he points. Then gratefulness and relief overtake her features and she says something to him in return. I think I recognise the repeated phrase as Thank you. See? I’ve picked up a few things in my time with Benji.

  As the woman and her youngest child take up residence in the bottom bunk, I flash Benji a smile and gesture to the top.

  “Is it all right?” he asks sheepishly. “It’s going to be cramped.”

  “I’ve never minded sleeping in close quarters with you,” I tease, pleased by the blush that crosses his face. He hauls himself up to the bunk, closest to the wall, and I follow.

  Close quarters indeed. We’re forced to lie on our sides in order to fit. And, face-to-face, Benji is so very near that it makes my heartbeat pick up as I study all the familiar lines of his face. I miss his long hair even if just for the excuse to reach out and brush it back from his dark eyes.

  He smiles, lashes lowering. “Will the box be all right down there, do you think?”

  “Not much room for it up here,” I point out. I tucked it as far back against the wall as I could, where no one walking by would even see it. They’d have to get through our shoes and rucksacks first. Besides, having it up here would put us both in constant contact with it and now I’m not so certain I want that any more than Benji does.

  The car has grown eerily quiet inside, offset by the loud clattering of wheels on the tracks and the wind howling outside. Thankfully, with our proximity, I can still hear Benji even when he whispers.

  “What do you think California will be like? As cold as Boston?”

  “Not really sure. Bigger, I suspect. Hopefully a bit less snow.”

  He makes a noise of agreement, and then he shifts carefully to roll onto his other side. It makes for a better fit as he inches against me, his back to my chest, and after a moment of debate, I slowly allow an arm to fall across his middle. Surely plenty of people are curled up close, men and women alike, for warmth and comfort. Besides, shy of standing on the bottom bunk to look at us, we aren’t easily visible.

  Maybe I’m just making excuses because I want to hold him. I allow my face to turn enough to let his hair tickle my jaw and I breathe in deep. He still smells of soap from his earlier bath. Lying there with him, the rest of the world drops away, leaving just Benjamin and me.

  I’ve often thought about what life could be like for the pair of us. I’ve thought of following in James and Esher’s footsteps with the whole spirit-hunting thing. I’ve thought of travelling all over the world, maybe living in each place for a few months, working until we had enough money saved to travel to the next destination. I’ve even thought of simply remaining on the farm, taking it over someday, and even that doesn’t sound altogether horrible when I picture Benji there with me.

  He’s the one thing in my life I cannot envision myself without. Lord knows I tried when I thought he’d be running off to marry and to suffocate himself in some stuffy factory job. It never worked. Every scenario I tried to imagine was like a blind spot in my mind and Benji always somehow found his way into those scenes regardless, no matter how unrealistic they were. I envision myself miserable and alone, and there he is, knocking on my door with a smile that lights up the world around him.

  Years of sharing a room has me knowing the precise moment Benji drifts off to sleep. The way his breathing evens out, the tension that eases from his shoulders, the way he snuggles back into my arms and tugs the thin, flimsy blanket up to his nose. He is resting easy, our haunted cargo seems to be behaving, and I believe I will enjoy his nearness for however long I can have it.

  ◆◆◆

  It’s still dark when I wake to a hand clamping across my mouth, and Benjamin’s wide, dark eyes inches from mine. I inhale sharply, startled. Reflex has me wanting to ask what he’s doing, but the palm over my mouth and the finger he holds to his own lips keeps me from speaking.

  At first, all I hear is the roaring of the train. Benji slowly withdraws his hand from my mouth and points toward the nearby door leading from our tram into the next. There, I can make out a conversation, barely audible.

  “Tellin’ you, we searched this place high and low. Ain’t no sign of ‘em,” a man’s voice grinds out, low and gravelly and very American.

  A woman responds. Her voice is softer, more difficult to hear. “He verified they got on this train. They didn’t just up and vanish. What about the box?”

  I hold my breath.

  “No sign of it, but—”

  “Did you check everywhere? Bags, cargo?”

  “What, y’want us to just start rootin’ through everyone’s belongings?”

  “That’s exactly what I want you to do,” the woman says, exasperated. “Do it now when they’re sleeping, just don’t get your fool selves caught and tossed off the train. I don’t even care about Spencer and Esher so long as you find the damned box.”

  Brilliant. We’ve got two people—or more, as the woman mentioned others—on our trail. We were warned it might happen, but for whatever reason, I had thought our client was simply overreacting and this job would go off without a hitch. So much for that. How in the hell did they find us on one of many trains crossing the country?

  I weigh our options. I could hop out of this bunk and confront the both of them head-on. But two against one, not knowing how many others are working with them, likely won’t end well for us. Besides, what would I do? Throw them from the train? Wake every other passenger in the process?

  Option two involves trying to get a look at the pair of them and hoping we can lay low and avoid them for the rest of the trip. They’re looking for James and Esher, not Benji and me.

  As I start to move, Benji grabs hold of my arm. I give his hand a reassuring squeeze, close my eyes, and sluggishly roll over to face the aisle. The voices go quiet for a moment, but I settle, feigning a sleepy sigh, and they seem to decide my supposedly sleeping form is no threat.

  “Get on it,” the woman finally hisses, followed by the sound of the tram door opening and closing as she leaves. Her companion is still present; I hear him swear and mutter under his breath as he begins to shuffle down the aisle. When I dare to crack an eye open, I see him crouched near the bunk opposite ours, cautiously beginning to root through the contents of another passenger’s bag.

  My heart leaps into my throat. All he needs to do is turn and happen across our bag beneath the lower bunk, and he’s got our cargo.

  Benji has got his fingers curled into my shirt against my back. His breath falls against the nape of my neck as he whispers, “Don’t…”

  I grit my teeth. Shift. Stretch out and feign a yawn. The man startles into an upright position and I slide from bed, pushing a hand through my ruffled hair. When my feet hit the ground, it’s a touch too loud, and I wonder if it may have woken anyone else. Good, more attention means this bloke won’t be likely to get far in his search.

  Christ, he’s a big gent. I’m built sturdy and strong, but this man makes me feel small with his broad shoulders and thick arms. He scowls down at me, heavy brows furrowed, and I return the look of displeasure with an easy smile.

  “Oh. Sorry, mate. Everything all right?”

  He grunts in response, averting his
gaze. He must know he looks terribly suspicious standing in a car he has not occupied at all today and with someone else’s belongings in hand.

  “Just lookin’ for the john,” he mutters, letting the bag fall to the floor. He pushes past me for the opposite exit. Well, that was a bit too close for comfort.

  Benji sits up, clutching his chest as though to keep his heart from leaping out of it. “Preston.”

  “It’s fine, lay back down.” I crouch to retrieve the box from beneath the bottom bunk and find myself almost eye-to-eye with one of the Chinese woman’s children, wide awake. I grin, give her a wink and hold a finger to my lips to signal her to keep quiet, which makes her smile. Then I fetch our bag and haul myself onto the top bed.

  Benji is lying down again, but his features are scrunched up in concern. “Honestly…”

  “Don’t look at me like that. What was I supposed to do?”

  His silence suggests he’s got no better answer.

  We’re already cramped for space, but we wedge the box beneath the covers down by our feet. There truly is no real way for us to avoid it completely, and I just hope that Benji will be able to sleep with it so close by.

  Once we’ve settled again—somewhat less comfortably than before—I finally meet Benji’s worried eyes.

  “What now?” he whispers.

  “What can we do? We keep the chest hidden and we lay low, I suppose.”

  “For two weeks?”

  “They don’t know who they’re looking for. Even if they get their heads out of their arses and realise James and Esher aren’t aboard the train, they’ve got no idea who has their cargo.”

  He bites his lip. This is, I suspect, far more than he anticipated having to deal with on this trip and I’m horribly regretful for that.

  He says, “We could get off at the next stop and board the next train that comes through town.”

  That’s a possibility, and yet we wouldn’t have any idea when the next train runs. It could be a day; it could be a week. That’s assuming they had any room for two more last-minute passengers.