The Lonely Wolf

by Monica La Porta

  “Yes.” Ludwig leaned closer, the gray in his eyes iridescent with a hypnotic light. His wings were lit and sparkled, betraying his need for Quintilius.

  Such a rare sight, the evidence that his angel—the strongest among his brethren—couldn’t hide his desire for Quintilius left him with mixed emotions. In their relationship, Ludwig had always been the one in control, the one making all the decisions.

  Quintilius looked down at their reflection in the placid waters of the pond. Their mirror images were framed by Ludwig’s wings, their dark silhouettes creating a stark contrast against the white, pulsating light of his feathers. They were beautiful together, created for each other.

  Shocked and ashamed that his thoughts could divert from the topic at hand so easily when Ludwig was present, Quintilius stood and stepped back to the marble bench. Once he lowered himself to the hard seat, the dewy cold from the surface penetrated his jeans giving him the jolt he needed. “If he knew I was his father, why didn’t he contact me?”

  Despite the thought of having a son filled him with pride, and the warmth the idea had generated still spread inside him, he didn’t dare treat it like a reality.

  “I’m afraid he doesn’t have the best opinion of you, but when you two meet I’m sure everything will be fine.” Ludwig shifted on his perch.

  His wings were still brightly broadcasting his longing for Quintilius, disorienting him while he tried to come to terms with the whole concept of paternity. A different kind of yearning he had learned to suppress, knowing he couldn’t have progeny with his angel. For two thousand years, he had knowingly denied his clan a rightful heir, and now a son of his had appeared.

  “How could he have an opinion of me at all?”

  “The boy was wary and asking more questions would’ve only pushed him away—”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “At Drako’s. Both Ravenna and Peter thought he needed to decompress before meeting you. But I had to tell you as soon as possible.” Ludwig stood. “You have a son, Quin.”

  With growing trepidation, Quintilius watched Ludwig close the gap and fall to his knees before him.

  “He’s a pure alpha like you. You should see his attitude… and he’s handsome, like you but with the most electrifying blue eyes I’ve ever seen.” Ludwig pulled him down, then took his hands in his and brought them to his chest. “One look at him and he’ll melt your heart.” His eyes were liquid now and too close to Quintilius’s.

  Too many emotions battling for supremacy, Quintilius felt Ludwig’s lips pressing upon his and he didn’t have the strength to deny him the kiss he so longed for.

  Lost in the moment, he heard the slow rustling of wings and dismissed the sound as natural.

  “Bravo.”

  The word and the cruel laugh that followed penetrated Quintilius’s addled senses, and he turned, startled by a third presence in the garden.

  Perched on one of the lowest branches of an olive tree, a black raven with glassy eyes tilted its feathery head and repeated, “Bravo!”

  ****

  By the time Drako came back with a dark expression on his face, Lupo had been walking on the same narrow section of the path for so long, he had created a shallow furrow.

  The sun was positioned higher in the sky and the temperature had increased by several degrees, but he had been preoccupied with meeting his father and didn’t realize a whole hour had passed in the meantime.

  “What is it?” he asked when the immortal stopped in front of him.

  “It seems Quintilius won’t be able to come today.” He had a cell phone in his hand and angled the screen toward Lupo.

  “The great alpha is too busy to meet his bastard.” Disappointment as bitter and painful as an ill-deserved beating engulfed him.

  “It’s not what you think.” Drako frowned, then raised the cell phone. “He has been—”

  “Spare me the lie.” With a swat of his hand, Lupo moved away the phone. Disappointment morphed into anger, and the need to punch someone assailed him.

  “Lupo, wait. There’s an explanation for sure. I know Quintilius, and he’s an honorable man—”

  Before he would hit the immortal, Lupo sprinted ahead as his wolf growled. The world shifted, colors became brighter, sounds sharper. He had just jumped over the Greek and was running on all fours before he could stop himself. As the wolf took control, he realized he didn’t care at all to let go of himself and disappear.

  Run. Run. Run.

  Hurt.

  Ache.

  Pain.

  Run.

  Faster.

  Run.

  Lonely.

  Sounds. Loud.

  Moving. Scary.

  Smell. Bad.

  Burnt.

  Pain.

  Panther!

  Come.

  Help.

  Need you.

  Run.

  Run.

  Run!

  Hide.

  When Lupo shifted back into his body, he realized he had crossed several streets in his wolf form. Judging from the bedlam of horns and the acrid smell of burnt rubber from a sudden brake, the wolf had contributed to Rome’s already chaotic traffic. Hiding behind a garbage bin ensconced under an arch, he composed himself as much as he could, but a stark naked man wouldn’t go unnoticed for long. Not only had he lost his clothes back at Drako’s, but also his cell phone.

  Disoriented, he peeked out of the arch just enough to read the name of the intersecting street, Cima Terra. The name wasn’t familiar, but the alley was small and away from the main artery, and not a place he had visited for a delivery. Then he leaned to the left and saw the rear of a building with a marble façade with Art Deco elements he recognized immediately.

  Of all the places his wolf could have run to, he had decided to end up at the Purist girl’s condominium.

  Lupo couldn’t help but start laughing. His wolf had a masochistic sense of humor. He didn’t know what else to do if not wait for the night to arrive. Then he would shift again and hope his wolf would be stealthy enough to reach the Reds without getting caught skulking around Rome.

  His anger at Quintilius had addled his reasoning skills, but he wouldn’t make the same error twice and risk exposing his race to the mortals. It was bad enough he had shifted in full daylight. His only hope was that the wolf had been so fast no one had had time to shoot pictures or record his escapade.

  What an idiot. Now that his rage had abated to a dull pain, he could fully appreciate the magnitude of his inconsiderate act. Never before had he let his temper control him. Then the whole truth hit him. Never before had he shifted outside of a full moon.

  If he had doubted it before, now he knew. He was a fully-fledged alpha.

  With a thud, he fell to the dirty ground. As an alpha, his days among the Reds were numbered. Tancredi would never accept him back, not even if Lupo hid his nature. Sooner or later, his wolf would challenge Tancredi’s, and Lupo wanted nothing of the sort.

  He wanted to belong, not to stand out, but an alpha would never be granted the luxury. The laughs of only a moment before were a distant memory, his eyes swelled with bitter tears, and his wolf let out a sad howl that filled the alley.

  Alone again, he would have to leave Rome if he wanted to survive the manhunt the Reds would start as soon as Rock reported his disappearance, which would be any moment now. Sorrow and anger mixed again, and his chest contracted.

  A scent of jasmine reached his nostrils a moment before he heard soft steps approaching his hiding spot.

  Wolf?

  Responding to the call, he stood and stepped out from behind the garbage bin, only to be pushed back under the arch by the Purist girl.

  Surprised by the were-panther’s strength, he stumbled backward and found himself on the ground again. This time, he brought the girl down with him. She fell on top of him, and he cushioned her with his body, embracing her.

  “What are you doing?” an irate voice asked.

  The feminine speech
sounded like the one Lupo had heard in his mind, and—despite her anger—her tone was lilting and sensual to his ear.

  “Helping you. What does it look like?” His arms didn’t release her, and she didn’t make an effort to be freed, which encouraged him to let his hands slide a bit along the curves hidden by the voluminous tunic.

  “It looks like you want to die young, wolf.” Yet, she kept still in his embrace.

  “Aging is overrated, panther.” Drinking in the sight of her black eyes staring into his, he forgot everything about the severe punishment he would endure if caught with his hands on her—and naked to boot. He slowly moved his arms up and down her back. Under all that acreage of fabric, she wore another layer of clothing, but he could still feel the bump of the hook and eye closures of her bra. He wondered if she wore lace or cotton, and if she matched the tops to bottoms. Partial to white lace and small bows—preferably baby-blue or pale pink—he pictured her clad in a flimsy set he had once seen in a mail-order catalog.

  Older kids at the orphanage had once borrowed an intimate apparel catalog and let the younger kids have it when they were done studying it. Caught in possession of the shiny magazine, Lupo was grounded for stealing from the rector’s private quarters, but he had learned a great deal about the secret world of women’s underwear. More than once, he had surprised young ladies with his ability to unhook a bra by just caressing its closure.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “What do you think?” She wiggled on his lap, causing Lupo to moan.

  “I think you’re more than okay.” He was aware of his anatomy responding to her nearness in a way that wasn’t exactly gentlemanly, but she was soft and firm under his hands, and he couldn’t let go of her.

  Mine, panther.

  Mine, wolf.

  Along with the inner dialog, his wolf appeared in his mind, his muzzle playfully biting the black panther that roared back, but let him nuzzle her.

  “I’m Lupo.” He inhaled her scent, while his wolf placed his paws over the panther’s back going straight for her neck. With an elegant shrug, the panther turned around at the last moment dismounting him, and closing her muzzle over his wolf’s shoulder.

  As the two animals became more intimate in their playmaking, the girl’s eyes widened, then she blinked, and he could swear she was blushing. “I’m Jasmine,” she hoarsely whispered, which did nothing to calm Lupo’s ardor that matched his wolf’s.

  “Of course you’re Jasmine.” No other name would have described his girl.

  “You’re mine too,” Jasmine said, taking him by surprise.

  Slightly loosening his hold on her, Lupo leaned away and smiled. “You can hear my thoughts.”

  “Of course I can. How would I know you were here otherwise?” She raised the most perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

  “I was wondering about that.” That wasn’t true.

  Beyond touching her, his brain couldn’t manage even the simplest of thoughts. The danger he was in soon discarded as inconsequential, because he was about to burst for want of her. But he kept his touch light, when all he wanted was to raise the black garment and discover the treasures beneath.

  “You were so loud, I couldn’t think.” She tilted her head, then mischief lit her eyes. “Remember, I can hear your thoughts.”

  He was now the one blushing, and he removed his hands from her. “I meant no disrespect.” Then he realized he couldn’t hear her thoughts.

  “Purist privilege,” she said, placing her hands over his chest.

  Heart throbbing as if he was running for dear life, Lupo blinked. “What’s that?”

  Shrugging, she tilted her head, her long veil cascading over Lupo’s hands on her back. “It’s a one-way communication channel only women in our tribe have, a survival trait passed through generations, I was told. I can hear you, and I can send you my thoughts.”

  “Cool. It must come in handy at times.” He thought of a situation or two where he could have used mind reading to get away from thorny circumstances. Knowing if a girl had a fiancé would have helped him decide if she was worth the trouble.

  “How would I know?” Her body tensed. “And stop thinking about bedding were-skunks.” She made to stand, but he stopped her, grabbing her wrists in a soft but unyielding hold and pulling her down to him.

  “I apologize for my impure thoughts.” He grinned and pressed her united hands over his galloping heart. She moved her fingers in small circles and her touch burned his skin. “What do you mean by ‘how would I know?’ You just told me it’s your super power.”

  “I’ve never used it before.”

  “And why is that?” In need of a moment of respite, he readjusted the position of his legs and slid her away from his lap, holding her by her waist. To her raised eyebrow, he sheepishly smiled. “I’m a wolf.”

  “Indeed.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe my panther has chosen you.”

  “I could say the same, but I’ll be the better shifter and admit I can’t stop thinking about you since the day we met.” He raised an eyebrow. “How about that, my mighty panther?”

  She tilted her chin up. “You are cute.”

  “Thanks. I think you’re swell too, but I’d love to tear away that ugly, shapeless blanket you wear so I can see you whole.”

  “You’d like that, ah?” Before he could say or do anything, she stood and grabbed the hem of her tunic.

  Chapter Eleven

  With his back to the stained glass window, Ludwig stared at the elegantly decorated room. The absurdity of his current situation was such that he didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry.

  He was a guest of Claudius, a wanted criminal, impatiently waiting for an audience with the vampire. His hand had been forced, but, as a loyal servant in the Immortal Council and as the archangel, Ludwig should have been beyond blackmail.

  After Claudius’s majordomo had ordered him and Quintilius to surrender their cell phones, they had been escorted to the manor’s wing facing the lake and surrounding rolling hills.

  “I should’ve sensed Claudius right away.” Quintilius was pacing the room, his anger filling the space.

  “He flew over in raven-form, its body smeared with your gardener’s scent,” Ludwig repeated for the third time, but knew better than to comment upon the futility of their conversation.

  He had been so focused on Quintilius, on finally kissing him, that he had not heard the vampire until it was too late. If someone was culpable it was Ludwig, whose job was to keep the paranormal world free of menaces like Claudius. The fact that the vampire had disguised himself as a bird and covered his species’ scent didn’t excuse Ludwig. Angel senses were the most refined among paranormals. Ludwig could hear, smell, and see better than anyone else on Earth. He could also kill the whole of Rome if he only opened his mouth and let his Wrath free.

  Yet, here he was, at the mercy of a vampire who had disappeared the moment he had leapt to grab him, leaving him staring at the empty night sky like an idiot.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess,” he whispered.

  “What are you sorry for? I am the strongest alpha in all of Europe, and I was ambushed in my own home.” Quintilius spun on his boots, and without pause, punched the stuccoed wall. Bits of plaster fell to the floor, one of the upper garlands decorating the wall broken beyond repair. With renewed anger, he kicked the wall twice. “I was caught unaware like a green cub.” Then he swore a crude blasphemy, and afterward said, “In. My. Own. Home,” punctuating the words with punches, until his knuckles bled. After uttering several more swearwords, he moved away from the wall he was about to demolish and resumed his pacing.

  For all his shouting and venting though, Quintilius still hadn’t said a word about his gardener’s fate.

  They both knew the old werewolf was dead, and Ludwig wanted nothing more than to comfort his wolf, but knew that Quintilius wouldn’t appreciate the gesture. So he did the only thing he could do given the circumstances, he listened.

>   After a long moment of silence, Ludwig walked to one of the high back chairs and perched himself on it, his frame too large for the furniture.

  Quintilius paused his furious pacing and faced him. “What does he want from us?”

  “Who knows with Claudius? It could be anything.” Ludwig had been wondering the same since the vampire made his dramatic entrance in Quintilius’s garden, and the raven told them they could pay him a visit in his nest or face public shaming.

  By the time he and Quintilius reached the manor in Castel Gandolfo—the flight had taken less than ten minutes—Claudius’s majordomo informed them his master had retired to his chambers, but they were to wait for him to wake.

  “If you leave, Master will release this video to the Holy Council,” the majordomo added, then reached for a cell phone and proceeded to play a recording for them. It showed Quintilius and Ludwig, in the gardens at Casolare del Lupo, in a compromising embrace. He could have explained the intimate gesture, but his wings lit like a billboard gave away his sentiments without a doubt.

  Blackmailed into staying, they had been waiting the whole day. Different servants had come with refreshments every few hours, but other than that they had been left alone and unguarded.

  “Lupo—” Quintilius started, then fell to the chair beside Ludwig’s and brought both hands to his face.

  “He’ll understand when we explain what happened.” Ludwig was distracted by the sight of the dark and silver stubble shadowing Quintilius’s jaw, aching to caress it. He knew that if his wolf didn’t shave twice a day, sometimes three times, he would grow a full, messy beard in less than forty-eight hours. Quintilius always joked his testosterone came with its own mustache.

  Ludwig missed Quintilius’s jokes. His wolf used to be fun and light. Sometimes, guilt overcame him for having robbed his lover of his cheerfulness, and he felt responsible for what had happened to Camelia. Had he not been in the picture, maybe she and Quintilius would have married. Their union might have been political at first, but they were both good people and would have learned to love each other as a couple. Sometimes, Ludwig thought of the cubs Quintilius should have by now, and imagined how happy his wolf could have been.