Wolf in Waiting

by Rebecca Flanders

  A faint line of puzzlement appeared between her eyebrows, but she nodded, pulling on a pair of white kid gloves. “I’ll do my best.”

  She picked up her evening purse and called, “Good night, Socrates. Be a good kitty.”

  To my astonishment, the cat actually made some kind of vocalization in reply. It then leaped onto the sofa and began to groom itself, spreading black hairs all over the velvet upholstery.

  The night was bitter cold but star-bright, and the warmth of the limo welcome. Victoria’s eyes reflected awe as they quickly scanned the luxurious surroundings—the dove gray leather seats, the built-in computer terminal, fax and modem, the cellular phone and miniature television and VCR, the bar and walnut tray tables that also served as folding desks—but to me she looked perfectly natural in such an environment as she settled in across from me, a snow queen swathed in white fur.

  “Champagne?” I offered. “Or something else?”

  She hesitated, as though not quite certain whether she felt comfortable in this unfamiliar role, but then apparently decided to enjoy it. “Sherry,” she said. “Champagne gives me a headache. And what is that marvelous smell?”

  We nibbled on canapés from the warming oven and toast points with caviar, and she told me about Greg Stillman and his wife, Avril, both originally from Ottawa. “They have a wonderful house,” she said. “Or so I’ve heard. One of those huge mansions way back in the woods with a gated entrance and hundreds of acres. I’ve always wanted to see it.”

  As a matter of fact, the acreage was a minimum of five hundred, all fenced and heavily wooded to protect us from the curious. Werewolves do occasionally need room to run, and there were several such complexes in every major city in which we had offices. I explained this to Victoria, adding, “The house is a company holding. Greg only keeps it in trust for as long as he holds his position here. And of course, the grounds are available only to higher-level executives.”

  Her face, illuminated by the distant lights of other automobiles, looked thoughtful as she bit into a canapé. “So,” she said a moment later, “executives like Stillman are highly motivated to maintain their positions within the company. If they don’t, they lose everything.”

  I did not entirely follow her logic. “Well, no, not necessarily. I suppose it is conceivable that one might become attached to a particular house, but all the executive quarters are luxurious. A transfer to Europe, for example, might mean—”

  But she interrupted me with a shake of her head. I could see the gleam of excitement in her eyes even from the depths of the seat opposite and it was captivating. “No, I don’t mean transfer or promotion. I mean failure, demotion, being passed over or even reprimanded, like you were about to do to Greg the other day. I suppose I always knew it, but I never really thought about it before. He would be humiliated, ruined, his status broken…but he would also lose everything he’s accumulated. His house, his club memberships, his car—even his running space. Everything.”

  I nodded slowly, still not completely understanding. “Fortunately, that doesn’t happen very often, particularly at this level.”

  “But don’t you see?” She leaned forward a little, the excitement now penetrating her voice. “I could never understand why a werewolf would betray us before, particularly to humans. I mean, what would be the point? The company is our life, it gives us everything. To hurt it would be to hurt ourselves. But the company can also take away everything, especially on the highest executive level. And if it did, if an executive lost everything, where could he go except to humans? Where else could he ever expect to achieve the kind of success he once had known? Don’t you see? That’s the motive!”

  I sat there in the silently gliding limo with a glass of champagne in my hand and the ghost lights of other cars flickering past, wrestling with the implications of her words and absorbed by the vision she made sitting across from me swathed in white fur and framed by that cascade of satiny black curls, when suddenly it struck me: I could trust this woman.

  Yes, I know. The time for such an epiphany, if it were to come, should have logically occurred when Victoria had reported to me the offer made by Jason Robesieur. That proved her innocence, didn’t it? If she had been our spy—and what a perfect setup, considering the Robesieur connection—how could she have resisted the temptation he offered her?

  On the other hand, I had an empire to protect, a future held in trust. She would have expected me to know about her meeting with Jason—which I did, incidentally—and by dutifully and truthfully reporting to me, intended to throw me off her trail. Already I knew she was exceptionally clever; such cunning would not have been beyond her.

  My eyes, my ears, my senses for all things devious told me the chances were better than eighty percent that Victoria was innocent. With all my heart, for whatever that’s worth, I wanted to believe it. But so much was at stake; I refused to be led astray by a pair of gorgeous legs. So I withheld judgment, clinging to my skepticism with more determination than reason.

  There was no more reason now to believe her than there had been earlier, but suddenly I did. Suddenly I saw in her eyes genuine concern, heard in her tone the conviction of the honest, smelled on her skin the sweet breath of utter innocence. This woman was on my side. She could help me. She was not the problem, but very possibly the solution.

  Or perhaps that was, once again, simply what I wanted to believe.

  I said, narrowing my eyes a fraction as I tried to sort out my thoughts, “Interesting. So you think Stillman could be the one we’re looking for?”

  She sat back, sipping sherry thoughtfully. Her coat was open, and I could not help noticing the glitter of rhinestones against creamy skin. I reminded myself my judgment might not be all it should be. It had not, in fact, been particularly accurate since I got here.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted at last. “It seems a little too obvious, doesn’t it? But I think he bears keeping an eye on.”

  “I agree.”

  She had given me a lot to think about, and a mile or two passed in silence as I sipped my champagne and gazed out the window, seeing, mostly, the reflection of Victoria, all elegance and beauty, superimposed upon the passing night.

  At last I said, frowning a little, “I never really thought about it before, but perhaps you’re right. Our policy toward high-level executives does provide a motive for discontent, and a great deal more, I should think. St. Clare always provides an opportunity to make a living, and no one among us will ever starve…but shouldn’t there be something beyond that? If a man works faithfully for twenty, thirty years, it doesn’t seem fair that he should lose everything for one mistake, great or small. A man should be allowed to keep some of what he’s accumulated, shouldn’t he?”

  I was thinking of Michael St. Clare, who once had been—on paper if not in fact—one of the wealthiest men in the world. He had been the second most powerful werewolf among us; a lift of his finger would have brought him anything he desired, accomplished anything he wished. Admittedly, his circumstance was not common and his transgression not small, but look at him now: working with his hands for humans, collecting their paltry wages, driving—I winced at the thought—a pickup truck. Of course, by all accounts he was happy, but he was a St. Clare, and it didn’t seem fair.

  I wasn’t aware I had spoken that last out loud until Victoria responded, “It’s not fair, but that’s the way it’s always been. The welfare of the pack is the first priority.”

  Imagine that. Victoria St. Clare being my conscience.

  I said, “That’s right, and it should be. But maybe the principles that worked four hundred years ago aren’t appropriate in the twenty-first century. Maybe we should look toward restructuring the justice system in this company.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Someone should appoint a task force.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  I was taken aback. “Me?”

  Her eyebrows went up gently. “Who else?”

  It
struck me like that sometimes, unawares: I was in charge of the company. I could do it.

  I lifted my champagne glass, a little overwhelmed by the concept, and murmured, “Indeed.”

  Stillman’s estate was as Victoria had described it: a stately brick structure well removed from its neighbors, arranged in the middle of a parklike expanse of snow-covered lawn and fortified by intricately carved wrought-iron gates that slid open silently at our approach. The grounds were decorated with strategically placed garden lights that made the lawn look like a winter wonderland, and the house itself was ablaze with cheerful lamplight. I was amused by the way Victoria turned her gaze from one window to the other, trying to take in all the sights but determined not to reveal her eagerness.

  “Would you like to live in a house like this?” I inquired.

  “Good heavens, no,” she replied flippantly. “I could never keep the floors scrubbed.”

  But then she glanced at me and admitted, with more longing in her tone than I suspect she wanted me to hear, “Who wouldn’t?”

  I wouldn’t, for one. But then, I had a town house in London. And a villa in France and a chalet in Switzerland and a penthouse in New York. I had Castle St. Clare. The fact that I hadn’t asked for any of them—except the town house—didn’t make them any less mine. It was all still difficult to grasp sometimes.

  The driver pulled the car in front of the freshly swept front steps and opened the door for me first, and then Victoria. Alternating blue and white spotlights illuminated the portico and the evergreen garden that surrounded it. I could hear a string quartet inside, ice cubes clinking in glasses, a myriad of separate conversations, none of them particularly interesting, caterers scurrying in the kitchen, the snap of matches as candles were lit, the ping of crystal brushing the rim of a bone china plate. Stillman had pulled out all the stops.

  The steps were covered with a red runner to welcome important guests, and to absorb the melted snow from their expensive shoes. I offered my arm to Victoria and we ascended the stairs. I could feel her tension and see it in the stiffness of her smile, but I supposed—rather arrogantly—that she was intimidated by such an unaccustomed display of wealth. Had I forgotten that she was a St. Clare? For certain members of her family, a dinner like this would have been a casual evening at home. Besides, if I knew nothing else about Victoria, by now I should have at least realized she was not easily intimidated.

  The door was opened by a butler—although I believe they prefer to be called housepersons or domestic supervisors or something of the kind. This one was polite and very well trained. He took our coats gracefully and advised us our hosts were awaiting our arrival in the grand parlor to the left.

  Grand parlor. I was beginning to enjoy Stillman’s pretension.

  I placed my hand lightly on Victoria’s back as we moved toward the crowd. The grand parlor was, actually, rather grand. It appeared to be two rooms, in fact, which opened into one another via a series of pocket doors. The ceilings were high and the decor muted in tones of mauve and federal blue. There were a great many plants and a few very fine paintings.

  Intimate conversation groups were drawn up around spindly legged tables, but most people were standing, chatting in free-flowing groups from one to the other. You can always tell a gathering of werewolves from a human party; we are a gregarious, social people who never form those exclusionary little conversational knots that are so common in human gatherings.

  The air was redolent of whiskey and white wine, chafing dishes and brie and an almost intoxicating mixture of St. Clare perfumes. There was laughter and the crackle of a fire dancing in the grate, the tinkle of dangling earrings and scraps of genial conversation. Then our host spotted us from across the room and everything changed.

  To be fair, absolute silence did not fall. The quartet continued to play and the caterers continued to work in the kitchen. The fire continued to crackle and the ice cubes continued to clink in glasses held by unsteady hands. But one by one, word by word, conversations faltered and ceased as all eyes turned slowly toward us.

  Since assuming my new office, I’ve grown accustomed to receiving a certain amount of notice when I enter a room. Sometimes, in fact, I feel like a headmaster on a playground, or a priest in a brothel, with the way I can subdue a crowd just by appearing. But I had never been the cause of this kind of reaction before. And, granted, Victoria was a beautiful woman, but not even that dress could account for the way people were staring. Besides, they couldn’t be staring at her…but they were.

  I’m not sure exactly when I realized that. Perhaps it was in the contempt that flickered across Greg Stillman’s eyes when he looked at her, or the way his wife touched the pearls around her crepey neck as though afraid Victoria might steal them. Maybe it was the way the other werewolves glanced at me, then at Victoria, then at anyplace other than the two of us. But mostly I knew from the cool, curving smile that touched Victoria’s lips, and the cold shield that rose over her eyes.

  Greg Stillman came toward me, his hand extended, his expression welcoming and his voice a little too boisterous. His wife, following as though on a short leash, was a step behind, her own smile strained and her eyes disdainful.

  “Well, Noel,” said Stillman loudly, “so happy you could join us. Do you know my wife, Avril?”

  I shook his hand and bowed over Avril’s. “Thank you for inviting me,” I said. You may recall, my manners are excellent. I turned to Victoria. “Do you know—”

  Stillman interrupted me. “Did I mention Leonard White was flying in from New York? He’s most anxious to meet you. You’ll find him very useful when it comes to market research, the best in the business, they say.”

  I stared him down. I would like to say I shamed him into silence, but the man had no shame. It was fear pure and simple. I turned back to his wife. “Madame, as I was saying…?” I waited a polite beat. “Have you met Victoria St. Clare?”

  The older woman avoided my eyes. She toyed with her pearls once more. She didn’t look at Victoria, either, except for one or two curious, almost distasteful glances as she spoke. “Oh, yes, the little…” She cleared her throat. “From the office. Of course. Well, we weren’t expecting—but I’m sure we can find a place…”

  I said, “Excuse me, did I misunderstand? Didn’t you ask me to bring a date?”

  Stillman laughed loudly and gripped my arm in a far too familiar way. His wife tittered. Stillman said, “A date, yes! But you should have told me if you were that hard up, old man.” He lowered his voice confidentially and started to lead me away. “I could have put you together with…”

  Coldly, I pulled my arm from his grasp. The voices of other werewolves, murmuring in the background, now reached me in infuriating snatches. “I mean, really, the nerve of the little bitch. She thinks she can just push herself in anywhere…”

  “How distressing! Poor Avril! Now the seating plan will simply be ruined.”

  “What can he be thinking, can you tell me that?”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t know.”

  “Well, if he can’t tell the difference between a female and one like that, I think the pack may be in serious difficulty!”

  “I’ve never seen one up close before. She looks rather normal, doesn’t she?”

  I looked at Victoria, stoic and calm, her face composed and her eyes devoid of emotion. I looked at my host and hostess. I looked at guests around the room, who avoided my eyes and sipped their drinks, suddenly finding other things of great interest to discuss. And all the while my fury grew.

  I should explain that strong emotion, when we allow ourselves to experience it fully, is one of the things that triggers the Change in us from human to wolf. Anger is one of our most powerful emotions, so when we say, “I was angry enough to rip out his throat,” it is not entirely a figure of speech. We do not, of course, generally act on our emotions; if we did, what kind of society would we have? We are trained from childhood to control our emotions and use them at our will; it’s called civ
ility.

  I have never, however, been quite so close to involuntarily relinquishing control as I was at that moment. Only the steely press of Victoria’s fingers on my forearm reminded me of my duty and my surroundings.

  So, instead of launching myself at Greg Stillman and his entire bigoted crew in a display of absolute idiocy, I said in a voice that could have cut diamonds, “Perhaps we had better leave.”

  I turned to Victoria, but there arose such a flutter of protest that I was forced to look back. Stillman looked utterly flabbergasted; his wife near tears. He said, “I’m sure I don’t—” And she, “Oh, please, you mustn’t!”

  I realized they had no idea they had done anything wrong. In fact, no one in the room saw anything wrong with the way they had reacted to Victoria, not even Victoria herself. That in itself infuriated me, and I might have left, anyway, but for the steadying pressure of Victoria’s fingers on my arm, the quiet strength that flowed from her. As far as she was concerned, she had come to do a job. So had I.

  I made my muscles relax, I slowed the beat of my heart. I said in quiet, polite French, but distinctly enough for everyone to hear, “It is not my wish to make anyone uncomfortable. Please remember, however, that when you insult my guest, you insult me.”

  Stillman avoided my eyes, clearly confused. His wife tugged at her necklace in increasing distress. “Sir, I don’t understand what you mean. Of course—”

  And then, to my surprise as much as anyone’s, Victoria spoke up. Her voice was cool and clear and held only the slightest tinge of impatience, nothing more. “What he means,” she said, “is that he is the heir designé. If he brought a trained monkey to dinner with him, he would expect it to be seated at the table. Is that really such a difficult concept?”

  “Oh.” The faces around me cleared. “Oh, yes, of course.” Avril Stillman bowed deeply, as did her husband. “Our pardon, sir. We intended no offense.”