Wolf in Waiting

by Rebecca Flanders

  Oh, but I was terrified. So many failures, so many expectations dashed, so many voices laughing in my ears. The pleasure he had shown me, the pleasure he had promised me, yes, I hungered for it, I trembled for it, and I dared not take it for my own.

  I clung to him, tightening my arms around him, and I whispered, “No…please, don’t, I’m so frightened…”

  He caressed my back, he kissed my hair. “All right, love, I won’t. It’s all right…” He drew me to the bed, wrapping his arms and legs around me, holding me in his embrace. We caressed each other, we loved each other in silent, simple ways, and we fell asleep wrapped in each other’s embrace.

  When I awoke, I was cold, and he was gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Noel

  It was not raining in Seattle, which surprised me. In fact, the pilot informed me, the temperature was in the mid-forties when we touched down that afternoon, and I noticed nothing but a lacework of snow was left on the banks as the limo sped down the highway toward the suburbs where Michael lived.

  Suburbs. Michael. Even now I could barely think the two words in one sentence without a shudder. There but for the grace of God go I.

  Already I was beginning to regret my foolishness in coming here. What did I really expect to accomplish, after all? Michael had ruined his life, now I was looking to him for advice on mine? What could he tell me that would ease my pain, change my lot, give me more choices? Or perhaps I just wanted to confront him with what he had left me, the life that should have been his.

  The little house into which Michael had moved with his human wife Aggie was charming, in its own way. It was situated on a foggy lake, which I didn’t like, and surrounded by woods, which I did. It was an elegant brick Georgian design with all the architectural features one might find in a much grander estate, but it was—or at least had been the last time I’d seen it—about half the size of the pool house at Michael’s former summer home in Malibu.

  The little house had grown by at least one wing and half a story, I noticed as the car pulled into the circular driveway. Construction debris and scaffolding were everywhere, and a crew of three was taking advantage of the fine weather to do something to the roof. The hammering slowed and then ceased as they all turned to stare at the big black car with the bullet-proof windows that stopped before their employer’s door.

  I was quite sure that my arrival had not gone unnoticed by the occupants of the house, either, although it did occur to me I might have done well to phone ahead. She made me wait through two rings of the bell before she came to the door. Even then, she only opened it partway, leaning against its edge to look me over as though, if she weren’t careful, I might try to force a magazine subscription on her.

  “Well, if it isn’t Noel Duprey,” she observed with an inquiring tilt of her head. “If I had only known, I would have been certain to have the red carpet cleaned.”

  Aggie McDonald St. Clare has never liked me; I can’t think why. I’ve always done my best to be polite to her. Well, most of the time, anyway.

  “Mrs. St. Clare,” I returned with a dry emphasis on the title. “You are looking lovely as always.”

  I suppose to some she might be an attractive human female—obviously Michael thought so—but I didn’t care for the thin-milk color of her skin or the obscene red of her hair, which she wore far too short, or the wicked tongue that was part of the package. Although I prefer my women taller and more substantial, I will admit she had a certain porcelain-doll charm, particularly dressed as she was today in a big sweater and slim-legged jeans. Disarming, that was what she was, deceptively harmless. As a werewolf, I can appreciate a good deception when I see it, for the last thing Aggie St. Clare could ever be was harmless.

  She opened the door wider and stepped back, though with obvious reluctance and a suspicious gaze that never left me. “I suppose you may as well come in.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  I stepped into the small foyer, glancing around as I removed my coat. Delicious odors emanated from the kitchen—roasting fowl and baking bread and something seasoned with cinnamon. It made me hungry. Beyond that were the scents of fresh paint and turpentine, floor wax and furniture polish, and the wood that burned in the fireplace. An archway with very nice Corinthian molding opened onto the new addition, and before me and to my right was a canvas curtain which, judging from the scents of cedar and outdoor air, concealed the opening to what must once have been a coat closet.

  I passed my coat to her, and she hung it unceremoniously on the hook by the door, demanding, “What do you want, Noel?”

  I went to examine the archway with its gleaming white paint and expertly carved molding, and inquired, “Did Michael do this?”

  “With his own hands.”

  The room beyond was wide and high-ceilinged, with many windows and graceful curves. It was furnished with sawhorses and canvas drop cloths; I would have gone in to see more but I didn’t want to get dust on my shoes. I will admit, though, I was impressed.

  “Fine work,” I observed. “He’s quite good.”

  “Of course he is,” she responded impatiently. “What are you doing here?”

  I went into the tiny room with the fireplace. Michael had been here not long ago, his scent was fresh in the room. None of the chairs looked as though they would support me, and I wondered how Michael could stand living here. I would go mad with claustrophobia.

  I stood with my back to the fire and my hands linked behind me and I said pleasantly, “I really don’t see why you have to be so rude to me, Aggie. What have I ever done to you to deserve such treatment?”

  “Oh, well, nothing much at all. You merely kidnapped and drugged me, held me captive a thousand miles from home and forced me to watch you try to kill my husband!”

  I made a careless dismissive gesture with my wrist. “Other than that, of course.”

  She threw up her hands in exasperation and turned away. I grinned. She was entirely too easy to tease.

  “Of course, had I not done any of that for which you so unfairly revile me,” I reminded her, “your beloved might not have ever regained his memory and his good health and with it the freedom to choose to toss away his life and his career in favor of this deserted little backwater and a human bride. Wouldn’t you think for that I might at least deserve a cup of tea?”

  She turned back to me with a frown that was almost comical in its ferocity, clearly uncertain whether I had just complimented or insulted her, undecided whether to feed me or throw me out. It was perhaps fortunate for us both that Michael chose that moment to make an appearance.

  He smelled of werewolf and sweat, flannel and wood smoke and leather. He wore a plaid workman’s jacket over a gray sweatshirt and dusty jeans, leather gloves and a tool belt low on his hips. His hair was braided in a single long rope down his back. I had worried that seeing him again, with my own eyes witnessing the depths to which he had sunk, would be the final cap on my own despair. I needn’t have concerned myself. Michael without a kingdom was still a king. No matter how hard he tried to be human, he was still the most powerful werewolf I would ever know.

  I resented this.

  He said, slipping his arm around Aggie’s shoulders, “Now, Noel, you haven’t been in the house five minutes and already you’ve made her mad. Not the wisest course of action, when you consider she’s the cook.”

  She went all soft at his touch, her frown melting, her shoulders relaxing, her entire body swaying, ever so subtly, toward his. I felt like a voyeur, but I couldn’t help it, really: the way their pulses shifted when they came together, blending into the rhythm of each other’s, the way their individual scents melted together and created a new scent that was uniquely their own—these were two people who were unmistakably mated, lost forever in the essence of each other. She smiled and lifted her face to his, he bent and kissed her lips lightly. I was fascinated, appalled…and envious.

  “Michael,” I greeted him cautiously. “You look well.”

&
nbsp; It was true. Life as a human apparently agreed with him. He was lean and fit and healthy, his skin tanned and firm, his muscles strong in a way that only physical labor can make them. I had for some reason expected him to have deteriorated in the six months since last we met. I was not certain whether I found this, the evidence of his contentment—even prosperity—encouraging or disappointing.

  He met my eyes and he said, “I am well.”

  I decided I was glad.

  Aggie said, “I don’t think he came all this way to inquire about your health.”

  “Probably not,” Michael agreed easily. He stepped away from her and stripped off his work gloves, then removed his tool belt with a clatter. “Is there any coffee on?”

  “I’d prefer tea,” I put in.

  She gave me a withering look. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee,” she told Michael. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes,” I said, just to annoy her.

  Michael grinned. “Don’t bother. We’ll get something if we want it.”

  She looked reluctant. “I do have some work to do in my office,” she admitted. She glanced at me, then back at Michael. “I don’t suppose he’ll tell you why he’s come until I leave.”

  “No,” I said, growing irritated, “he won’t.”

  She looked at me again and said in a saccharine tone, “Always a pleasure, Noel. Do come again when you can’t stay as long.”

  I resisted a childish impulse to make a face at her retreating back, and Michael’s eyes twinkled. “She’s really fond of you, you know. Sings your praises when you’re not around.”

  “Yes, well, it does make a refreshing change,” I replied. “One gets tired of being treated with civility everywhere one goes.”

  Michael looked at me for a moment longer, smiling, and, as far as I could tell, he was genuinely glad to see me. I had worried about that, too.

  Then he said, gesturing me to be seated, “So, cousin. Troubles already, huh?”

  I wanted to ask him how he knew, but that would have been foolish. Of course I was in trouble. Why else would I come to him?

  I hesitated before sitting. This was not something I could talk about confined to a small chair. I wasn’t sure it was something I could talk about at all.

  I said, indicating the clatter of hammers coming from the roof, “Could we go for a walk?”

  A slight inclination of his head signaled both agreement and curiosity. We went through the French doors and onto a small patio, then followed a path toward the lake.

  I said, “How do you stand it?”

  “The noise? It’s the sound of progress. I like it.”

  I shook my head. “The noise, the small spaces, the humans…the poverty.”

  He laughed. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he walked with a long easy stride that spoke of confidence and pride, a man who was absolutely comfortable with himself. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘to the manor born,’ Noel? That’s the difference between us. You are, I never was.”

  This confused me. He, after all, was royalty. I was the interloper.

  The curving lake path took us past the little studio building where Aggie had her office. Perhaps I mentioned that she is a writer of some sort for a local paper; nothing of much consequence, but it keeps her out of trouble, I suppose. The lights were on inside the office and I could see her at the window, watching us. I lifted my hand in greeting and she turned away.

  I said, indicating the woods, “Do you ever run?”

  “Of course.” He seemed surprised by the question. “The paths are good and the woods are deep. I’ll take you tonight, if you like.”

  Now I was surprised. “She doesn’t mind?”

  He shot me a look that was puzzled and amused. “Why should she mind? She knows what I am, Noel. She loves me because of it.”

  This to me seemed perversely unnatural and not worth the effort it would take to understand, particularly since there were matters of far more personal import on my mind. I said, “But she can’t come with you. She can’t know what it is you experience when you run or what compels you to do it or what you become in the process. This is a very large and important part of your life that she can never share with you.”

  Once again he slanted me that odd and probing look. “But she can. She’s my wife. She knows what I know, and feels what I feel, just as I do with her.”

  I simply shook my head, a gesture that indicated, not so much a lack of understanding, as a kind of helplessness. I didn’t know how to express myself. I didn’t know what to ask. I still wasn’t sure why I had come.

  “Are you ever sorry?”

  “For loving her? God, no.”

  “For leaving us.”

  This reply took a second or two longer. “I miss the family,” he said. “I’m sorry for hurting them. I miss pack life and I sometimes—not very often—miss the work.” A wry twist of his lips softened the words. “But what I’ve gained is so much more than I lost…No, I can’t say that I’m sorry.”

  Tall grasses, winter brown, grew beside the path, brushing against my legs as we walked. Absently I snapped off the head of one and crushed it between my fingers. “What is this infernal fascination with the human world, anyway?”

  If I were Michael, I would have demanded that I come to the point long ago. But Michael has always been the patient one, which is what makes him the superior leader, I suppose.

  He said, “Some of us spend as much as half our lives in human form. The fascination is naturally there. The choice is whether to embrace or despise what we are.”

  “You sound like a damn philosophy professor.”

  That seemed to amuse him. “Perhaps that will be my next career.”

  At least he had the liberty of choosing.

  We were out of sight of the house now, and the sound of hammering was distant, echoing across the lake in muffled pings. The shadows of barren trees stretched in long dark lines across our path. I said, without looking at him, “How do you have sex with her?”

  His half-caught laugh was a mixture of surprise and outrageous amusement. “The usual way!”

  “You mean the human way.”

  “Of course. Might I ask what generated this sudden interest? If it’s not too personal, of course.”

  “And that’s enough for you?” I said, ignoring his question.

  His amusement became mingled with exasperation. “All right, Noel, let’s have it. You didn’t come all this way to talk about my sex life.”

  “Actually…” I tossed aside the dead blossom I had been shredding and turned to face him. “I did.”

  He looked at me for a long time as though trying to decide whether or not to believe me, and I can’t say that I blame him. But I suppose no one could be as miserable as I was and lie about it, because something in my face must have convinced him. He turned and started walking again.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  Suddenly it seemed very simple. I said, “Do you know Victoria St. Clare?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “She’s in the Montreal office.”

  “Yes.” His voice was thoughtful. “I heard about the troubles there.”

  Another subject entirely. I determined to stick to the one at hand. “She’s an anthromorph.”

  To his credit, he did not slow his step or reveal his surprise in any way. He merely said, “Ah,” in understanding, and let me go on.

  The path turned into the woods. I was glad of the deepening shadows. I wasn’t sure I could have had this conversation in bright light. “I’m quite obsessed by her, I’m afraid. Emotionally and—physically. I’m aware, of course, that any long-term union between us is impossible. In fact, a mating ceremony has been scheduled for me next month.”

  I sensed the sharpness of his gaze, but did not meet it.

  I went on, “I know, of course, that Victoria is not a possible…candidate, but I can’t stop thinking, wondering…wishing…” I faltered as the words that had seemed so effortless moments ag
o suddenly dried up. There were no words, I realized dispiritedly. There were no words for the torment I was suffering.

  “I can’t stop thinking about her,” I finished at last, and in a tone so low it was barely above a mumble.

  We walked a little while longer in silence. Dead leaves crunched under our feet, and occasional patches of ice, hidden in the dark shadows, cracked when we stepped on them.

  Michael said, “Does she share your feelings?”

  A straightforward question that should have been simple to answer. Like everything else in my life at that moment, it was anything but simple. “It’s difficult to say. She guards her emotions closely, which isn’t so hard to understand. She’s suffered a great deal in her life. I can’t ask her when I have nothing to offer her, but yes, I think she feels the same.”

  “Well now. Isn’t this interesting?” Michael thrust his fists deeper into the pockets of his jacket, tilting his head back to catch an errant ray of sun that peeked through a thicket of evergreens overhead. I could smell his tension, and the undercurrent of distress he was trying to control.

  “So now you’d like me to show you the techniques for having sexual congress with a female in human form,” he said. “There’s really not much of an art to it, you know. Perhaps I’ll teach a class.”

  “Don’t be crude.”

  The look he shot me was sharp and challenging. “So that’s not what you want?”

  “No, it’s not.” I was growing angry now, confused and irritated and yes, embarrassed. “I’m not like you, I don’t want to be human. I would find no satisfaction in it, even if I could…restrain myself, which I don’t want to.”

  His eyes had a rather cruel glitter in the dimness. “Oh, you could restrain yourself,” he assured me, “if you wanted to. And that answers your question, doesn’t it? It’s simply a matter of what you want, and what you’re willing to give up to achieve it. Shall I tell you more?”