As she studied the book, page by page, Sam began to wonder if the skills and unique DNA that were the Karolyi family legacy hadn’t begun with Ivan. Obviously, somewhere in the background, someone in their family, was responsible for it... There was initial contact, and it seemed as if Ivan had been thinking the same thing, based on the notes he had taken and information he’d collected throughout Eastern Europe.
Sam grabbed a bunch of grapes from the bowl on the table, and plucked one off, savoring the cold, juicy flavor as she turned the pages, pausing briefly on the entry that included a familiar face. Vincent Kremer’s dark eyes stared off the page that Ivan had dedicated to “the Quicksilver Wolf”, his naming of a phenomenon, the spontaneous appearance of DNA in an infected individual supporting the virus. Unlike their own inherited ability, Vincent, and presumably his sister, Alice, demonstrated the ability to support the virus physically with no evidence of any genetics or history to explain why.
Sam had asked Vincent on more than one occasion about his experiences, but he always managed to change the subject, or distract her from her own interest in some way, and the questions went unanswered. Sam smiled, and felt flushed as she recalled his preferred method of distraction, which usually began with playful teasing and nudging, and concluded with the two of them sweaty and spent, basking in afterglow.
Sam took another sip of the wine and felt the flush increase. Not surprising, since it was red wine. Returning to the book, Sam leafed through several pages, skimming the information about treatments for controlling LV. Her grandmother’s recipe for “cough syrup” was there. Sam recalled the herbs she’d picked that hung to dry in the kitchen of the cabin up north. An interesting mélange of wild herbs and plants, including belladonna, went into the thick liquid. The belladonna, medically known as atropine, made it a dangerous treatment, one that could easily kill if taken in large doses. The question of whether the amount in even an entire bottle of the cough syrup would be enough to kill someone infected with LV was something even Hudson didn’t have an answer to, and nobody was interested in being a guinea pig to find out.
Nothing curative. Sam sighed, setting the book down on the sofa. She’d gone through the book over and over since Ivan’s death, looking for any clue, any sign that there was a cure for the virus, though how she, or Vincent, or anyone else, for that matter, could be cured of something that had become part of their very genetic makeup seemed implausible. Yet Hudson was looking... He wasn’t mentioned in the book at all... Not surprising, since as far as Sam knew Ivan hadn’t met him until that day when Hudson helped her get Ivan out of the hospital and safely home.
It’d been a while since she’d seen Hudson, and Sam had to admit she was avoiding him for as long as possible. It’s why she sent Vincent and Ronne to chat with him the other day. Sam took another large sip of the wine, then reached for the bottle, pouring generously again as she popped another cracker in her mouth. As she sat back on the sofa, wine in hand, the pages of Ivan’s book began to move, the tension in the paper of the back pages causing them to flip forward.
Sam glanced down at the book. There was remarkably little information in Ivan’s book about Ravens. In fact, Sam had never even heard of them until Frank Ronne had revealed himself to be one, and more specifically, to be hers. In nature, ravens and wolves were companions, a strange, symbiotic kind of relationship, though scientists weren’t sure who really relied on who. In this case, it was still unclear. From what Sam could gather, the connection between herself and Ronne was more of feeling, a sense of each other that was strong enough to feel even over a substantial distance. She’d been surprised by the ease of it, projecting herself toward him, sensing where he was based on his feelings. She could tell Ronne’s presence bothered Vincent somewhat, though she felt it was more about Ronne being a Raven and, in Vincent’s estimation, untrustworthy, than about any kind of jealousy on his part.
She turned another page. The entries on Ravens were severely limited, and Sam had often wondered why Ivan seemed to know so little about them, as well as wondering why he didn’t have one. Ronne had indicated that werewolves always have a Raven...
The wine buzz was enveloping her in a delicious warmth, and Sam had started feeling anxious for Vincent to get home, when she noticed an entry on the last page of the book. It was definitely Ivan’s handwriting, but unlike the script that was visible everywhere else in the book, this was his block printing, and Sam could only guess that he’d written in as an afterthought. Possibly even the day he died.
“The Ravens’ Tale is in the abbey on the island,” Sam read aloud, her voice seeming to fill the emptiness of the apartment. She touched the words briefly, her eyes brimming with tears. He’d added it... for her. The abbey on the island... but what island, and what abbey? Abbeys were generally a European construction, and old as well... Could the book be old, even medieval? Sam’s brain moved quickly, the Celtic imagery of illuminated manuscripts coming to mind. Surely, he didn’t expect her to travel to Ireland, did he?
“Vincent’s from Ireland,” Sam murmured, picking up her mobile phone. “Maybe he would know...” She trailed off, looking at the screensaver on her phone, the familiar map of the subway covering the Five Boroughs, including Manhattan... the island of a Manhattan.
Sam quickly pulled up the search bar and typed in “Manhattan abbeys”. In a big city like this, the likelihood of finding an actual convent or monastery was slim, especially with so many closings. As the search results came up, Sam prepared herself for a dead-end. She hadn’t prepared herself for the first result and frowned.
“The Metropolitan Museum of Art?” Puzzled, she clicked on the link, which took her, not to the main site for the museum on Fifth Avenue, but to another site, one they used for storing many of the treasures that didn’t go on display at the main building. Home to the Unicorn Tapestries, and one of the rumored Holy Grails, it was brought in pieces from France and reassembled at the northern end of Manhattan...
“The Cloisters,” Sam breathed the name out, even as her mind began to calculate how she was going to get inside and locate whatever Ivan had meant when she didn’t even know what it looked like.
She heard Vincent’s key in the lock, and quickly turned off the phone. There would be time to fill him in later, after she had a plan...
15
VINCENT PAUSED IN THE hallway for a minute, leaned against the wall beside the door and closed his eyes. To the untrained observer, he probably looked weary and reluctant to go inside. The truth was as far from that as possible, at least as far as the going inside went. The apartment was old, and often noisy with the creaks and groans of wooden floors and old piping. The elevator was unreliable, at best, and he and Sam had often had to walk it, usually when it was the most inconvenient or they were the most tired and sore.
Today wasn’t one of those days, though. The elevator had brought him briskly up to the top floor. Almost too briskly, and that necessitated Vincent pausing outside the apartment to try and erase some of the worry and weariness from his face. Sam picked up on things like that quickly, and he hated unintentionally bringing her down as she wheedled the cause out of him. The stress was starting to get to him. Prutzmann’s death had affected him more than he cared to admit... after all, when you live to combat an enemy, and then that enemy is suddenly gone, it can throw you. Add on the problem of not only Ben being missing, but also his sister, coupled with all the other usual elements of werewolf angst, and pursuit, and the quest for Lycan domination, or whatever it was those bastards were always up to, and Vincent was burned out. This pause in the hallway to readjust and perk up before going inside wasn’t enough, but it was all he could manage right now.
He sighed and took out his keys. Unless she was asleep, she’d likely already heard him in the hallway...best go in. Vincent unlocked the door and stepped inside. The sweet smell of the wine hit his nose first... Malbec... Sam liked that one, mostly because it didn’t bother her stomach or give her a headache. Vincent slipped out
of his coat, hanging it on the coat rack in the hallway, and sauntered into the living room, smiling when he saw the scene before him.
“Are we having a picnic?” Sam looked up, grinning, her face a bit flushed. A glance at the wine bottle on the table told Vincent that she’d had at least a couple of glasses already and was likely feeling a bit of a buzz. He had to admit he was relieved... the rosy hazy of wine would keep her from seeing the weariness in his eyes... At least, he hoped so.
“Hello there,” Sam said, as she closed the large book on the sofa and shifted it awkwardly over to the over-stuffed chair, ultimately making room for Vincent to sit on the sofa with her, which he did. Vincent leaned back, his legs stretched out in front of him, his head resting on the back of the sofa. It was old, and hellish to sleep on, but right now it felt like Heaven on Earth.
“Do you want some of the wine?” Vincent admired the flush in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eye from drinking. He’d always found “pretty” to be a dismissive kind of compliment for a woman’s appearance... little girls could be pretty... teenage girls could be pretty... but grown women were better than that. Calling a grown woman pretty was lazy and unimaginative... The exception, he felt, was when something excited them, whether it was exercise, or alcohol, or sex... anything that made their eyes sparkle, and their cheeks flush... made them bite their lip and giggle... That was pretty... it wasn’t about how they looked, but about the overwhelming emotional excitement bubbling to the surface. And his Sam looked very pretty right now.
“Or maybe something else?” There was a glint of mischief in Sam’s eyes, as if the implication that question put forward was as obvious and intentional to her as it seemed to him. Vincent smiled slowly, the heat in his eyes palpable as they raked over her curves.
“What did you have in mind?” Vincent watched as Sam scooted closer, her lips coming very close to his ear as she spoke:
“Coffee?” He could hear the laughter in her voice, though she was trying to restrain it. So, you want to play...right then...
“Coffee sounds great. I’ll go make some.” Vincent started to get up, but Sam pushed him back on the sofa, and quickly straddled him. She was chuckling as she shook her head, and leaned in to kiss him, greeting him in the best possible way he could imagine, and taking her time doing it, too.
When she came up for air, Vincent pulled her closer, burying his face in her neck, nuzzling her collarbone, her ear. He could feel her hands wrapping around him more tightly, their breaths synchronizing almost instantly, mimicking the rhythmic timing their bodies would soon be moving in. Vincent raised his head, finding her lips urgently, as his hands dropped to her hips and pulled her more firmly against him. He could feel her body responding as he kissed her, and his own beginning to throb. If he reached up now, he could slip her shirt—
Pounding on the door interrupted his carnal plans, changing the litany of endearments and dirty talk he was preparing to say into a cacophony of cursing in his mind.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” Vincent’s eyes snapped open, startled that Sam had said it before he could. She was looking toward the hallway, and the door... glowering was more like it, and Vincent half expected her to start growling in a minute.
“Maybe they’ll go away,” Vincent said quietly, but Sam was already getting up, grabbing a sip of her wine as she stood.
“No, he won’t. It’s Frank.” She headed out to the door to let him in, and Vincent began thinking of anything possible to calm his libido... kittens, grandmothers, ways to kill Frank Ronne and make it look like an accident...
“Sorry, I know it’s late.” Ronne seemed to hesitate in the doorway, as if unsure, based on his feeling of Sam’s emotions, whether it was safe to come in. Sam sighed, and waved her hand dismissively.
“It’s just...your timing was kind of...bad.” Sam came back to the living room first, followed moments later by Ronne. Vincent got up off the sofa, picking up Ivan’s book and setting it on the floor carefully before he plopped down in the chair.
Ronne sat down on the sofa, noting the irritation on their faces and at least having the decency to look remorseful. “This couldn’t wait.” He popped open the laptop and swung it around so Sam and Vincent could see the screen.
“What are we looking at?” Vincent asked, obviously still annoyed that his evening had been interrupted.
“This is the Underland,” Ronne began, his index finger tapping the mousepad, scrolling the pages filled with messages. “Question Mark is very active today.”
“Question Mark?” Sam frowned, looking between the two of them. “What is Question Mark?”
“Not a what, a who,” Ronne replied, then set the laptop on the coffee table. “Question Mark is the handle for someone on these boards. Someone who is very vocal about, um...”
“Lycan activities,” finished Vincent, as he took out a cigarette.
“Okay.” Sam looked between the two again, then focused on Vincent. “You knew about this?”
“Barely. He mentioned it earlier.”
Sam turned to Ronne. “Okay, so, why is this an emergency of some kind? Are they planning something we have to stop?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so.” Ronne pointed to the screen. “Question Mark... usually the posts are, well, questions. He stimulates discussion, gets the others talking, and you learn a lot when they do. Some are just wannabes full of shit, but some of them... They do know things.
“This time, though... It’s about you... Asking if anyone has seen you, knows you... He wants to meet you... ‘the she-wolf’... in person, and soon.”
“No way,” Vincent replied, his words slightly muffled as he spoke around the cigarette he was lighting. Sam glared at him, and his eyebrows shot up when he saw the look she was giving him. “You can’t be serious. Please tell me you are not even considering doing this.”
Sam lowered her gaze for a moment. “Frank, where does he want to meet?”
“You’re choice.” Sam’s mind rejoiced at that. This was the perfect opportunity! Kill two birds with one stone, as it were...
“Alright. Tell him... I’ll meet him at the Cloisters Museum, in the main garden, at noon tomorrow.”
“Not alone, you won’t,” Vincent said, his eyes darkening like thunderclouds had rolled in.
“Yes, I will.” Vincent opened his mouth to object, but Sam placed a finger softly on his lips. “I don’t want him spooked. This guy knows a lot of shit, probably more than he even thinks he knows, and we need information. Besides, if he’s on this board all the time, asking questions, he may know something about what happened to Benny.”
Vincent clenched his jaw, clearly not happy with the arrangement. Sam took her finger from his lips, her hand brushing the stubble on his face as she continued: “I’ll be alright. It’s a public place, an open area. No one is going to try anything there.”
16
FORT TRYON PARK
The Cloisters Museum
No one is going to try anything there...
The words echoed and re-echoed in her mind as Sam walked the porticoes of the Bonnefort Cloister garden. She’d been here for a while, since the doors opened for the day, and had spent time walking through the exhibits, trying to figure out where the so-called “Ravens’ Tale” could be, and how she could get a substantial look at it before anyone cracked wise and booted her out.
She’d arrived early, hoping whoever she was meeting didn’t decide to do the same thing. Sam wanted to scout the area, starting in the park. Luckily, Fort Tryon was all but empty at ten in the morning and scenting it out took less time than she had anticipated. Now, she’d been wandering the museum for an hour, which wasn’t all bad. The buildings were exquisite, much of it actually abbeys transported from Europe. Sam smirked as she looked around the carved stone of the Bonnefort Cloister. Probably the closest most New Yorkers would ever get to travel in Europe, she thought, as she began yet another circuit of the garden path.
The gardens were meticulou
sly planted with the herbs and plants that would have grown in a medieval garden. Sam was amazed at the variety, and familiarity, of the plants. She’d recognized many as she wandered along... absinthe, juniper, hollyhock, meadowsweet... Many of the medicinal herbs her grandmother had used were there as well, like feverfew, valerian, and vervain. She’d used vervain a lot, tying it in little dried bundles and strewing it about the apartment, to promote happiness, according to her. Sam smiled wistfully, touching the lemon balm carefully and enjoying the fragrance that wafted up as she did. She missed having a garden...
Sam glanced at her watch... fifteen more minutes. She sighed... watched pot and all that, she understood, but damn if it wasn’t hard waiting! The anticipation was tying her stomach in knots, and she had the fleeting thought they might never untie again. There was also a gnawing feeling inside, nestled in the back of her mind, and in a little corner of her gut, that this could be bad. Vincent had been sullen this morning, barely speaking as they drank coffee, and he’d stayed clear of the shower and bedroom as she bathed and dressed, which was unusual behavior for him. Sam sighed. Men weren’t difficult to figure out, really... All the same, each in their own different ways. The drive to protect, to care for, to be the one in control... So much was about optics for them, how other people perceived things, what other people saw. Sam scented the air, as she had several times that morning, and checked for his scent... his unique mixture of peppermint, and cigarettes, and clean maleness... No sign, though.
I love him, Sam thought to herself, the out-of-the-blue statement startling her a bit. She’d already known it in many ways... She’d put it off in the beginning, attributing it to the effects of intense situations, grief, loneliness, all the many excuses we find when we feel ourselves attaching to people. But the intense situations passed, and the grief over Ivan abated. One evening at the cabin, Sam had found herself snuggled into the sofa with her evening coffee, watching Vincent as he cleaned one of the H&Ks, and she knew then... she loved him. She’d watched his eyes flicker toward her, and part of her knew he’d heard her in his mind. He didn’t say anything, and Sam had to confess it bothered her. She’d learned long ago not to expect other people to feel what you feel, not to assume they do because nine-point-nine-eight times out of ten, you’d be wrong. It still bothered her, though.
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