Wolf In Waiting

But there was no way to postpone it any longer. I straightened my shoulders, and opened the door.

The Keeper of the Gate—as I like to refer to her with a certain dry sarcasm, and then only in my secret thoughts—was built like a battleship in shades of iron gray, with a beak of a nose and jet-black eyes and an angular, jutting bosom that could intimidate the strongest man. Her official title was administrative assistant to Sebastian St. Clare, but I did not know a werewolf in the empire who would care to take her on in battle.

She did not like me. She had made that clear from the beginning.

However, protocol dictated that she get to her feet when I entered, and she did not defy it. “Sir,” she said. Though the greeting might be interpreted as deferential, the tone never could. If anything, in fact, there was a glint of disdain in her coal black eyes. “Good afternoon. You are expected.”

I refrained from replying that, since I had been awakened at 3:00 a.m. with a royal summons and had been traveling for almost ten hours, I certainly hoped so. Instead, I inclined my head and replied pleasantly, “Ms. Treshomme. You’re looking lovely as always.”

She did not bother to disguise a contemptuous sniff as she came around the desk and crossed to the inner door. She knocked once and opened it. “Monsieur Duprey,” she announced, and stepped aside to let me enter.

I took another breath and straightened my cuffs, refusing to be rushed. I adjusted the weight of the briefcase in my hand, gave Ms. Treshomme my most charming smile and stepped inside.

No one from the human world had ever been here, of course. If they had been, they would have been astounded. Where once the castle had served as a fortress to defend its occupants from their enemies and shelter them from the elements, it was now a showcase for the enormous success we had achieved. On one wall was a simply framed postimpressionist canvas worth approximately five million dollars. On the other was an undiscovered Matisse whose value was incalculable. The carpet on which I trod was Persian and over nine hundred years old. The enormous glass pedestal desk in the center of the room was actually a sculpture by an artist who was at this moment exhibiting at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Glass shelves, expertly lit, displayed artifacts and objets d’art whose age ranged from a few hundred to several thousand years old. Long ago, in times mostly forgotten, Castle St. Clare had been a sanctuary against outside persecution. Now it was an unabashed showcase of our triumph over the outside world.

The focal point of the office was a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over a breathtaking vista of snow-shrouded mountains and windswept plains. Before that window with his back to me stood Sebastian St. Clare.

He was a big man, wide-shouldered and tall, with a magnificent mane of full white hair that fell below his shoulders. He was dressed in woollen pants and a fur vest with rawhide catches. As always, I felt overdressed and underprepared in his presence.

The elder werewolf certainly heard my entrance, but he chose not to acknowledge it for a full two minutes. I stood in the center of the room and waited.

When Sebastian St. Clare turned, there was no welcome in his face, or his voice. “You’re late,” he said flatly.

I replied pleasantly, “Good afternoon, Grand-père. You’re looking well as always.”

“Which must be a grave disappointment to you, my heir.”

There was no acceptable reply for that.

Sebastian glared at me for a long moment beneath bushy, iron gray eyebrows, then gestured abruptly toward a wine-colored leather chair that was drawn up before the desk. “Sit down,” he said. “We have some things to talk about.”

Sebastian St. Clare was a legendary leader of strong and certain convictions. His shoes would be difficult to fill even without the twisted circumstances that had led to my succession. However, the task would have been a great deal easier had Sebastian made even the smallest effort to ease the transition for me, or at the very least, to make me feel welcome.

I glanced at the leather chair Sebastian had indicated, then deliberately chose the tapestry divan that formed part of an informal conversation group before a dancing, crackling fire. Keeping my expression determinedly pleasant, I placed my briefcase beside me and stretched my fingers toward the fire, warming them.

“To tell the truth,” I said, “I was glad to get your call. London is deadly dull this time of year. The weather is frightful, the streets are someone’s idea of a bad joke and I’m afraid the theater season is shaping up to be another disaster. It’s good to get away.”

Sebastian made no move to join me before the fire. He simply fixed me with that great, glowering gaze for several long moments. Meeting those powerful eyes without wavering for such a long time was a matter of physical effort for me, as it would have been for any other werewolf. Of course, no other werewolf would have dared try.

Sebastian said, “You are very clever, aren’t you, Noel? I have relied upon your cleverness to deal with many a delicate problem over the years. Your solutions have always been—shall we say—inventive. One can’t help recalling, for example, the solution you devised for bringing my son back to me when he was suffering from amnesia and lost in the world of humans.”

My jaw knotted. This was the first time Sebastian had referred directly to the incident since it had happened. I could not help thinking that his doing so now represented some sort of test, but then, it seemed to me everything Sebastian did where I was concerned was a test.

I replied evenly, “It worked, didn’t it?”

The faint softening of Sebastian’s expression might have been amusement, or simple surprise for my audacity. He said, still watching me, “So it did.”

I went on, choosing my words carefully, “I think it’s important to remember that Michael chose to leave his life here. If I hadn’t brought him back the way I did, he never would have returned. If I hadn’t challenged him, he would have abdicated.”

Sebastian moved from the window to the fireplace with measured steps. He gave no reply. I hadn’t expected one.

The older werewolf stood with his hands linked behind his back, gazing into the fire for a moment. Then, without turning to look at me, he said, “We live in troubled times. You’ll have to learn to deal with those troubles if you expect to lead our people when I’m gone.”

At last, I thought. Something to do.

Finally it sounded as though Sebastian was actually considering giving me some real authority, an assignment to carry out, a responsibility of my own. It didn’t matter what it was, as long as it was something that would allow me to act as a second-in-command should, to prove my worth and my usefulness. I would do anything.

Or at least that was what I thought until Sebastian went on.

“You know, of course, about the trouble in New Orleans.”

I nodded. Everyone knew about that. It was the most shameful thing that had happened to our kind in centuries. One of our own had gone renegade and had actually started killing humans, one a month for the past eight months, each killing coinciding with a full moon. Already, human reporters were calling him the “werewolf killer.” What might happen if they knew how close to the truth they really were?

“He has to be stopped,” Sebastian said matter-of-factly, “and it’s plain the human world will not be able to do so. Little surprise. They can’t even control their own lawbreakers. No, this renegade is our responsibility. We will have to intervene to save both our worlds from further damage…and to preserve the peace we’ve kept with humans for all these thousands of years.”

My throat went dry as I thought I understood what my assignment was to be. My tracking skills were only fair, but as Sebastian himself had pointed out, I was extremely clever. Could Sebastian mean to send me after this killer? I was not short on courage, but I had no desire to commit suicide. And if someone as unqualified as I should take on such a task, that was exactly what it would be.

On the other hand, if Sebastian wanted to get rid of me, there could hardly be an easier way.

And then Sebastian said, “However, that is not your concern, except to know that it’s been dealt with…and not to complain,” added Sebastian with a wryness so subtle that it was almost overlooked, “that the current administration is not keeping you abreast of the situation.”

I was so surprised at my narrow escape—and so relieved—that it was a moment before I could focus on the next part of Sebastian’s statement.

“What has not been nearly so well publicized among us,” he went on, “and what you doubtless don’t know, is that there is a far greater threat within our ranks than this renegade human-killer. One which strikes, you might say, a great deal closer to home.”

He turned from the fire then, hands still clasped behind his back, and addressed me directly. “Over the past four months, Clare de Lune has lost the formulas to three of our newest products—MA471, SR389 and DL400. In addition, we’ve had to pull production on Tango and Cobalt because, quite simply, our competitors beat us to them.”

I felt the color drain from my face. I was on my feet. “What? Why wasn’t I informed?”

Sebastian made a small decisive movement with his wrist that gestured me back into my chair. I resumed my seat reluctantly, my hands tight on the arms of the chair.

Sebastian said, “The truth only came to light a few weeks ago. Since then, we’ve made a concerted effort to keep the knowledge of the fiasco as limited as possible. The more people who know about it, the wider the circle of suspects. However, the details have been uploaded under your access code now.”

Because of the enhanced sense of hearing we all share, it is difficult to keep a secret in the werewolf community. Matters of security were therefore routinely handled through the written word, or these days, via computer. Not that security itself had ever been much of a concern among us, for pack loyalty is one of the few absolutes we hold sacred. We all work for the same company. We all share the same profits. Clare de Lune Cosmetics—and, by extension, the St. Clare Corporation—was not only our livelihood but our life. Why would anyone betray it? And more important, who?

As though reading my thoughts, Sebastian said, “We’ve been able to do some eliminating, and we think we have the source of the leak narrowed down to the Montreal office.”

Some of the tension went out of my shoulders and I thought, Of course. The Montreal office housed the marketing and advertising division of Clare de Lune and it was staffed more heavily by humans than any other department. Although quite a few humans were employed in various capacities by the St. Clare Corporation, only in advertising were they actually able to rise to positions of authority—and confidence. And humans were infinitely corruptible, their loyalties easily purchased.

Of course, if a human employee had committed this perfidy, some werewolf was still accountable. That disturbed me deeply. How could anyone be so careless?

Sebastian watched the changing expressions on my face with detached interest, following the line of reasoning as it was reflected in my eyes. Then he said, “There’s more.”

He crossed to his desk and opened a drawer. He returned in a moment with a crumpled scrap of paper that looked as though it had been torn from a larger sheet. He handed it to me.

It was—or had once been—a sheet of office stationery. Most of it had been torn away, so that only scraps of words were visible in most places, and no identifying telephone numbers or names remained on the letterhead. Two consecutive sentences remained intact, however, and they were enough:

What I’ve given you so far is nothing, the real secret is how they do it. There are things about these people—if people is even the right word—that are difficult to believe, even for me.