Shadow Of The Wolf

“You didn’t know what he was,” replied St. Clare simply, “until now.”

Ky turned away again, pushing a hand through his straight black hair, calming himself. For a time, neither of them spoke.

Then Ky looked back at the satchel on the table. He said, “It’s not enough.”

“What?”

“Your price. It’s not enough.”

Abruptly, St. Clare burst into laughter. It was a full, rich laugh, and the genuineness of it caught Ky off guard.

“So,” said St. Clare, “you are more like us than I suspected.”

He looked Ky over thoughtfully. “You’ll take the money,” he said, not so much offering an opinion as stating a fact. “But you’re right, I have something you want even more.”

Ky didn’t answer. He dared not.

“Your mother died in your twenty-first year,” St. Clare went on. “She must have told you about your father, otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to survive this long. But she never told you who he was, and you have spent your entire adult life trying to find out. Looking for him.”

Sebastian St. Clare’s eyes were steady on his, as cold as the center of the earth, as hot as blue fire. “I have the answers you seek, Ky Londen,” he said. “And I may be the only person in the world who does.”

Once again, everything inside him grew still. Ky looked very carefully at the man who sat on his sofa. He said, with the same care, “You know who my father is?”

“At present,” said St. Clare, “I have my suspicions. They will take time to confirm. And no,” he added, reading Ky’s mind, “it is not me.”

Ky was silent, this time for much longer. When he spoke at last, his tone was utterly expressionless. “So. This is blackmail.”

“Not at all.” St. Clare seemed genuinely surprised, perhaps even offended, by Ky’s choice of words. “I’ve made you a proposition. You are free to accept or reject it.”

“And if I reject it?”

“Then,” said Sebastian St. Clare, getting to his feet, “you will no longer be any concern of mine. You seem to have lived a full and busy life before I came into it, no doubt you will continue to do so after I depart.”

He picked up his walking stick and moved toward the door. For the first time, Ky was able to see the carvings that decorated the stick. The gleaming mahogany was inscribed on every surface with elaborate renderings of the heads of wolves. Of course.

Sebastian St. Clare walked toward the door, obviously expecting Ky to stop him.

Ky said, “You forgot your money.”

St. Clare looked back at him. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.” He opened the door and was gone.

When he was alone, Ky had to grip the back of a chair to remain upright. Voodoo came over to him, pressing against his knee, and whined anxiously. Ky dropped his hand to the dog’s head, taking two slow deep breaths, one after another. He pushed aside the thoughts that kept trying to explode inside his head, breaking his concentration, and he forced himself to listen, to breathe, to focus.

After a moment, he turned toward the door, lifting a staying hand to Voodoo, who looked at him alertly. “Sorry, old bud,” he told the dog quietly, “this one’s too dangerous for you. Hell, it’s probably too dangerous for me.”

Sebastian St. Clare had been right about one thing. Ky Londen might be the only person in New Orleans who could find the Werewolf Killer. But with those same skills, he could just as easily track St. Clare.

He left the apartment, locking the door behind him only because Voodoo was there alone. He went swiftly and silently down the stairs and into the street below, close on the trail of the werewolf.

CHAPTER THREE

At first, Amy thought it was a joke. What else could she think? A man in a wolf costume—wolf, for heaven’s sake—grabbing her on the street and affecting a kidnapping in the middle of a Mardi Gras parade. It had to be one of her colleagues with a warped sense of humor. That was why, after the initial shock, she didn’t struggle as much as she should have or make enough of a fuss to attract the attention of anyone in the rollicking parade crowd.

“All right, very funny,” she said, and, with a little more alarm. “Hey! Do you have to be so rough? Who are you, anyway?”

His stride grew so forceful that she trembled. He jerked her up sharply. When he picked her up bodily and began to force his way through the crowd, Amy started to grow frightened. “Put me down!” she demanded and kicked out wildly. The arm that had been around her shoulders moved up to encircle her neck, instead, cutting off her breath, and a cruel, black-gloved hand pressed over her mouth. He was so strong that even with these maneuvers he did not lessen the grip that kept her crushed against his chest. If anything, his hold grew even stronger.

Amy knew then it was no joke.

She couldn’t breathe. Those leather-encased iron fingers dug into her face, leaving bruise marks on either side of her mouth. His arm was heavy across her throat, twisting her head back at a painful angle, crushing her windpipe. She fought back panic, then tried not to waste her energy and her precious breath with futile struggles. He was killing her. Black spots danced in front of her eyes and the sound of traffic and Mardi Gras music grew fainter, gradually replaced by a high, thin whining in her ears.

She had spent enough hours in police stations and courtrooms to know the most important thing she could do right now was try to stay alert, to identify her assailant if she could, to pay attention to where he was taking her, to diligently remain aware of any opportunity for escape, no matter how small, that might present itself. But all of what she’d known and should have done fled her head. All she could think of was breathing, of how desperately she needed air, of how terrified she was that she would never be able to draw a deep breath again and of what a horrible, slow way this would be to die.

She must have blacked out for a moment or two because the next thing she knew, they were no longer in the street. She was aware of the creak of door hinges and going into a dank, musty-smelling room and abruptly she could breathe again; he released her and she tumbled, or was tossed, onto a torn, soiled mattress in a corner of the room.

For a moment, she huddled there, gagging and coughing as she struggled for breath and fought back the star-bursts of dark and light that exploded before her eyes. When she finally was able to drag a few deep breaths into her aching lungs, her vision began to clear. She was aware of a small, brick-lined room furnished with wooden crates and crumpled newspaper and illuminated with candles, a dozen or more of them supported in bottles and on bits of broken saucers. The place had the feel, and smell, of a cave, but she suspected it was part of one of the old warehouses that were scattered here and there throughout the Vieux Carre. She tried to remember which way they had turned, how many turns they had taken, making an effort to visualize where he might have taken her, but she couldn’t concentrate. She was trembling, and she couldn’t stop coughing.

“Well now.”

His shadow fell over her, causing Amy to gasp and choke on her own breath. She pressed a hand against her throat, trying to ease the ache that turned to fire every time she coughed.

He said, “A rather poor beginning to what I had hoped would be a long and satisfying relationship for both of us, I’m afraid. I apologize.”

His voice, so smooth and articulate, startled her. She had expected the coarse, angry roar of an uneducated street thug, not the cultured accents of a gentleman. The monstrous costume in which he was dressed only made the discrepancy more bizarre.

The mask was one of those latex affairs that was far too realistic; covered with gray and black hair, the eyes were glittering yellow, the snout drawn back in a snarl to reveal sharp, discolored teeth. Below the mask, he wore black—black turtleneck, black tights, black gloves and boots, even a black cape. For a moment, while her eyes adjusted to the flickering candlelight, it almost looked as though the wolf head were floating above her in midair, and had she had the breath she would have screamed.

“Here. Drink this.”

She noticed that he held a water glass half-full of some clear liquid. She merely stared at it.

“It’s quite safe, I assure you,” he said. “I wouldn’t drink the water here, but I chose the wine myself. And the glass is clean.”

Hesitantly, still gasping and choking back coughs, she took the glass from him. She had to hold it in both hands to keep from spilling it. She brought it to her face, just close enough to smell the contents, but she didn’t drink. He told the truth: it was wine, at least partially. She did not want to take a chance on what else might be in the glass.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said impatiently. “It’s not poisoned. I never poison my victims. It spoils the taste of their flesh.”

Amy didn’t move, or breathe or even think. She huddled like a rabbit trapped in the glare of headlights, clutching the glass and staring at him, and she knew the purest terror she had ever known in her life.

And then he laughed. “What a foolish little human you are, after all!” he exclaimed. “I had hoped for more courage from you…or perhaps simply more intelligence.” He shrugged elaborately and turned away. “Drink or don’t, whatever suits you. I was merely trying to be hospitable.”

Amy’s fingers tightened on the glass. “Who—who are you?” Her voice was hoarse and breathless, barely above a whisper. It hurt to make even that effort.

“You know the answer to that, chérie,” he replied gently. Was there a hint of a smile in his voice? “You gave me my name, after all.”

Amy wanted very badly to drink from the glass. She managed to hold it steady against her chest, no drops sloshing out. “Me?” she whispered. Firmly, determinedly, she put more effort into her voice, making it audible. “What are you talking about? I don’t know you.”

“Ah, but you do, chérie. You’ve followed my career from the beginning.” He seemed amused as he added, “Well, almost from the beginning, anyway. And you were the first—I’m quite certain because I made a note of it—to call me by my rightful appellation. The Werewolf Killer. How did you know, I wonder? Will you tell?”