Shadow Of The Wolf

His lifted his hand to the mask.

Ky’s heart was thundering in his chest and a fine sweat appeared on his upper lip, and he couldn’t explain why. He stood still, focusing his senses, but he couldn’t make his heart stop pounding. The scent. Strong now, on a southerly breeze, now fainter on still air. The same, only…not. St. Clare…and not.

For the first time in his life, Ky knew what it was to doubt his own senses, to know confusion instead of clarity, to be at the same disadvantage as any one else who walked the street. He had never found a scent he didn’t know before. He had never encountered a sensory clue he couldn’t visualize. And yet this…It left him baffled and unsure.

He had never smelled a werewolf before today, and yet he had known the scent immediately for what it was. This, it was the same, it was like St. Clare, only it was…diseased, yes, or in trouble or…

No, he couldn’t define it, and a sharp pain pierced his head with the effort. It was distinct yet muted, familiar yet—wrong. Frightening.

And even though all his instincts shrieked a warning, even though he knew it was the stupidest thing he had ever done in his life, Ky turned down the empty alley, crossed a narrow street and moved into the darkness, following the scent.

Amy held her breath, watching as his hand moved beneath the neck of the hideous wolf head. She thought he was going to take off the mask. Dread and anticipation warred inside her for what she might see.

But he didn’t remove the mask. With a quick snap of his wrist, he jerked a thin gold chain free from his neck and tossed it to her. Instinctively, Amy lifted her hand to catch it.

“Ask the police whether anything was missing from the body of the August victim. Sherry Wilson. Yes, you see, I remember their names, when you are good enough to identify them for me.”

The jewelry was warm in Amy’s hand, and it made her feel strange to hold it knowing that only seconds ago it had been against his skin. Suspended from the chain was a small heart-shaped locket. On a compulsion she immediately regretted, Amy pushed the catch with her thumbnail and the locket opened. Inside was the blurry picture of a blond-haired little girl of about three. Amy felt ill.

“There might even be traces of blood left yet,” he commented matter-of-factly, “that they can identify as hers. Of course, they might also pick up traces of my DNA, which should prove to be very interesting when they try to analyze it.”

Amy dragged her eyes away from the locket and upward to him. She was quite sure he was smiling behind the mask.

“Why won’t you let me see your face?” she demanded hoarsely. “What’s really behind that mask?”

“Perhaps simply another mask.” And then suddenly he stiffened. His casual, controlled manner was gone and in its place the alert defensive posture of a startled animal. He spun toward the narrow door, and then back to her. “What have you done?” he shouted at her. “Who have you brought here?”

He threw back his head suddenly, almost as though sniffing the air, and turned again, sharply, toward the door. “How can this be?”

Amy didn’t hesitate another minute. The moment he looked away from her, she threw the glass of wine against the opposite wall. When he whirled toward the sound, she plunged past him toward the door. She didn’t weigh her chances; she didn’t consider her options; she didn’t think about it even once. She simply ran, and the unexpectedness of her action, combined with his distraction, gave her the advantage she needed to get almost to the door before he caught her.

She screamed as his hand snatched her hair with such force that her head snapped back. He flung her back with such strength that her feet actually left the ground. She screamed again as she bounced against the mattress. But he was no longer interested in her. He spun back toward the door even as it burst open and then the oddest thing happened.

It was dark outside, and the candlelight in the room provided only the dimmest illumination so Amy could see little of her rescuer’s face, only a figure, tall and lithe and crouched in the attack/defense position. He wore jeans and a T-shirt. His straight black hair swept over his collar; his face was in shadows. Amy’s captor was directly in front of him, less than three feet; Amy expected him to lunge for the door, to attack the man or to push past him and disappear into the night. But he did not move.

It lasted ten seconds, perhaps a little more, and it seemed like centuries. Amy counted every exploding beat of her heart, every half-choked, stammering breath. She wanted to scream; she wanted to run. But the strange paralysis that had afflicted the two men had her in its spell, as well. They stood there, staring at each other, poised on the brink of conflict or the edge of murder, yet startled, studying each other with a kind of mutual horror.

Later she would decide that was exactly what it was. Mutual horror.

And that was when Amy was witness to something she could not explain and would never forget. There was a sound, a low rumbling sound that seemed to come from the throat of one of the men. A growl, only louder and more fierce than a growl, deadlier and more controlled. And with the growl, something began to happen, and afterward Amy would never be able to describe it with words or even recreate it in her mind; it was more of an experience than an observation.

The man in the werewolf mask seemed to change somehow; she could see little in the dim light and with his body disguised as it was by the long cloak and the mask, but it was as though he were shrinking into himself and at the same time expanding, growing larger and more menacing. The air around him seemed charged and actually appeared to quiver, and there was a hot, electric smell like static electricity filling the room. It prickled on her skin and caught in her chest and filled her with a visceral terror…and wonder.

And suddenly everything exploded. The man in the werewolf mask gave a great roar and leapt into the air, flying—yes, flying—toward the man in the doorway with an acrobatic strength that was supernatural. The roar echoed in Amy’s ears, hurting them. She screamed and covered her ears, pressing herself back against the wall as the werewolf monster struck out at the man in the doorway. The man went down and Amy screamed again, propelling herself off the mattress and toward the door.

When she got there, her rescuer lay crumpled against the doorframe, his throat covered with blood. The werewolf was gone.

CHAPTER FOUR

The memory of those next few moments was confused by shock, jumbled together, irrational and unclear. Amy remembered screaming into the night, “Help us! Someone, please! Oh, God, help us! I think he’s dead!”

She dropped to her knees beside her rescuer and he was not dead; when she touched his shoulder, he pushed against her and groaned, trying to get to his feet. There were running footsteps in the distance, but she could not tell if they were coming toward her or moving away; if they belonged to the killer or to someone answering her call for help.

She whispered, “Lie still, lie still, you’re hurt…”

And he mumbled, “Let me go, he’s getting away…”

He put his hand to his bleeding neck. Amy saw that his throat was not cut, as she had imagined in that first horrified moment, but marked by three parallel slashes, as though raked by some kind of sharp instrument…or claws. She stared at the injury in shock and fascination before she came to her senses and began to search for something to stanch the flow of blood.

“Thank God you found me. If you hadn’t come, I don’t know what would have happened. He was crazy…” She was babbling breathlessly, trying to keep him still, searching her pockets and the small wallet-purse that she wore on a long strap across her body for a handkerchief or a tissue or even a scrap of paper with which she could clean his wound. She was aware she was bordering on hysteria, but she was entitled.

He tried to push her away, turning his head impatiently when she tried to dab at his cuts with the scrap of a fabric softener sheet she had found in her skirt pocket. “Lady, leave me alone, get out of my way. Don’t you see he’s getting away? Let me go!”

He had been stunned by the blow, but now his senses were returning. He jerked away from her clumsy ministrations and, bracing himself against the doorframe, pushed to his feet. By now, a small crowd had begun to gather in the alley, and Amy cried, “Please, someone call the police—and an ambulance! This man is hurt! Someone, please do something!”

“He’s gone,” said the man, and he slumped back against the wall, dark eyes haunted with defeat. “I let him get away.”

Amy looked at him intently. His eyes were deep, deep violet, filled now with a pain that was more than physical, his face sharp-featured and defined by a dark beard-shadow, his coal black hair swept back from a high forehead in a way that made him look both bleak and romantic. There was such a grimness in those eyes, such a determined set to his mouth, that she almost expected an answer to her question as she whispered, “Who was he?”

But he merely returned to her a look that was strained and frustrated and still edged with residual shock, and he said simply, “You know who it was.”

Amy opened her closed fist, and looked down at the locket she still clutched there. “Yes,” she whispered shakily, “I think I do.”

Abruptly, the events of the past hour swept over her in a single, gripping wave. She clapped her hand to her mouth but was able to stumble only a few feet away before the nausea overcame her and she sank to her knees, retching.

People were watching, but she didn’t care. He was kneeling over her, sweeping back her hair with one hand, touching her shoulder, and she did care about that. She was humiliated, miserable and still very frightened. She was Amy Fortenoy, star investigative reporter of Channel Six Action News, and she was throwing up in the street like a common drunk while everyone watched…while he watched, the Dark Knight who had saved her life.

She was supposed to be intrepid, in control, unflappable. She had always pictured herself in that way; she had convinced other people she was that way; she had always believed it of herself. But she had never been through anything like what she had just experienced. She had never seen anything like what she had just seen.

The foundation of her world had been knocked out from under her feet and she wasn’t brave at all. She was weak and terrified and she would never feel in control again.

When at last the spasm had passed, her rescuer helped her to her feet, and turned her back toward the building, shielding her with his body from the curious onlookers. She cast him a grateful look.

“Are you okay?” he inquired quietly.

She started to nod, then replied more honestly. “No.” Her voice was still unsteady, and she blotted her damp face with the back of her hand. “But I think I will be.”

Understanding was in his silence. Then he said, “Did he hurt you?”

Amy shook her head, trying to repress a shudder. “No, I—he only threatened. I was just frightened.” She looked up at him, trying to regain her composure with one unsteady indrawn breath. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. I’m Amy Fortenoy.”

He said with a faint smile, “I know who you are.”

Even the shadow of a smile transformed his face, making Amy realize that he was a handsome man—more than handsome, striking-looking, memorable—making her wish to see more of it, more of his face, more of his smile. She was actually so taken by his face, by those deep indigo purple eyes, that she forgot what she was going to say for a moment. Then they heard the fast-approaching sound of a siren and they both turned toward it.

Chaos overtook them shortly after that, and by the time Amy realized that she still didn’t know her hero’s name, he was gone.

“You really ought to have stitches,” the paramedic told him as he placed the last strip of adhesive tape across the bandage on Ky’s neck. “Why don’t you come in with us and let the ER check you out?”