Susan Krinard - Luck of the Wolf

She had wanted to see that for herself and had gone to the edge of the village to watch the people there. What she’d observed had only confused her more. Some of the villagers spent a great deal of time kissing each other, not at all the way Franz kissed her on the forehead. It had looked very nice indeed.

But once they were in New York, she noticed something very different … men and women in shadowed alleys, the men grunting and groaning as they pushed themselves into women with paint all over their faces. Franz had turned very red and finally admitted that those men didn’t want to make babies. They enjoyed what they were doing, even if the women did not. Franz had warned her to be very careful around such men.

She hadn’t given any real thought to his warning. When the evil men had taken her, she hadn’t realized what they wanted at first. But when she listened to the things they said about her, everything fell into place.

They didn’t want to make children, either. They wanted to sell her to someone who would take his pleasure with her, just as those other men had done with those women in the dark streets. Whether she wanted to or not.

Cort hadn’t tried to do that. But when he had held her and looked down into her face, his mouth so close to hers, she had remembered what she’d seen in the village, the gentler things those people had done, and had known something wonderful was about to happen. Something she wanted with all her heart.

The sound of footsteps climbing the outside stairs pulled her out of her pleasant dreams. She ran to the door. The scent was unmistakable, like the rhythm of the footsteps themselves.

Not Cort, but Yuri. Aria backed away from the door and waited for him to come in.

He gave her a cursory smile that she didn’t quite believe, though she knew he wanted her to think he was her friend.

“Hello,” she said warily. “Where is Cort?”

Yuri eased himself into the chair with a grunt. “He is conducting necessary business.” He stared at her in a way she found disconcerting, and she stared back, trying to make him look away.

But he didn’t. He seemed to be weighing his thoughts, getting ready to say something important.

“Do you remember nothing more of your past?” he asked at last.

Aria shook her head.

Yuri stroked his beard. “Well,” he said, “we may have discovered something of interest. Cort did not want to tell you until he had made further inquiries, but …”

“What have you found?” she demanded, circling his chair.

Once again he made a show of hesitating, as if he enjoyed keeping her in suspense. “We believe we have located your relations, but they are not here in San Francisco.”

Not in San Francisco. That meant they couldn’t be the Hemmings or the Phelans or the Carantian exiles.

“Where?” she asked, refusing to give up hope.

“My dear, prepare yourself for a shock. Your kin are the Reniers of the city of New Orleans in the state of Louisiana.”

HIS LUCK HAD most definitely changed. Cort laid out his winning hand, and the other players accepted in silence, grimaced or threw down their cards in disgust.

Two thousand dollars. It wasn’t much, but, added to his winnings during the past few days, it would be enough to make a serious start on Aria’s “education.”

Nodding to the other players, he gathered up his chips and went to cash them in. This was a decent establishment, aboveboard and free of the dangers that lurked in the worst of the gambling dens on the Coast. But after his recent run of luck, his reputation was beginning to make him less than welcome at the better places. If he intended to keep earning what he and Yuri needed, he would have to return to the less savory locations.

As he collected his money and secured it under his coat, he heard someone coming up behind him.

“Monsieur Renier?”

The voice held the cadences of a foreign tongue. Cort had never heard it before.

He turned and sized the man up quickly. Expensive clothes, a taut, proud bearing, a lean face punctuated with icy blue eyes, graying hair under a spotless top hat. Cort judged him to be in his fifties, and of an educated background.

He was also loup-garou .

“How may I assist you?” Cort asked.

Removing his gloves, the man bowed. “I have a business proposition for you, Monsieur Renier. One I think you will find interesting.”

Cort smiled, but he wasn’t amused. San Francisco was full of “businessmen” of every sort, many far from legitimate. “What sort of proposition?” he asked, leaning back against the bar. “Are you a gambling man?”

“Forgive me.” The man bowed again. “I am Hugo Brecht. What I propose would be no gamble for you, monsieur . It would be, as they say, a ‘sure thing.’“

“You intrigue me, sir,” Cort said, “but I am content with my winnings.” He tipped his hat. “Au revoir.”

He got no farther than a few steps before Brecht laid a hand on his arm to stop him. Cort didn’t so much as give him a glance.

“I will kindly ask you to remove your hand,” he said in a pleasant voice.

Brecht declined to cooperate. “Monsieur , you must listen. It is in regard to the girl you won during the tournament.”

All thoughts of dismissing the man drained out of Cort’s mind. He swung around, tense and ready to fight. “What about her?” he asked softly.

“Please join me in my private booth and I will explain.”

Damned right he would explain. The primitive part of Cort was tempted to drag Brecht into the alley behind the building and beat the answer out of him.

But he hadn’t yet fallen so far, and Brecht was already moving away. Cort strode after him, his heart beating fast. Brecht didn’t look like an errand boy or a hatchet man, and few loups-garous would consent to being a human’s agent. Still, it was possible that Cochrane had sent him without knowing what he was.

Possible, but not likely.

Cochrane almost certainly didn’t know that werewolves existed, or he would have behaved very differently with Cort.

Brecht’s private booth was one among several others located down a short hall. Brecht swept back the curtains and ushered Cort inside. He took a seat. When Cort didn’t follow suit, he poured himself a glass of the wine that sat on the small table in the center of the booth. Cort’s nose told him that the wine was of excellent vintage and had probably cost a small fortune.

“Since this is to be a gentlemen’s conversation,” Brecht said in a clipped voice, “I would prefer that you make yourself comfortable.”

Cort leaned over the table. “I would prefer that we get to the point,” he said.

“As you wish.” Brecht sipped his wine with a casual air, but there was nothing casual about the way he watched Cort. “I presume you still have the girl?” he asked.

“She is safe and well.”

“Excellent.” Brecht studied the contents of his glass. “You have done me a great service, monsieur , and I intend to reward you for it.”

“Indeed?” Cort settled into the vacant chair at last and pretended interest in the label on the wine bottle. “Perhaps you ought to explain your interest in the girl.”

“It is very simple, Monsieur Renier. She was lost to her family some time ago, and I have been seeking her ever since. When I learned of the tournament and the prize for the second-tier match, I planned to enter the contest. Alas, I was too late.” He met Cort’s eyes. “It is essential that I restore her to her family.”

A sharp chill of shock raced up Cort’s spine, and he bought time by making a show of considering what Brecht had said. His first thought was to wonder if Yuri had been wrong all along and Aria belonged to some local werewolf clan.