Fateful Page 6

  Eventually the black wolf retreats, walking backward from the red wolf, which is panting hard. I hear that sickening sound again, and the wolf twists violently, jerking up onto its hind legs; the iron-black fur begins to vanish, disappearing beneath restored skin. Although I know it’s Mikhail—that this has been Mikhail the entire time—it’s still a shock to see his cruel face once more. His shoulder is bleeding from bite marks, but it’s as though I can see him healing where he stands.

  Then his eyes flick up toward mine, and I see that he still has the flat, animal gaze of a wolf.

  Mikhail laughs as he grabs his abandoned clothing and begins putting it back on. “Look at you,” he says. “Too stupid to know what you’ve seen. To appreciate the miracle you’ve beheld. And all your pretty golden curls down in your face. Beautiful and foolish—very appetizing.”

  “You’re nothing more than a freak from the circus,” I say, with more bravado than I feel.

  It outrages him. Mikhail snarls as savagely as he did while a wolf. “You don’t know your betters. You don’t know a god when you see one.”

  “You’re no god!”

  “My compatriot has worked up an appetite now,” Mikhail says as he buttons his shirt. “And I think he wants you to himself.” He opens the door, letting in a brief shaft of light. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in the morning to gnaw your bones.”

  The door slams shut again, and I hear a key turn in the lock. I’m as trapped as I was before, but now I’m alone with only the red wolf.

  The wolf doesn’t come after me right away. Perhaps he’s as hungry as Mikhail said, but as he paces I see him limping, clearly in pain. There are droplets of blood on the floor from the fight between the wolves, and not all of that blood could be Mikhail’s. He’s injured. Badly?

  Badly enough for me to escape?

  Tentatively, I step to the floor, then slowly open the door of the booth. Just as I open it enough to step through, the wolf turns to stare at me. Its green-gold eyes are bright amid the steam. The wolf’s head droops low, like that of any hurt creature, and I remember everything the groundskeeper at Moorcliffe told me about wounded animals being the most dangerous.

  I dare not risk it. Instead I dash back into the booth and shut the door again. The wolf steps closer, pacing in front of my door again, and then stopping there—close enough for me to hear its panting once more.

  My whole body is shaking from weariness and fear, but I force myself to think rationally. The beast is wounded. Weak. Probably the wolf no longer has the strength to get through the door of the booth, and it’s too enormous to get underneath. No doubt it will recover—and be very hungry when it does—but that will take time. And time is on my side.

  Gentlemen from first class will want to use the Turkish bath tomorrow. Probably the bath opens not long after the breakfast service. That means the attendant will come to make this area ready around breakfast time, if not earlier. Help is coming. All I have to do is wait.

  The heat is unbearable. Sweat and condensed water have slicked my skin, and it feels as though I can’t catch my breath. I hesitate, because the thought of undressing makes me feel less safe—but the thought of wearing wet, heavy clothes in this suffocating heat is even worse. So I peel off my damp, sodden uniform so that I’m wearing only my thin vest and slip. That’s a little better.

  I pull my knees up so that I can lie down on the small bench inside this booth, and crumple my uniform into a ball beneath my head. The wooden slats are hard against my side, but I don’t care.

  Outside, the wolf lies down outside my door. I can see nothing except his red fur. He’s waiting for me. He doesn’t mean to let me get away, even when he sleeps.

  The thought is horrifying, and it keeps me awake for hours as I tremble and cough. But eventually sleep wins, and I drift into dreamless oblivion.

  April 11, 1912

  I awake knowing only that I am stiff and uncomfortable, and that I want more sleep. Then I open my eyes, and my strange surroundings—and the unbelievable memories that explain them—jolt me to alertness. I sit upright and push my hands against the door almost before I remember that I’m doing it to keep the wolf back.

  There’s light now—thin and gray. Dawn, then. There must be portholes to let the sunlight in. I look down, but the wolf isn’t lying in front of the door any longer. I can’t hear him panting, either, nor any claws against the tile. Might it have left? Died in the night? Or is it at least far enough away that I could run to the door and pound against it? Someone might be closer now.

  With a shaking hand, I pull the door open, so slowly that it seems to take forever. No movement. No sound. So I dart out, thinking to run for the door that leads to the hallway and do whatever I can for myself—

  —and I jerk to a halt within two steps.

  Lying on the floor, entirely naked, perfectly formed, and dazed nearly to the point of unconsciousness, is Alec Marlowe.

  The red wolf.

  Chapter 7

  FOR A MOMENT I CAN’T MOVE; I CAN ONLY STARE. Last night, as I drifted between waking and sleep, I had realized the red wolf must be another version of Mikhail—another transformed human being. But with all his talk about his “friend” and his “compatriot,” I believed it had to be one of the men he’d been walking with that night in Southampton. Never did I suspect Alec Marlowe.

  Alec comes to enough to recognize me standing over him, and he rolls onto his side, slightly away from me—maybe to show me that he doesn’t want to hurt me, maybe just because he’s embarrassed to be naked in front of a girl he hardly knows.

  Maybe I should run. But seeing how he moves—slowly, still confused—it seems too cruel to leave him like this.

  He says, “What are you doing here?”

  “You—you don’t remember?”

  “It’s all a blur.” Alec tries to push himself up, but he can’t. His muscled arms shake too much to bear his weight yet. “What happened?”

  “Your friend, Mikhail—he dragged me in here. He . . . ” How do I say this? “He changed. The two of you fought, and I couldn’t get out until—until you changed back.”

  Now that it’s light, and the steam has finally run out, I take a good look around the Turkish bath. There’s a cabinet I’d bet anything is for linens, and sure enough, when I open the door, there are towels and plush robes folded inside. I take a robe to Alec and kneel by his side. The tiles are cool against my bare knees. “Here,” I say gently. “Are you all right?”

  He snatches it from me, though he’s apparently still too weak to put it on. He just drapes it over his lap. “There’s no need to worry, Tess. Nothing’s happened here. Just leave me. And tell no one.”

  I almost want to laugh. “Are you really going to pretend I don’t know?”

  Alec turns his head toward the corner; his firm jaw clenches, as he struggles against some deeper emotion: shame, I realize. He’s ashamed to be seen as what he is.

  “Most people . . . prefer to forget, instead of admit what they’ve seen,” he says roughly. His voice sounds terrible—as though he had been screaming for hours. I remember how he growled and snarled. “You should go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Because you want to stare at the monster?” Alec’s green eyes blaze, but with a wholly human fire now. “Or because you pity me?” I couldn’t guess which possibility he loathes more.

  I fold my arms. “I can’t leave because the door’s locked. Believe me, I would’ve gone hours ago if I could have.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Then he looks so abashed—so boyish, and so handsome—that I almost want to laugh.

  But the strangeness of the situation keeps me quiet. I am still frightened of Alec, knowing what he truly is. And yet this morning he is weary, bruised, naked, and exposed on the floor of the Turkish bath. Vulnerable.

  If I want answers, I had better get them now.

  “You’re a—” I hesitate on the word, one I’ve heard only in stories to frighten the gullible. “A werewolf.
”

  Alec lifts his head to face me. His chestnut curls glint slightly red in the dawn light. “Yes.”

  “And Mikhail, too.”

  He grimaces with pure dislike. “Yes. Older. Stronger. More powerful.”

  “Did he . . . do this to you?” I wouldn’t put it past Mikhail to do something so wicked. “Or were you born a werewolf?”

  Taking a deep breath, Alec pushes himself up to a fully seated position, then struggles into the robe as I avert my eyes. Only now, as he puts something on, do I remember that I’m still in my underclothes, which are made of flimsy linen. Should’ve gotten myself a robe while I was at it, but now I simply draw my knees toward my chest, for a little modesty.

  Once the robe is on, Alec slowly rises to his feet. Movement still seems to hurt him, and he sways as he straightens for the first time. Before I can rise to help, though, Alec steadies himself.

  He looks down at me. “I’ve never told anyone this. Anyone besides my father, I mean.”

  Mr. Marlowe knows? I wouldn’t have expected that. But how would I have expected any of this?

  “I became a werewolf two years ago,” Alec says. “My father and I were on a hunting trip in Wisconsin.”

  I’ve never heard of this “Wisconsin,” which is apparently a dangerous place. So I imagine it like the great woods near Moorcliffe, where the Viscount sometimes goes to shoot—ancient trees that stretch up toward the sky, their leaves so thick that they almost blot out the sun. The ground covered with clouds of ferns and carpets of moss. A profound silence broken only by the flapping of birds’ wings.

  A bitter, rueful smile plays on Alec’s face. “It was just after sunset. My father had told me earlier to come in for dinner, but I hadn’t shot anything all day. I refused. I was going to prove what a great hunter I really was. But there was a better hunter in the forest, waiting.”

  “Mikhail?”

  “Another. I’ll never even know his name, or what he looks like as a human, unless he someday chooses to reveal himself.” Alec’s tone makes it clear that this would be extremely unwise for the werewolf to do; he wants revenge so badly that I can feel it in the room with us, as tangible as the walls. “I didn’t understand what had happened to me at first. I thought I’d simply been bitten by a wolf. But immediately I became sick—so sick—God, the fevers. I remember tossing and turning in bed, thinking that I knew what meat must feel like when people cook it on a spit.”

  I’ve been sick like that—well, not exactly like that, but I know what he means.

  “Then the full moon came,” Alec says. “And for the first time, I changed into the wolf. Luckily, I was in our stables at the time, and only my father was with me. He was able to shut me in alone. Of course, we lost all our horses.”

  Meaning, he killed them.

  He sounds so disgusted with himself that I feel more sympathy than horror. But there’s one thing that’s confusing me: Something from the old wives’ tales, and from what he’s just said, that doesn’t add up. “I’m sure last night wasn’t a full moon.”

  “You’re right. It wasn’t. The full moon is important to our kind—that’s when the curse finally awakens in us. When our powers are at the zenith. And it’s the one night we can never escape from; no matter what, on the night of the full moon, we have to change into wolves.”

  “The rest of the time, you can choose? You chose to change and attack me last night?” The fear shivers inside me again, and I wonder how long it can be before the morning staff finally arrives. Alec is still weary, but I can see him growing stronger by the second. Restoring himself.

  “No. God, Tess, no. I don’t have any control over when I change. I have to transform into a wolf every night, dusk to dawn—no matter where I am. That’s why I always try to be alone, someplace safe. But Mikhail must have found me. He had other plans.” He rubs a hand across his temple, as though his head hurts. “For both of us.”

  I think back to the night before, to the casual way Mikhail tossed aside his clothes before he transformed into a wolf, and how he changed back long before the sun rose. “You mean—Mikhail can choose whether or not to change.”

  “He has that power. Because he’s been initiated into the Brotherhood.”

  My Lord, the hate in his voice as he says it. It frightens me, even though I know the hatred is directed at the Brotherhood and not at me. That kind of hate is terrifying no matter where it’s aimed. I shrink down, hugging my knees closer.

  Alec doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring out the porthole at the early morning light. “The Brotherhood is the dominant group of werewolves. The ruling pack. There are other groups—smaller, weaker, hunted by the Brotherhood. And there must be lone wolves hiding out, the way I did at first. But the Brotherhood will stop at nothing short of absolute power. They control henchmen in the streets. They control members of Parliament and Congress. There’s no one too low for them to notice or too high for them to command. Sometimes I think they might have targeted me—sent the werewolf that attacked me, the better to bring Dad’s money and influence under their control.” He shakes his head tiredly. “My father thought he was helping me, taking me to Europe. We wondered if there might be . . . men of learning there. People who understood what was happening to me and could make it stop. We meant to search for them, no matter how long it took. Instead we found Mikhail and the Brotherhood waiting for us.”

  “Why do they want to kill you? Why do they hunt other werewolves?”

  “They only hunt the ones they don’t want to join the Brotherhood,” he says. “But they want to initiate me. That’s why Mikhail’s on the Titanic. To force me to join them.”

  Alec says it as though there could be no worse fate. I don’t understand. The Brotherhood sounds scary to me, but if Alec is a werewolf, like them, why wouldn’t he want to be one of the “ruling pack”? It makes no sense. “If that would give you the power to . . . change, or not change, as you wanted—then why don’t you join them?”

  “Because they’re monsters.” Alec glances over his shoulder at me; one corner of his mouth lifts in an unwilling smile. “But you think I’m a monster too, don’t you?”

  “Tell me the difference.” As long as I’m trapped on the same ship with both Alec and Mikhail, I need to know.

  “The Brotherhood kill people, to eat, or just for fun. They terrify and torment them for their amusement—especially women. And if a woman becomes a werewolf, the Brotherhood never considers recruitment. Just murder. They claim female werewolves would ‘weaken the pack.’ It’s not as though I could undergo the initiation and then do as I pleased, either. The older members can exert power over the others, once they’re initiated—perhaps even control their minds. I’m not sure. I don’t intend to find out.”

  Alec, at least, is not a random killer. I still don’t trust him, but I now feel brave enough to rise to my feet.

  No longer am I looking up at him as a little huddled wretch on the floor. I realize that I am one of the only people in the world who knows his secret, and that gives me power. Not much power, perhaps, and the knowledge is more trouble than it’s worth—but if I have a hunter after me, I have to take what strength I can.

  “When I first saw the two of you,” I say, “near the grand staircase, yesterday morning—that was when you first realized Mikhail had followed you onboard, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Alec leans against the wall, still tired, though I think this is now more emotional than physical. “My father and I booked passage at the last moment. Yet somehow they knew. The Brotherhood has spies everywhere.”

  So, they aren’t working together. But maybe Alec at least knows this: “Why did Mikhail come after me? What’s in the box I was carrying, the one he wanted so badly?”

  Alec sighs. “I don’t know, though I’ve been wondering. The man is hugely wealthy, so he wouldn’t bother stealing if it were merely a matter of money. There’s something special inside that box. Something unique. Something Mikhail can’t get any other way.” His
green eyes search my face. “You didn’t look inside?”

  “No. It locks, and I don’t have the key.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of any connection between the Lisle family and werewolves.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Not hardly.”

  He lifts his chin. “But of course, you don’t know all their secrets, do you? You’re merely a servant girl.”

  Although Alec says it matter-of-factly, with none of the contempt Layton or Lady Regina puts in those words, hearing him dismiss me that way stings. “Who do you think knows more about what happens in a house than the servants? No one. I know things about every person at Moorcliffe that the other members of the family could never guess.”

  Now, that sounds like I’m bragging, or threatening to tell, and I wish I hadn’t said it. But Alec doesn’t pry for more. He looks as though that threw him off his guard.

  So I press my advantage. “Why are you going back to the United States, when you haven’t found the cure you were looking for? To get away from the Brotherhood?”

  “Partly.” His expression darkens, not with anger but with sadness. As he turns toward me, I realize how desperately lonely Alec is; he’s talking to me not only because he feels he must, but because—no matter how ashamed he is of his secrets—it feels good to talk to someone. “But . . . I’m too dangerous for polite society. For any society. Look what I nearly did to you last night. What I might have done if I hadn’t been sure to eat just before sundown. I penned myself in here because it was one of the only places onboard with nothing to damage and no other people around after dark, but even then, you’ve told me, I nearly—” The words choke in his throat. Alec takes a deep breath before he continues. “I want to find an isolated place on the frontier. Someplace remote, where I can live without hurting anyone. My father will take me out West, help me get established, and then leave me behind. It’s past time he had a normal life again. At least one of us can. Maybe there I’ll finally be beyond the Brotherhood’s reach.”