Luck of the Wolf. Susan Krinard
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Franz had told her she had come to him when she was a baby. In her earliest recollections she had been too small to reach the pretty carvings Franz always kept on the highest shelf of the big glass case in the cottage parlor. She could see herself reaching and reaching, tears running down her cheeks when the exquisite figurines remained beyond the grasp of her chubby hands.
So clearly someone had taken her away from her family—her cousins—when she was only an infant, sometime after her parents had died. When she and Franz had left for America, Franz had said she would meet the men who had first brought her to him. He had said they wanted to keep her safe. But New Orleans was very far from Carantia, and Franz had told her that there were many in Carantia who would want to hurt her.
So why would anyone have taken her from her family in America and sent her all the way across the ocean?
And why would Franz have kept her past a secret? Why had he kept her isolated in the mountains? Why had he waited so long to tell her about her own kind and bring her to America? Why had she and Franz headed for San Francisco instead of the city called New Orleans, where her family had been looking for her?
None of it made any sense, but there must be some explanation. Franz must have had very good reasons for doing what he had. He was no longer here to explain, but soon she would know. Soon she would know everything.
Torn between sadness and exultation, Aria tried not to let her wild suppositions overwhelm her. But when night fell, tugging at her senses like the sweet smell of fat deer grazing on the thick summer grass, she could no longer bear it. She had to speak to Cort.
You must wait, she told herself. It was what Cort wanted. It was the safe thing to do.
But she didn’t want to be safe anymore. She wasn’t stupid enough to let another stranger on the street fool her with promises, and fill her with poison that made her blind and deaf and dumb. Even in this ugly city with its stench of rot and machines and thousands of conflicting odors, she could track a familiar scent.
Twisting her hair into a knot on top of her head, Aria secured it with one of the pretty, fragile ribbons Cort had brought and planted her cap on her head. She found the stuff Cort used to polish his boots and shoes, and smeared it over her face so it looked like smudges of dirt.
With only a twinge of guilt, she slipped into the hallway, paused to listen and then crept out the front door.
No one was paying any attention to the house, or to her. People came and went on their own business, heads down, dragging their scents behind them. She was just another boy to them, and that was the way she wanted it.
There were no lights on this street like the ones she’d seen in other parts of San Francisco, but she didn’t need them. There was still a trace of Cort’s scent, very faint, lingering just outside, as if it had been trapped in a bubble that burst only as she walked through it.
Concentrating with all her might, Aria followed the scent as she would follow a days-old deer track in the mountains. It wove in and out of a thousand other distracting smells, most unpleasant, but she grasped it tightly and moved deeper into the noxious maze of the Barbary Coast.
She was so focused on Cort that she only smelled the men when they were almost upon her. Metal caught the light from an open doorway, flashing down in an arc near Aria’s shoulder. Rough hands snatched at her shirt, and a rope slapped against her face. She broke free and ran into a small street squeezed between two ugly brick buildings. All she needed was a minute to get out of her clothes.
But her attackers didn’t want to give her any time at all. While one of the men swung the rope, the other came at her again, too fast and strong to be human.
CHAPTER SIX
ARIA DODGED OUT of his way, furious at her own stupidity. Cort had been worried about her going out alone. She had assumed he was concerned about the men who had taken her the first time.
But these weren’t the same men at all. She might not have Cort’s ability to recognize wehrwölfe just by looking at them, but she couldn’t mistake the way this man moved, or how easily he countered her attempt to escape.
It was almost funny that the second werewolf she’d met wanted to hurt her. But he did, and there was no point in trying to warn him off, or ask him and the other man what they wanted.
And no one was going to help her. She’d learned in her first week on the Coast that the people here knew better than to get in the way of bad men.
Backing deeper into the alley, Aria swept off her cap, dropped it on the ground and ripped open the front of her shirt. The man with the rope waited while the other werewolf began to remove his own clothing. Aria tore her trousers open with one hand and threw them aside. Cold, damp air wrapped around her arms and legs as she flung her underthings away.
The strange werewolf finished undressing a moment later. He was big all over and very hairy, and when he Changed his shoulder stood as high as Aria’s head. She closed her eyes and let her own wolf take her. Her enemy went straight for her front legs and knocked them out from under her.
But Aria was fast, and strong. She had spent years running and riding up and down mountain slopes, and along treacherous trails that wound through dense forest and beside sheer cliffs. Her muscles reacted instantly, propelling her to her feet again. She snapped at the stranger’s nearest foreleg, her teeth sinking through fur, and into flesh and bone.
Her enemy yelped and snarled, swinging his big head around to seize the ruff on Aria’s neck.
“Don’t hurt her!” the other man cried. “He wants her alive and well!”
But the wolf didn’t seem to hear. He bore down on Aria, smothering her with his far greater weight. She realized that he could crush her without even trying. She struggled beneath him, gasping for breath, her tongue lolling and her ears flat against her skull as she scrabbled at the mud with her nails and tried to get a grip on the stranger’s belly.
“Baldwin!” the man yelled. “Stop! If you—”
His voice cracked on a cry of pain. Aria made a feeble attempt to lift her head.
Cort, she thought. And suddenly she was free, the massive body on top of her tumbling sideways with a grunt of surprise. Aria leaped up, her whole body protesting the sudden movement, and sprang toward her attacker. A warm, thickly furred shoulder brushed hers. Together she and Cort fell on the stranger, who snapped and snarled but proved no match for the two of them working together. He rolled on his back in a grotesque posture of submission, and the stink of urine mingled with the foul carrion odor of his breath.
Cort stood over him, bristling and growling. Aria couldn’t laugh, not in this shape, but she grinned and danced with joy. She had never felt anything like this before, not even when she brought down the fleetest and noblest of stags after a long and exhausting hunt. She and Cort had won. Together.
But Cort didn’t seem interested in their victory. He Changed and stood over their enemy, clenching and unclenching his fists.
“Get out of here,” he said, something cruel and rough replacing the usual smoothness of his voice. “Tell your master he won’t have her, even if he sends every loup-garou in California.”
He aimed a kick toward the other werewolf’s belly, but the beast dodged away and fled. The man who hadn’t Changed was already gone.
Cort turned to her. “Stay as you are,” he said harshly. He went to the mouth of the alley, glanced left and right, and gathered up the clothing he had dropped there. He had torn his clothing off when he’d Changed, and the garments were badly mangled. He examined them with obvious disgust.
“Ruined,” he said. He pulled on the trousers, which were ripped lengthwise from knee to hem, and fastened the two remaining buttons. He drew the equally torn shirt over his head, ignored his once-shiny vest and finished with his stained and dirty coat. His feet were bare and covered with mud. He looked so unlike his usual self that Aria wanted to laugh again.
That