Chapter
Six
Connor had every intention of hunting down his
brother for an explanation. But when night came, the tall vet was
tied up for hours with an emergency surgery on a boxer that had
been struck by a car. By midnight, the anxious owners had gone
home, and the dog was recovering from the anesthetic in a kennel.
By one a.m., Connor was sure the dog would live, but he was less
certain that he would. He didn’t dare try to
Change, not until he had eaten and slept and eaten again. Changing
burned up an ungodly number of calories. Add a rapid metabolism to
that, and the need for rest and nutrition became paramount. Two
things he hadn’t had enough of in well over a week. The hunt for
James would have to wait.
It didn’t prevent him from thinking
about his brother, however. As Connor drove home, he wondered how
on earth Jillian had encountered the white wolf. She would never
hurt the wolf, of course, that wasn’t the danger. But was James
being deliberately careless? It shouldn’t be possible for Jillian
to find James by accident. Even the Pack couldn’t find James if he
didn’t want to be found—the white wolf simply seemed to melt into
the forest and disappear. Connor wasn’t completely certain he could
find his brother either.
Why would James reveal
himself to a human? He was still mulling that question when
he climbed into bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Far on the other side of Dunvegan,
James was wondering the same thing. He had submerged himself
beneath the animal persona from the time he left the woman on the
trail. He didn’t want to think about her, didn’t intend to see her
again. He resolved to stay away from the clinic, the trails,
anywhere he might encounter her. It was safer that way. He was
unconcerned about possible danger to himself. But he was all too
aware that he could bring danger to this woman. Associating with
Changelings had proved perilous to humans throughout history. They
had nothing to fear from the Changelings—it was forbidden among
them to harm humans—but everything to fear from their fellows.
James was certain that death had visited Evelyn, had taken her
because she was married to him, and someone
had known what he was. Humans as a whole tended to be suspicious of
those who were different, fearful of anyone not like themselves,
and their fears sometimes erupted into violence.
Yet the wolf resisted James, refused to
take shelter in the deeper forest even though it was broad
daylight. Refused to do anything but lie barely hidden under a
spruce canopy, head on its paws, facing in the direction of the
town. James began to wonder if he had finally lost his mind. He
was the wolf; how could he be so at odds
with himself? It felt uncomfortably like the
wolf was becoming a separate entity and surely that way lay
madness.
Maybe if he figured out who the woman
was, he could solve the puzzle and be able to leave it alone. If he
could just get some answers, maybe then he could stop struggling
with his animal self and slip comfortably into oblivion
again.
Jillian signed up for a post office
box, transferred her eastern bank account to a local branch, and
explored a few shops, but was unable to achieve any kind of
distraction. There was a poster for a new wolf stamp at the post
office. Wolves ran along the front of her complimentary
wildlife-themed checkbook cover. The faces of wolves stared out
from greeting cards, puzzles, T-shirts and framed wildlife
pictures. A poster in a DVD rental outlet advertised a movie with
wolves. A child in a stroller held a stuffed wolf—okay, it was
supposed to be a husky, but it had blue eyes for God’s
sake.
Jillian knew that on any other day, she
would barely have noticed these things. Okay, maybe she might have
noticed some of them because she liked
wolves. But last night she had met a real wolf, her wolf. And there was just no way to rationalize away
that experience even if she’d wanted to. When she’d undressed to
shower, she’d discovered white hairs on her clothes—a few black
ones from the enthusiastic Buster but dozens upon dozens of pure
white hairs. Evidence that she had not only seen a white wolf, but
touched and even hugged a white wolf. And it had
permitted the contact. The whole idea was exhilarating and
terrifying at the same time. By some accident of fate, she’d
somehow stepped outside the bounds of normalcy and made a
connection with the unknown for the second time in her
life.
There was no proof, of course, that the
wolf had communicated with her, had spoken in her mind. She would
allow that she might have imagined that in the grip of emotion. But
all the rest was absolutely, completely true.
Her brain was churning as she walked
along Dunvegan’s red brick sidewalks. Maybe a little research was
in order. Jillian stopped at the public library and signed up for
an hour on the Internet. Three hours later, she was still there.
There were still no wolves over 175 pounds on record anywhere in
the world. Her wolf was far bigger than any canine she’d come
across, and she’d had experiences in college with very large dog
breeds such as the St. Bernard and Great Pyrenees, both of which
easily topped 200 pounds. Plus, there were the eyes . . . Wolf eye
color typically ranged from yellow to brown, occasionally green.
But not blue. Not clear, brilliant blue. Conclusion One, she
thought, was that the wolf was physically unusual, unique among its
kind.
The wolf had appeared on two similar
occasions, both times when she was alone on a trail at night and
was injured in some way. Okay, that first time she had been near
death. The skinned knees barely counted as an injury by comparison,
but still it seemed too much of a coincidence. How had the wolf
known that she was in trouble? Why had it come to her? And how
about the fact that the first time had been in eastern Ontario,
while this latest visitation was nearly two thousand miles west of
that province? How had the wolf known where she was? And just what
would motivate a wolf to travel so far? Conclusion Two, she
decided, was that the wolf possessed unusual abilities, could do
things that couldn’t be explained by normal means.
Those conclusions led her to expand her
fields of research. She found articles and stories suggesting that
the wolf could be a metaphysical being, a totem animal, a spirit
guide, even an Irish pooka. But it didn’t seem likely that such a
mystical creature would leave hair on her clothes.
She looked at the facts again and
decided to scratch Conclusions One and Two.
Wolves simply didn’t live that long, not in the wild. She had been
attacked, what, fourteen years ago? Fifteen? The white wolf that
had driven off her assailants had been unquestionably full-grown at
the time. Although zoos reported wolves living close to twenty
years in captivity, a wild wolf typically had a lifespan of only
five or six years. Ten to thirteen at most. And an aged animal
wasn’t difficult to spot. Its muscle mass would be diminishing, its
coat dull, its teeth worn. There was a look, a feel to the body
that no veterinarian could miss. And the wolf she had just
encountered on the trail seemed to be very much in its
prime.
So which was more far-fetched, that it
was the same wolf that saved her years ago, or that there were two
completely identical wolves, and both of them seemed determined to
protect her?
Jillian had a pounding headache and not
a single answer by the time she headed home. She had a stack of
books beside her on the seat of the truck, but there was no way she
was going to open them tonight. Instead, she picked up a container
of chocolate pecan fudge ice cream and resolved to eat it in front
of the TV until she forgot all about wolves for a
while.
Within the wolf, James padded silently
through the shadowed clinic. Dogs and cats slept in kennels, a cow
and two horses dozed in the livestock wing. None stirred as the
Changeling passed by them in the darkness. He wasn’t hunting
them. Instead, he inhaled deeply, drinking
in the woman’s unique scent, and followed it unerringly. Doors
presented no impediment. Every door in the clinic had levered
handles that were easily pawed open. Connor had done that on
purpose, no doubt. Bet he didn’t expect me
to use them. Within minutes, the white wolf
stood outside the room where a small, blond woman thrashed in the
grip of restless dreams.
James could sense the tension as he
pawed open the door. Was she having a nightmare? Operating with
both wolfen instinct and human caution, he moved silently until he
stood by her bed, his nose nearly touching her arm. Her blankets
were tangled, her skin shiny with perspiration. She moaned, then
suddenly went still as if on some level she sensed the wolf’s
presence. Her eyes didn’t open, but her fingers coaxed him closer,
her lips murmuring soundlessly. To his surprise, her thoughts shone
clearly in his mind. I missed you. I’m so glad you
came back. She stroked the great animal’s head, buried her
hands in the snowy ruff. The doctors tried to tell
me you were just a hallucination, but I knew you were real. I knew
it inside. I hung onto that, knew I wasn’t alone. I knew you’d
come.
She smiled broadly, her eyes still
closed, relaxed and drifting down into a deep and peaceful sleep.
James watched her for a long time, puzzled by this new development.
He shouldn’t be able to hear her thoughts. Changelings could
usually only hear the thoughts of other Changelings. And he was
confused by the feelings she stirred in him, confused even to
have feelings. He had spent so many years
buffered from emotions. As a wolf, he instinctively wanted to guard
her, protect her. Not like a cub or even a member of its Pack. More
than that. It was important to keep her safe, if only from her
dreams. But deep within the wolf, James himself was restless. He
wanted something else, something more, something he didn’t
recognize.
And then suddenly he did. With the
blinding intensity of a lightning flash, James suddenly understood
exactly what it was that he wanted. Needed.
To see her with a man’s eyes. To touch her with a man’s hands. To
puzzle out the connection between them as a man. The unexpected urge to resume his human form was so
powerful that he ached with it—and was nearly overwhelmed by it.
The white wolf jumped back from the bed as if it was on fire, and
James fought to stay in control. He wanted nothing more than to
bolt down the hallway and out of the building, to race for the
forest. But there would be no sanctuary there as long as the riddle
of who this woman was—and who she was to him—remained
unsolved.
Maybe if he slipped out of the wolf’s
skin . . . if he was in his human form just for a moment . . .
maybe then he could remember her.
A sudden breeze stirred the air in the
room although there was no window open. A flurry of blue sparks
eddied about the wolf as static electricity built. The animal
vanished. A tall, powerful man stood in its place—and abruptly sat
down hard on the floor.
Ow! Jesus! His
teeth had snapped together with enough force to make his head ring.
Luckily his tongue hadn’t been in the way, and thank God he hadn’t
made too much noise. James’s skin prickled as a new awareness stole
over him. He was different. Human skin. He’d
forgotten how it felt, wasn’t sure that he liked it. And everything
else seemed different too. Not only was his outward form changed,
but his senses had shifted, altered. Almost dulled. In human form,
Changelings possessed stronger senses of sight and smell and
hearing than real humans—yet not nearly as powerful as what they
experienced as wolves. The sudden difference was confusing, almost
frightening. James held his hands out as if for balance, in spite
of the fact he was still sitting down. He glanced over and marveled
that he had hands, waggled the fingers on
one, then the other. He had forgotten what that was like too. Had
it been so long?
His heart hammered against his ribs.
Emotions assailed him and were beaten back as James struggled to
stay in control, to orient himself to this new state of affairs. He
tried to breathe normally, succeeded mostly. Awkwardly he pushed
his hair away from his face, glanced down quickly, and was relieved
to find clothes. They felt odd—they just didn’t move with him the
way that fur did—but thank God he was dressed. It hadn’t even
crossed his mind when he called the Change. The woman was certain
to be upset if she awakened to find a stranger in her room. A naked
stranger would likely have her screaming the place
down.
He looked over at the bed. Didn’t
intend to wake her, of course, didn’t want her to be frightened.
But he needed to know, he had to know who
she was.
James rose shakily to his feet, feeling
as coordinated as a newborn giraffe, and sat carefully on the edge
of the bed. He looked, really looked, at the woman for the very
first time. She lay on her back with an arm curled above her head,
the other arm outflung. She had a childlike appearance at first
glance, her pajamas covered with silly cartoon frogs, but the
rumpled material clung to soft curves, rounded breasts, things the
wolf wouldn’t notice but the man did. Her short blond hair was a
pleasing riot of cowlicks, but it looked wrong somehow. It should
be long. Somehow he remembered that her hair had been long. But
when? Where? James tried to will the memories to return, frustrated
that there were only baffling fragments that meant little. He had
been so certain that as soon as he resumed human form, the hazy
picture in his mind would clear and the troubling puzzle would be
solved. The disappointment was almost tangible.
The woman beside him was breathing
deep, still oblivious to his presence. His human presence anyway. He turned his attention to
carefully studying her features. There were faint, fine scars along
the cheekbone, the underside of the jaw, tiny irregularities that
Changeling eyesight perceived, but ordinary human eyes would never
know. What had happened to her? He felt he should know, that it was
important. It meant something. The woman—J-something, her name begins with J—certainly meant
something to the wolf. Did his wolf side know things that his human
side did not? J, Jane, Jennifer, Julia, Ji—Ji—Jill,
Jill, Jillian. It was a small triumph to remember her name,
although he suspected the wolf had supplied it. He whispered it
softly, conscious of how his human mouth formed each syllable.
“Jil-li-an. Jilli-an.” Repeated it until it didn’t feel so damned
awkward, as if his lips were out of shape or something. He had a
name now but it didn’t prompt any further memories. He wondered if
she knew him, then realized it was far more
likely that she knew not the man but the wolf, had seen the animal
somewhere. She probably wouldn’t recognize James at all.
Disappointment poked again at his insides, and he swore softly,
then got up and paced silently about the room.
A hefty pile of mail and newspapers
occupied a small table by the door and he fanned out the top few
envelopes. Dr. Jillian Descharme, DVM. He
was strangely relieved to have remembered her first name before the
address labels revealed it to him—yet her last name was unfamiliar.
It looked like it might be French, maybe French-Canadian, but he
had no idea how to pronounce it. She was a veterinarian, and that
struck no particular chord either, except to explain why she was
living at the clinic. She obviously worked with his brother. For a
fleeting moment James considered asking Connor about the woman—but
dismissed it quickly. He didn’t want to involve his brother unless
he had to, would far rather figure things out for
himself.
James replaced the mail, trying to
arrange it the way it had been, when he happened to glance up. A
calendar was on the wall, and he stared at the year in disbelief.
It was a joke, had to be. His attention snapped back to the mail
and he pawed through it now, seeking postmarks, rifling through the
newspapers for a date. Each time he found one, he’d toss it to the
floor and find another. And another. Jesus Murphy,
that can’t be right. There has to be a mistake. The year
looked bizarre, like science fiction. Could the century have turned
without his knowing?
When he got to the bottom of the pile,
he leaned against the wall and stood there for a very long time.
His mind fought to accept that he’d been running as a wolf for more
than thirty years. Dear God, it hadn’t felt like that long. A
wolf’s concept of time was limited. It was aware of the moon and
the seasons—but it didn’t count them. His human side had paid no
attention at all, preferring to give up all awareness in favor of
the wolf. Finally James blew out a breath and straightened. It
didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. One year or thirty or a hundred,
he was damn well going to run as a wolf again, just as soon as he
solved this particular puzzle.
He sat on the bed and studied the
woman, noticed things that he hadn’t as a wolf. Her features
combined to create a unique beauty—the wild cap of hair, the fine
sharp angles of her face, the tiny frown between her brows. She
looked like a bad-tempered faerie. And she smelled good, a little
different through human nostrils, but the scent was still distinct,
still tantalizing. He knew the scent because the wolf knew her
scent—but her face, however appealing, told him nothing at all. His
frustration mounted. Why couldn’t he remember her? Why did he know
her name, her smell? She was completely human, but he had heard her
thoughts in his mind as clearly as if she was a Changeling
too.
James thought of the strange vision
he’d had on the trail, the momentary sight of a much younger
Jillian, injured and anticipating death. What had happened to her?
She said the wolf saved her life but how? When? The questions beat
at his brain as hopelessly as the moths against the bedroom window.
James glanced over at it, noted the graying of the night sky along
the eastern horizon. He almost sighed, although whether it was in
relief or resignation, he’d be hard-pressed to say.
He fully intended to leave. Was going
to get up and walk out the door. Instead his hand went to Jillian’s
face, brushed the wisps of hair away with a tenderness he didn’t
know he was capable of. Her fair skin was soft, so soft . . . and
it hit him hard that he hadn’t felt a woman’s skin, hadn’t
wanted to feel a woman’s skin, in fact,
hadn’t so much as thought of it for a long,
long time. He brushed his fingertips lightly over her cheek, felt
something electric along his own skin. A connection pulsed between
them. . . .
“Who are you, Jillian?” he whispered.
As if in response, she sighed and turned a little toward him. It
distracted him just long enough for a snake-quick hand to seize his
wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.
James found himself staring into
furious green eyes. Mentally, he flailed for the appropriate words,
realized there weren’t very damn many for a situation like this.
Shit. He cursed himself for being a complete
idiot even as he tried to paste on what he hoped was a friendly
expression—he’d had no time to practice. “Don’t be afraid. It’s . .
. it’s not what you think.”