Luck of the Wolf (21 page)

“Keep her here, Babette,” Cort snapped, and broke back into a run.

Aria turned to follow, but Babette stopped her. “We must stay here,” she said urgently. “Cort will return with the horses.”

“So that we can run away?” Aria said. “Cort knows who these men are, doesn't he? Are they the same ones who followed you and Yuri?” She shook her head. “If you couldn't fool them before, nothing will stop them. We have to fight!”

“Cort won't let you,” Babette said. “He cares only about getting you to safety.”

“But there are so many of them, and he's alone!” Aria jerked free of Babette's hold. “I'm going!”

“Then I am coming with you.”

Aria didn't wait. She stripped out of her clothes, ripping her shirt and trousers, and Changed. Sound and smell sharpened, and she could count exactly how many of the enemy had found them. Eight men, ready to attack. How could Yuri and Babette have been so wrong?

The report of a gun burst in Aria's ears, and she flung herself through the trees like a mad dog. One of their horses galloped past her as she reached the clearing, and she quickly saw that only two of the animals remained where Cort had secured them to a sapling. They were snorting and rolling their eyes in panic, straining to get away.

Cort and Yuri were facing each other over the fire, Yuri with a gun in his hand. Cort's lips were peeled back in a snarl.

“Batard,”
he said. “When I kill you, it will not be because you have betrayed our friendship, but because you meant to hurt Aria.”

“I mean no harm to her,” Yuri said, his voice shaking. “No more than you. She will have everything her heart desires.”

“Because di Reinardus will treat her well in order to gain what he wants?” Cort shook his head. “Yes, I know his plans. Babette told me. He'll keep her in a gilded cage for the rest of her life—if he doesn't get her killed first.”

Aria stopped, fur bristling. The scene made no sense to her. Why was Yuri aiming a gun at Cort? Who was di Reinardus? Babette had mentioned the name once, when Aria had told her that she couldn't possibly be Lucienne.

“Do you think
you
can provide for her?” Yuri asked. “You, with your miserable origins, and a woman of her blood?”

“I can make her happy.”

“You will never get the chance. They will be here any moment.”

“At least I'll take you down first. Your gun won't stop me.”

“It will if I shoot you through the heart,” Yuri said.

Whatever they were talking about, Aria knew there wasn't a minute to lose. She flung herself into the clearing and charged straight at Yuri.

The Russian was taken off guard just long enough. As he shot wildly in Aria's direction, Cort leaped over the fire and barreled into him, smashing the gun out of his hand. Aria jumped at Yuri's chest, forelegs stiff, and knocked him to the ground.

“Aria,” Cort said, breathing heavily, “take the horses and go back to Babette. I'll keep the others occupied while you escape.”

He was already beginning to remove his clothing.
He clearly realized he would have to fight as a wolf to have any chance at all. But Aria knew there were too many for one man to defeat, and that she and Babette had no chance of escaping if Cort lost, even if she were willing to leave him.

Aria Changed into human form again, knowing she had only seconds to pose the questions she needed to ask.

“Why was Yuri pointing a gun at you?” she demanded. “Who is di Reinardus?”

Cort flung his coat into the shrubbery. “There is no time for this now. Take the horses and go.”

“No. You have no chance if you fight them alone.”

He bared his teeth at her. “One of the men about to attack us is Brecht. He'll do everything possible to take you without injuring you. I can't protect you while I fight them.”

No blood had flowed, yet Aria's senses were choked by a phantom scent of death. Brecht had come all this way after all this time to take her. Why? Just because she was beautiful and he wanted to lie with her?

And why would
he
be willing to give her everything her heart desired?

The only thing in the world she desired was Cort. If she lost him, she would lose everything. Including the will to live. “Aria!”

Babette ran into the clearing, her face damp and flushed, and her hair half-loose. “I'm sorry, Cort. I couldn't hold her.” She saw Yuri lying on the ground and gasped. “What has happened? Is he—”

“He's all right,” Cort snapped. Aria knew he wouldn't tell Babette of Yuri's treachery even if there were time
to do so. By now the scent of the approaching men had been joined by the sound of their heavy human tread.

Cort stepped in front of her. “Would you put Babette in danger?” he asked softly. “Brecht could take her and use her against us. You're the one who has to protect her now.”

A thick ball of tears clogged Aria's throat. Cort had given her an impossible choice. But he was right. There was no one left to protect Babette. Yuri was still unconscious, and he was a traitor, as well—though she didn't know why. Had he known about Brecht coming here all along?

“Promise me,” she whispered to Cort, pressing close to his warm, naked body. “Promise me that you won't die.”

He took her in his arms and kissed her hard, as if this were the last time he would ever hold her. She didn't let go of him until he pushed her away.

“Follow your instincts,” he said. “Find a place to hide until you can get to Placerville.”

Where they were to have been married. There would be no wedding now. Perhaps not ever.

The tears spilled over. “Cort…”

“You must go to the Reniers. They
are
your family, Aria. Promise me you'll listen to Babette and do as she says.”

She didn't understand him, but she had no chance to ask what he meant. A snapping twig told her that the enemy had arrived. She hugged Cort once more, turned and ran for the horses. She helped Babette mount, then flung herself up into the saddle. When she looked back, a red wolf was crouching in the clearing, ready to kill.

Or die.

 

Y
URI HAD BEEN RIGHT
.

As Cort waited, his heart leaping behind his ribs, his ears pressed flat, he remembered every devastating word Babette had spoken.

Yuri's betrayal had been the least of it. Even the fact that Babette had gone along with the Russian's scheme could be forgiven, especially since she had confessed her part in it and warned Cort that Yuri might still betray them in spite of his recent promises. Cort couldn't afford to doubt her willingness to make up for her betrayal. Whore or lady, he needed her too much.

But as for the rest…

A woman of her blood
. Royal blood from a tiny country Cort had never heard of until Babette had told him all the other things she and Aria had kept hidden from him.

From the first time he had met her, Cort had felt pity for the girl who had lost her memory. He'd seen her as a tool in the beginning, and then as something more. Something he didn't want to lose.

But he'd always thought of himself as her superior in every way that had mattered to him: experience, sophistication, an understanding of the world as it was. Even when he'd come to respect her intelligence and courage, he'd never doubted that he held the advantage.

Now he knew how wrong he had been. Yuri had mocked him with his miserable origins, and he'd had reason. Everything Cort had believed about Aria, about himself, was false. In that world of privilege and power Cort had so long coveted, he could never be her equal.

Oh, she didn't know it yet. She had been told nothing of her true heritage. But she would find out soon enough. Babette would explain everything as soon as they were on their way to New Orleans.

And then? Cort couldn't laugh, but he could see the humor in the situation. Aria would do what they had always planned: go to the New Orleans Reniers, who had once sheltered a girl whose real name had been Alese. Aria's twin sister.

Ironically enough, Aria's arrival among the Reniers would be a far worse shock than Cort had anticipated when he'd planned his revenge. But they would accept her in the end; that telltale birthmark would ensure it.

And then she would never want for anything again—not family, not money, not shelter, nor any of the other things that made life better than mere existence. And, one day, she might hope to find a mate worthy of her.

The thought was unbearable, but Cort took some comfort in knowing
he
was worthy enough to die for her. And he was more than willing.

Because he knew now that he loved her. Now that it was too late.

He flung back his head and howled a challenge to the one who was coming. He knew that Brecht—Duke Gunther di Reinardus—would not fight as a man. He was evidently done with leaving his vital work to human henchman. There were at least two other werewolves with him, and though there were humans, as well, Cort knew they would be used only as distractions and decoys. Once di Reinardus discovered that Aria had fled, he would go after her himself, and set his
loups-garous
and humans on Cort.

Leaves rustled and tore from their branches. Cort braced himself. A blond wolf burst out of the trees, thick coat erect and ears pricked in challenge. He went straight for Cort's throat.

His followers crowded after him, a pair of humans with guns and two werewolves, one brown and one gray.
Cort had no time to locate the other humans he sensed encircling the clearing. Di Reinardus was the most powerful
loup-garou
he had ever encountered, and soon he thought of nothing but teeth and claws and blood.

Voices called, and bullets whizzed past Cort's ears as he danced and lunged, snapping at any part of di Reinardus he could reach. Powerful jaws closed on his foreleg, and he felt the bone break. In turn he sank his teeth into the other werewolf's flank. He felt bone pop, and nearly choked on the gouts of blood his bite released.

And then, suddenly, the blond wolf was gone, and the gray and the brown had taken his place. They were neither as swift nor as powerful as the duke, and in spite of the raging pain in his leg Cort was able to hold them at bay.

All he could hope to do was prevent them from following di Reinardus in his pursuit of Aria and Babette. A bullet grazed Cort's shoulder, and the gray wolf sank his jaws into his ruff. Cort tore away, leaving a hunk of fur in the gray's mouth, and turned on the brown. There seemed little hope that he could win.

But he was desperate, and his enemies were not quite desperate enough. He beat them down one after the other, leaving them whining and whimpering with debilitating injuries, and then went for the humans. Without the
loups-garous
to protect them, the humans lost their nerve. One got off two more wild shots before he died. The other lasted a little longer and managed to shoot Cort in his left hind leg.

When he was finished with his attackers, the full pain of Cort's injuries broke through the wall he had built against it. He collapsed, gasping for breath, his broken foreleg useless and his hind leg dragging behind him.

If he remained as he was, the odds were stacked
against his survival. If he Changed, he might heal himself almost instantly, but the Change itself, in his weakened condition, could kill him.

He had no choice. If he had any chance at all of reaching Aria, he had to take it. He turned his head to look for Yuri.

The Russian was gone. Cort didn't give a damn. He bent his muzzle close to the ground, preparing himself for agony.

F
IRE EXPLODED IN
his heart, eating its way through bone, muscle and flesh. His body twisted grotesquely, caught between two shapes, striving to Change and heal itself at the same time. Cort struggled to hold on to consciousness, but the fire had reached his brain. Aria's eyes, shining like the bright Pacific, were the last image he saw in the depths of the holocaust.

When he came to his senses again, he was human. And whole. The Change had worked its magic. He got to his feet, stretching limbs stiff and clumsy from his time spent curled on the ground, and took stock of his surroundings.

The two dead humans were still where he had left them. One of the
loups-garous
had died in wolf shape, unable to complete the Change. The other had fled, and there was no sign of di Reinardus, or the human he had smelled but never seen.

Cort knew he had wounded the duke badly enough to force him to Change and submit to a period of healing just as Cort had done. But he almost certainly wasn't dead, and Cort's preternatural senses told him that a full day and night had passed. Cort might pray that the women had outwitted the duke and gotten safely to Placerville, but as long as di Reinardus was alive, he would never stop pursuing Aria.

Cort Changed and began to circle the clearing, sifting
one scent from another until he found the right set of paw prints in the churned earth. Not far outside the clearing he discovered a bloodied depression in the dirt where di Reinardus had lain, first as a wolf and then as a man.

But it was as a wolf that di Reinardus had left after his recovery. Nose to the ground, Cort tracked the spoor into the woods, and soon he was running full out toward the west, following the trail of the man he hated most in all the world.

The two men he hated most, for after several hours of pursuit he picked up Yuri's scent, mingled with the smell of horse. Yuri and di Reinardus had not been traveling together, however; Yuri had appeared from a side trail and followed di Reinardus. Apparently he had scuttled after his master like the cur he was.

But when Cort reached another place where the ground was stained with blood, both human and werewolf, he knew he had made the wrong assumption. There had been a struggle here, and gunshots. Two blood trails led away from the area, Yuri's first and then the duke's. One of them had decided to end their alliance.

Di Reinardus must have been badly wounded if he hadn't been able to kill Yuri outright, but he hadn't Changed this time. He'd gone after Yuri trailing blood and violent rage.

Cort burst into a run again, ears flat and tail streaming behind him. Soon he heard the thunder of fast-moving water, and scented wet rock and earth.

It was the river, the same one that ran alongside the wagon trail he and Aria had followed into the mountains. Cort sped toward it—and the lone figure who stood on the high, steep embankment overlooking the
rushing water. He skidded to a stop just short of the edge of the cliff.

Yuri looked at him, his eyes blank and his body bent in pain. He held one arm cradled against his chest, and one trouser leg was shredded and soaked with blood. A gun lay discarded at his feet.

“He's dead,” Yuri croaked. “I shot him.”

“You wounded him,” Cort growled.

“I got him…through the heart when he chased me here. He—” Yuri waved toward the cliff.

Cort Changed, watching the Russian out of the corner of his eye as he moved to the edge of the precipice. Puddles of congealing blood painted a crimson path to the rocky brink and flowed over it. The river was white with foam and choppy waves beating at massive rocks worn down by the relentless current.

“He fell,” Yuri said, coming up behind him. “He hit the rocks and was carried away.”

There was no reason that Cort should believe him. No reason but the evidence of his own eyes, the blond hair caught in a crack in the rocks at Cort's feet, the sunburst of blood on the stones far below.

He turned on Yuri. “If you're lying to me…”

“I didn't do it for you or the girl,” Yuri said, tears in his eyes. “I hated him.”

Cort bunched his fist, raised it and let it fall again. If Yuri had claimed he'd done it out of loyalty or concern for Aria, Cort wouldn't have believed him. Perhaps he had a good reason for hating di Reinardus and wanting him dead. But whether the Russian was lying or not, Cort knew he could never be sure of the man again.

“I should kill you,” Cort said.

Yuri's shoulders slumped, and he looked almost longingly at the river. “Make it fast.”

Cort laughed. “I
should
kill you, but I won't. You were a good friend for many years. But I warn you. Never let me see your face again.”

He turned his back on the Russian, Changed and raked the earth with his hind feet as if he were covering offal. Then he ran west toward Placerville. He would look there first, but if Babette had done as he'd asked, she and Aria would already be halfway to New Orleans.

And Cort would follow. Not to propose to Aria again, or to tell her that he loved her. He would remain in New Orleans just long enough to be certain she was safe, now and for all the years to come.

 

G
UNTHER PULLED HIMSELF
out of the water, gasping with the pain of his wounds. At least he was no longer bleeding; his werewolf blood had already healed the most dangerous of his injuries. Now that Yuri was alone again, a simple Change would take care of the rest.

He tore off the sodden remnants of his clothing, tossed them on the nearest rocks and Changed. Chernikov looked on from above, looking far more the drowned cat than Gunther felt.

The man had done his job, and he would still be useful for a little while longer.

Choosing the easiest course up the steep bank, Gunther scrambled to the top. Yuri backed away and raised his hands as if to ward off death himself. He'd had enough sense to leave the gun in the grass where he'd dropped it.

Gunther Changed again. “Well done, Baron,” he said. “You may very well have convinced the peasant that I am dead.”

“Da,”
Yuri said, swallowing several times. “I think he believes.”

Gunther didn't bother saying that Yuri's life depended upon Cort's belief. He didn't need to.

“You have one more task to perform,” he said. “Continue on to New Orleans. I have deposited a substantial sum in the Merchants National Bank in Sacramento. Use as much as you require to hire as many
wehrwölfe
as you can find. I have my own man with strong connections to the Reniers already in place. I will give you a message for him.” He sniffed the air. “I will be following very soon. Do not make any mistakes, Baron.”

“I will not fail you.”

“Then get your horse and make speed to Sacramento.”

Yuri dragged his sleeve across his forehead, turned and started for the woods.

Di Reinardus grimaced. God grant that his ally in New Orleans would be of more use to him. Though
he
might not be quite so easy to kill when this was over.

 

T
HE BREATH-STEALING
humidity struck Aria in the face like a bucket of boiling water. The train had been bad enough, but now there was not so much as a cabin wall between her and the relentless heat.

“Anna?”

Aria started at Babette's voice behind her. She stepped down from the train car, ignoring the porter's offered hand.

It was summer in New Orleans, and the temperature was high enough to drive even a werewolf to madness. In San Francisco the fog kept the air cool, clearing away in the afternoon to bless the earth with gentle sunlight.

There was nothing gentle about this place—or Aria's
thoughts. Her mind insisted that Cort must be dead or he would have caught up with them by now.

Her heart didn't believe it. If she and Babette had been able to get away from their enemies, Cort would have done the same. No matter how smart Aria had been in evading Brecht and his men, she and Babette could never have escaped and reached Placerville if Cort hadn't stayed behind and won the battle.

After reaching Placerville, they'd sold their horses and gone on to Sacramento, where they stayed hidden away in a seedy hotel in one of that city's poorest neighborhoods. Babette had been very quiet, and Aria had known she was thinking about Yuri. The last time they had seen him he'd been lying unconscious on the ground.

Had Yuri been working for Brecht all along? Why would he have done such a thing?

When she thought back, Aria realized that she had never been quite sure why Yuri was helping her and Cort find her family. She'd come to accept that Cort was doing it because he wanted to help her.

Because he
cared
for her. But Yuri
didn't
care for her. Still, whatever his reason for helping her, why would he betray Cort? And why didn't Babette know anything about what he'd been planning, when they had spent so much time together?

Aria didn't have the heart to ask her. Better for Babette to believe that Yuri had fought with Cort, not against him. At least Cort wouldn't hurt Yuri—or Aria didn't think he would, anyway. He would never forgive himself if he did.

But they didn't see Yuri again, and finally, after three days in Sacramento, Aria was certain that Cort had stopped their attackers for good.

Babette wasn't mollified. She urgently reminded Aria that Cort had wanted them to go straight to New Orleans. When Aria asked what Cort had meant when he'd said “they
are
your family,” Babette told her something that didn't seem nearly the shock it should have been: that she must be directly related to Lucienne and the Reniers.

Babette explained that when Cort had come to tell her about his plan to marry Aria, she had admitted that Aria had feigned her amnesia and could not be Lucienne. Aria didn't blame Babette for telling him; she knew
she
should have done it long ago.

But it did seem odd that Cort hadn't been so much angry as puzzled and thoughtful. True, Aria had come from across the sea, but so had the Reniers many years ago. Kin long separated by time and distance could unexpectedly share a resemblance.

Whatever he had thought, Cort hadn't felt ready to speak to her about it before they left for Placerville, or along the way. That didn't bother her. She didn't care what he had kept from her. She cared only about making sure he was all right, no matter how long she and Babette had to wait in Sacramento to do it.

But Babette would not be swayed. “It was Cort's wish,” she said. “We must delay no longer.”

And so, after paying the hotel bill and buying the train tickets, they had purchased new clothes and necessities with the money they had left over from selling the horses in Placerville, saving the small amount of cash Babette had been carrying hidden in her clothing. Two fine ladies had boarded the Southern Pacific bound for New Orleans, one blonde and one dark, both beautiful enough to catch the eye of nearly every man they met.

How Aria had hated it.

Now, as the heavy Louisiana air stole her breath, she snapped open her parasol and indifferently watched as the porter brought their small trunk and bags from the train. Babette came up beside her.

“I have asked the porter to summon a carriage,” she said. “Come into the station, Anna.”

Numb with despair, Aria followed Babette inside. Travelers sat on the benches, talking or simply sitting, the men reading newspapers and the women idly plying their fans. Aria waited, unmoving, until the porter came to fetch them.

Everything about New Orleans was new and strange, even after all she had seen in San Francisco. The streets were full of people of every color, including some she hadn't seen in San Francisco. Even the simply dressed women Aria presumed were servants carried themselves with unconscious grace and elegance. The shops and buildings were festooned with delicate ironwork, pretty as the women's gowns, and the crowded markets were vibrant and colorful.

None of it left any impression. Aria stared blankly at the fancy upholstery on the opposite seat of the carriage as they rode to the hotel Babette had chosen for their first night in the city. Babette quietly reminded her that she should remain as quiet as possible and volunteer nothing about herself to anyone they met, even if someone should seem to recognize her. If it became necessary, Aria would share only a few “facts” that Babette had devised, a story that had very little to do with what had really happened since Aria had left Carantia.

“But why?” Aria had asked. “If I'm
not
Lucienne and they don't know me, why should I lie about where I came from and how I got here?”

“It will make things easier in the beginning,” Babette
had said. “But it is only for today, in any case. There are things I must tell you before we go to the Reniers. Things I should have said before we—” She looked down at her gloved hands. “Everything will undoubtedly seem very strange to you,
ma chérie,
but you must trust that Cort believed this course was best for you.”

Believed
. Aria found she could not even be upset at Babette's use of the past tense. She paid little attention as the coachmen drove along Royal Street and into the
porte-cochère
of a hotel that rivaled the Palace in its grandeur, if not its height. She stepped down to the street, adjusting her skirts without thought. Babette took her arm.

“This is not the finest hotel in New Orleans,” she said, “but it is quite respectable. We have just enough money to stay a night or two if circumstances require it, but I do not believe it will be necessary.”

Aria followed Babette into the lobby, trailed by porters with their trunk and bags. Like the Palace,
La Court des Palmes
clearly catered to wealthy clientele. The women were beautiful and seemed well aware of their own worth. The men were dapper and handsome, reminding her painfully of Cort.