Skin of the Wolf (27 page)

T
homas sat stunned by the news Spencer had delivered. Father Maxwell, dead; and dead because he had, it appeared, been in possession of the real Ohtahyohnee
.
For how long? Why?
Praevalere et veneror.
Father Maxwell and Kateri Tekakwitha, with the same motto. Chance? Not possibly. A society, then, within the Jesuit order, stretching back to the time of Tekakwitha, for the preservation of the masks. Secret, unknown. Could such a thing be? Oh yes. From its founding, many circles had existed within the Society of Jesus, some deep in the shadows of the order and the Church. This could mean nothing else. The early Jesuits in the New World, the Blackrobes the nations had loved—they must have understood the power of these masks. Had they seen or just been told? Did it matter? They knew about the Shifters, the way the Church had known about the Noantri for so long. The members of Father Maxwell’s society knew. Father Maxwell had known.

Who killed the priest, and why? Was this yet another death for which Edward Bonnard would have to answer?

Where was the mask now?

And how many other secrets, world-altering secrets, existed? And how many were known to, and shielded by, Thomas’s Church?

Thomas chided himself for dwelling on questions when a man’s soul was in need of prayer. For the second time in twenty-four hours he began, “Eternal rest, oh Father . . .” This time he offered the words silently, but no less sincerely. He’d just finished when Livia spoke.

“There’s an iron fence around the property.” They were driving down the curving street toward the Riverdale estate. “There’s a gate with a security camera, but I didn’t see any other cameras. Spencer, I assume you want to get as close as we can without being seen?”

“Indeed, that’s what I was hoping.”

Livia made a left and parked the car a block from Lane’s home. Everyone climbed out, including Father Carbonariis, who hadn’t spoken since Spencer’s news. “This way,” Livia said. “There’s a place we can get to the fence and not be seen from the street. It’s where I went over last night to get to my tree. It’s not a hard fence to climb, but someone might have to boost Thomas.”

F
ollowing Lou, Michael slipped through the trees at the edge of the frozen lawn. They’d come over the fence on the north side, away from the fire. The iron rods were high and smooth and Michael’s injury had made climbing them tricky. In the end he’d needed Lou’s help, which had come with a wiseass smirk.

As they neared the fire Michael struggled to retain control. Even with the house blocking his view of the flames he could see their glow and the weaving shadows of the trees. And he could hear the chant.
The Ceremony,
he’d told Spencer and the others.
Similar across tribal cultures, that’s why it’s effective.
Van Vliet claimed he’d been taught by a Navajo. If so, he’d learned well. The drum called and the chant demanded. The howling wind whipped the sounds around Michael and drove them deep inside him. Chant and drum reverberated past Dr. Michael Bonnard, who lived in the white world, past Gata, who was born on ancient land, scorning both to reach the wolf-self within.

No. No. Whoever was at the center of this Ceremony—the woman who’d brought the mask?—could not be allowed to Shift. She’d be destroyed. And van Vliet’s power would grow. Michael felt the ice and the heat start together within him. He fought them. As
though on the side of the chant and the drum, a gust of wind staggered him, knocked his breath out as powerfully as a blow. Lou reached out to offer help, but his gaze snapped immediately to something else. Michael followed Lou’s eyes. A figure stepped from the shadows of the house.

Edward stood, arms raised, lit by the half-hidden glow of the fire. Michael’s eyes locked with his brother’s. A moment of stillness, of silence; then Edward spoke, in the voice of the thunder:
“No.”

C
harlotte left Framingham climbing onto Petersen’s shoulders, which didn’t make either of them happy but why would she care? She crept around the house toward the fire, moving fast but keeping to the shadows. This bastard Michael Bonnard, was he here? Petersen and Klein hadn’t reported anyone who looked like him but those two weren’t the brightest bulbs. God knows how many people could’ve slipped past them.

It bothered her that the woman had arrived carrying a bundle, but there was no reason Michael Bonnard couldn’t be working with a partner. In her mind it ran like this: Bradford Lane found out a second mask existed. What else could that box be for? He wanted it and sent his to auction, maybe so he could afford to buy it. But it wasn’t for sale. He saw his chance when Michael Bonnard killed Brittany Williams, probably in some lovers’ spat. How did Lane know about that? A detail; later. Lane blackmailed Bonnard into stealing the second mask for him. The priest at Fordham didn’t want to let it go, a fatal mistake. Bonnard passed it to his partner and let himself be seen leaving the church as cover for her.

And what the hell was going on here, now? Charlotte had a guess. Lane was a wannabe, one of those collectors who amassed
Indian stuff because it was as close as he could get. Stealing this mask—especially if Lane knew the priest had died—had soaked it in bad juju and it had to be cleansed. Some bogus chanting and drumming around a fire under a full moon and it would be good to go.

So she had her theory and it was sound, she was inside, and her partner was about to let her back up in the front gate. She was a few steps away from a dynamite collar. Why was she so pissed off?

Because when you want a cleansing chant by a fire, who better to sing it than a long-haired Abenaki just down from the rez? Petersen and Klein hadn’t described anyone like Michael Bonnard, but a big guy in braids and a leather jacket sounded like Tahkwehso all over. Which meant whatever his brother had done, Edward Bonnard was probably up to his medicine-bag-wearing neck in it, too.

F
ollowing Livia, Spencer swung himself down over the fence. If he hadn’t been sure of his feelings for Michael before this, he’d have found undeniable evidence in his willingness to engage in absurd derring-do on two successive bone-chilling February nights.

Spencer watched Giovanni Antonio de Carbonariis, with a hard smile, jump up onto the stone base of the fence and extend a hand to Thomas Kelly. Thomas took it and Carbonariis yanked him up with such force that Thomas yelped; but the momentum hefted Thomas high enough to grab the pickets at their tops. With a scowl at Carbonariis he propelled himself over. Carbonariis did the same, and they were all inside.

The howling wind brought the sounds of drum and chant. Spencer took the lead, choosing to follow the line of the woods that bordered the lawn. That way they could reach the fire unseen and evaluate the situation. But as he rounded the corner of the house he thrust out his hand to stop the others. Not ten yards away Michael stood, his back to Spencer, facing another tall man unlike Michael in feature but so identical in form and stance that he could only be the elusive brother.

In the glow of the still-hidden fire Spencer could read that man’s
face. If Michael’s face were as hardened with anger and determination, as Spencer imagined it must be, an epic battle was about to begin. Though neither brother appeared to move, Spencer’s Noantri senses detected an effect unfamiliar to him: both seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the chant and the drum.

At Michael’s side a smaller man was standing. Spencer recognized him as Lou, Michael’s friend.
Oh, young man,
he thought,
move on if you can.
Michael must have been thinking the same, because at that moment, not taking his gaze from his brother, he spoke. “Lou. Go.”

Lou looked at Michael and shook himself as if waking from a dream. He darted forward, toward the side of the house where the fire burned, but Edward Bonnard leapt to block his path. He seized Lou’s arm and with astonishing speed slammed his fist into the smaller man’s face. Lou stumbled, tried to recover, threw two punches that were ineffective. Edward pounded him again and again. Lou sank to his knees. Michael launched himself forward, knocking his brother down.

Michael landed a punch as his brother lay on the frozen ground, but Michael was already injured and Edward was wild with a jubilant anger. He swept a backhand across Michael’s jaw. Michael was knocked off-balance and Edward threw him down. In each of the rapid-fire blows Edward rained onto his brother Spencer could see the decades of fury, abandonment, and wounded love.

Michael’s right hand shot out and gathered Edward’s collar. He jerked to one side and with Edward off-balance, Michael rolled the other way. Edward fell but scrambled back and tackled Michael as he started to stand. Michael fell heavily onto his injured shoulder. Edward punched and pounded and now Michael had no counterattack; even his efforts to defend himself were weak.

Spencer, cursing as he had the night before, threw himself onto Edward’s back. Wrapping an arm around Edward’s neck, he choked and wrenched until he’d pulled Edward off of Michael.

“This time leave him to me!” Spencer shouted, and it appeared Michael had the sense to do so, because Michael lay panting and then clambered to his feet. For a moment he met Spencer’s gaze with such a depth of sorrow in his eyes that Spencer was momentarily stunned. Then Michael turned and ran toward the fire.

As Edward struggled in Spencer’s grip, Spencer made out Carbonariis and Thomas Kelly taking off after Michael. Livia appeared beside Spencer and wrapped her arms around Edward to help subdue him.

But to no avail. With a massive roar half of rage, half of joy, Edward twisted and thrashed and exploded to his feet with staggering power. Both Noantri were thrown to the ground. Thudding painfully onto his back, Spencer lifted his head, saw Edward throw a scornful glance at Livia, and then turn his glowing eyes to Spencer with a wild and hungry snarl.

N
o.
No!

Edward fought the burning ice inside him. He would choose. He’d always chosen. He would Shift tonight only if necessary. For their work. For this dream he’d carried all his life, this dream he shared with Abornazine. They were so close now, and he was in control. In control.

The chant, the drum—no, he wouldn’t hear them.

His blood pulsed with them.

No.

His anger, his fathomless rage, always the trigger he used—no.

He tried to step away. He had to get back to the fire. Abornazine would need him.

But the scent of the man on the ground, the man whose blood he’d tasted yesterday, nearly drove him mad.

No!

The man had landed on his back, dazed. He stared up at Edward, and in the man’s eyes, something changed. With a small smile, he started to stand. The smile became a grin as he waved the woman back.

Using all his strength, Edward took two steps, three steps, back,
toward Abornazine, toward the fire. The man kept walking slowly toward him, as though he understood. As though he knew. Edward couldn’t take his eyes off of him as he shrugged out of his coat. The shirt under it was soaked with sweat, and as he stepped closer the wind brought his scent to Edward so powerfully that Edward felt the freezing fire sear his blood.

No. No.

No!

But he had lost. His limbs sizzled, his breath came fast and shallow. Colors faded, sounds sharpened. His craving to devour overwhelmed and conquered. His dream, his friend, everything deserted him. Nothing remained but the desperate need to finish this kill.

He gathered himself. He Shifted. And he sprang.

The man crashed to the ground and Edward slammed a massive paw onto his chest to hold him, but he didn’t struggle, just grinned into Edward’s eyes. Standing over him, jaws spread, Edward searched his face for fear, searched his scent for terror, found none. Edward saluted his courage and bent toward his throat.

And heard two loud explosive roars, and felt a searing pain.

C
harlotte stood dumbfounded, rooted. Her ears rang with the sound of gunshots. What had she seen? What had happened?

In front of her, Framingham bent over the fallen form with his hands still ready on his weapon. “What the hell?” he kept saying. “What the hell? It’s a wolf. It’s a goddamn wolf. What the hell? This freak kept a goddamn wolf?”

“Shut up!” she shouted, and that stopped him. He’d arrived just after she had, and he hadn’t seen, then. Had she, really? Two men, one of them Michael Bonnard, fighting on the ground near the inert form of a smaller man. Bonnard leaping up, running toward the fire while Spencer George and Livia Pietro tried to hold the other fighter. Two more—those priests, Kelly and Carbonariis—taking off after Bonnard. Charlotte should have followed but the other fighter bellowed and jumped up and it was Tahkwehso. Charlotte’s heart stopped, and when it started again she couldn’t move. Her blood seemed to pulse with the drum as Spencer George rose and walked slowly toward Tahkwehso and oh my God, oh my God. It couldn’t be. Couldn’t be. But the voice of Uncle James and the voice of her grandmother and other voices, forgotten or never heard before, whispered and spoke and echoed within her and they all said the
same:
It is. What you saw, you saw. Some of the stories are legends, or lessons. But others are memories.
As the voices spoke her spine and fingertips began to tingle and colors grew more vivid. Charlotte felt what she’d so often felt before, and she knew it was true. She had seen a shapeshifter. She’d seen Tahkwehso, seen Edward Bonnard, turn into a wolf.

The wolf, now, lay nearly motionless at her feet. Framingham’s bullets had knocked him off of his prey and he’d crashed to the hard earth. His flank rose and fell and she could see weak puffs of breath. Blood steamed as it flowed from under him. Charlotte knelt and reached to stroke the soft silver of his head. He shuddered, and then the breath stopped, and he died.

H
ad he heard gunshots? Thomas didn’t know. His heart lurched. Livia! But no, she’d be all right, and so would Spencer. But here, at the fire, what was happening here? Michael Bonnard, about to step over the outer ring of logs, had been seized by Carbonariis. The two men argued, in Mohawk, and not long: Michael threw off the priest’s arm and crossed the outer ring. His strength seemed to be failing, though. Pushing forward as if through a headwind, he walked toward the man with the drum, the man who wore the wolf mask. The man danced away and chanted louder, faster. Michael’s steps hesitated. The drum’s volume grew, too, its tempo increasing. Michael stopped. In the flickering glow of the flames he sank to his knees and began to shiver. His shudders grew but there was a woman a few feet away, also kneeling, wrapped only in a blanket, who didn’t move at all. Thomas peered at her: Katherine Cochran! Could it be?

And what should he do? What was right? Stop the Ceremony, that’s what Michael had been attempting. Then Thomas would. He jumped over the outer logs and as he did Katherine Cochran let loose a long and echoing scream. The man with the mask and drum increased volume and speed again. Thomas ran toward him but
Carbonariis leapt the outer ring and reached him first. The Augustinian yanked and pulled and tore the mask from the man’s head, lifting it high above his own. The chanting and the drumming stopped abruptly. In the sudden silence Michael Bonnard slumped forward and lay unmoving on the ground. Thomas ran to him. He had a hand on Michael’s shoulder when a sound from behind made him whip his head around.