To Catch a Wolf (7 page)

"A gentleman's duty, I fear.”

"Even though they never answer.”

"They are family," Ulysses said. "One will do much for family that one will not for a

stranger.”

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The old pain could sometimes catch Morgan unaware, as it did now. "I prefer to remain

a stranger.”

"Sometimes that choice is made for you, regardless of your inclinations. But if you

choose to leave us tonight, do not forget us.”

This time Morgan let him go. He had never yet won a debate with Ulysses Marcus

Aurelius Wakefield.

"He has feelings also, you know.”

Caitlin walked up beside him, dabbing at her face with a cloth. Her bare arms, neck, and

face were moist with perspiration, and tendrils of her hair clung to her cheek. The

barking of Vico's trick dogs in the ring signaled the beginning of the next act.

Morgan watched the canines' antics with faint contempt, remembering how Vico had

tried to convince him to play tame wolf among the curs. "The Professor can take care of

himself.”

"Is that why you always stick to him like a burr whenever we go among the townies?”

"The Professor is right. Your imagination does run away with you.”

"You are a terrible liar. You'd rather die than admit you care for anyone, or anything.”

"And why should he admit that to you?" As silent as her serpents, Tamar appeared

beside them. "You try to change him into something he is not." The snake charmer's

heavy-lidded eyes swept over Morgan. "It is not a mistake I make.”

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Morgan took a careful step back. Tamar had a unique power of her own—to fascinate

nearly every man who came within her grasp. She was tall, lithe, and beautiful, despite

the coldness of her eyes. The lilt of her exotic accent worked like venom mixed in

honeyed wine. No towny knew that the luxurious wig of raven-black tresses concealed a

head as smooth as snakeskin. Most of her suitors would not have cared. They were

smitten.

But all of them, towny or trouper, she ignored

save Morgan. He avoided her, and so

she pursued all the more relentlessly.

She slid close to him, running her supple hand the length of his arm. "You are weary,

my friend. Leave these who do not understand. Come to my tent, and I will soothe your

brow with scented oils and sing ancient songs of love.”

Only a dead man could fail to be aware of the sexuality Tamar exuded with every

whispered word, every motion. The circus folk were no Puritans, but he ignored the few

invitations he received. To take a trouper as a lover, even casually, meant stronger ties

with the circus. He preferred the anonymity of women who sold their services for a

price.

Even so, he was tempted. His body was hungry for the release it had been denied so

long. Sex was touching without true intimacy, pleasure without commitment—not as it

was among the wolves. Tamar might be satisfied to know she had conquered him, if

only for a night.

A slow smile curved Tamar's lips. Her hands left his arm and wandered lower. He

flinched. She laughed under her breath.

"My poor, poor wolf. You are sick. Tamar can ease your pain." She cupped him boldly.

"No one understands you as I do. Come, my fine stallion. We will ride fast and far.”

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Caitlin made a rude noise, jerking Morgan from his daze. "The man who wrote about the

subtlety of serpents cannot have been thinking of you, Tamar.”

"And no man would want you," she hissed. "You stink of horses. You are shaped like a

stick. Morgan would not have you if you begged him.”

"Morgan is my friend." Caitlin cast Morgan an apologetic look. "I don't seduce my

friends.”

"I do not think you are a woman at all. Why don't you find another girl to play with?”

"That is hardly an insult worthy of you, Tamar. Where's the poison in your tongue?”

Morgan growled. Two pairs of feminine eyes fixed on him, and Tamar shut her mouth.

Caitlin folded her arms across her chest and started to speak.

"Be quiet," he said. "If you want to fight, wait until I am gone.”

"Gone?" Caitlin repeated.

"I'm leaving tonight.”

Tamar clutched his arm. He shook off her grasp and met Caitlin's stricken gaze. "The

Professor said I should tell you before I go.”

"How very kind of you. How gentlemanly.”

"I never claimed to be either. I have repaid the debt—”

"And now you go on your merry way without a thought for what you're leaving behind.”

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"I made no promises.”

"Good riddance, then.”

"You are strong, Firefly. The strong survive.”

"If you don't say good-bye to Harry, I will hunt you down and kill you myself.”

"I would be a fool to risk your anger.”

"You would never make a good clown, Morgan Holt," she said, tears thick in her throat.

"Go on. Go." She ran back into the big top as the band struck up the finale.

He obeyed before she could change her mind. Tamar had already slipped out of the

pad room, for which he was profoundly grateful. But he hadn't come away unscathed.

The unfamiliar, bitter taste of regret burned on his tongue.

This was sadness. Guilt. He had let himself grow too close to Caitlin—and to Ulysses,

and Harry. There was still one final ordeal ahead.

He waited by himself at the edge of the lot until the stream of townies emerging from the

big top heralded the end of the show. Laughter and excited chatter dwindled and faded,

only a few children lingering to catch a final glimpse of the freaks by moonlight. The rest

drifted past the ticket wagon, down the midway and toward the town lights.

The performers came next—Florizel and the clowns, Vico with his dogs, Caitlin and her

assistants leading the horses to their pickets, Regina the bird-boned rope-walker, Tor

the strong man, and all the others. They left the tent singly or in small groups, each to

his or her own wagon or tent. The roustabouts and crew would work through the night to

tear down the big top and prepare the troupe for departure before dawn.

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But even the rest would not sleep. It was a time for celebration, because at last the

troupe could afford to take up winter quarters and rest until spring without fear of

disbanding or starvation. The "freaks" of French's Fantastic Family Circus would keep

their beloved home and sanctuary for another year.

And Morgan would abandon it as he had every other home he had ever known.

The last, solitary figure to leave the big top moved with the deliberation of a man who

suffered the aches of old age and believed no one was watching. Morgan skirted the

edge of the lot and paused just outside of Harry's tent until he heard the sound of

pouring liquid and a satisfied sigh.

Bloodshot brown eyes looked up as Morgan entered. Harry set down his glass, and his

snowy moustache lifted in a grin.

"My dear boy," he said. "Pull up a stool. I believe that we can call our final performance

in Colorado Springs yet another triumph, don't you agree?" He lifted his bottle. "Perhaps

tonight? No, no, of course not." He took another swallow and smacked his lips. "All the

more for me!”

Morgan ducked his head. In many ways this was the most difficult, this farewell. Caitlin

was not naive, in spite of her small size and pixie's face. Ulysses was too pragmatic to

believe that Morgan would stay. But Harry

Harry French was still a child, unaffected

by the punishing hand of experience.

"It's all thanks to you, of course," Harry continued. "We have already found a lovely spot

for winter quarters, in Texas. Far better than the old one in Ohio. We will all have plenty

of rest and time to improve our acts." He chuckled. "No point in confining ourselves to

the smallest towns. All we need do is take care to avoid direct competition with the big

outfits. We may not be large, but we have the finest attractions in the west!”

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"Harry—”

"Yes? Did you say something, my boy?”

Morgan steeled himself. "I am leaving, Harry.”

Harry grew very quiet. He set down his glass. "Well, well. We knew this day would

come, didn't we? Though I had hoped—”

"I am

grateful for what you did," Morgan said. His voice sounded rough and harsh,

and he made an effort to soften it. "You know that gratitude does not

come easy to

me.”

"Ah, yes. Yes, I know." He gave a small laugh that blew out his whiskers. "That makes it

so much more important when you give it.”

"Don't, Harry. I am not worth

this—”

"Feeling?" Harry didn't raise his eyes. "Feelings are difficult for you. I know that, too.

You are a man of few words, and yet

" He looked up, tears in his eyes. "I do not

believe you are a man of no sentiment. Otherwise you would not have come to make

your farewells.”

"You see what you wish to see.”

"My eyes are old and weak, but some things one sees with the heart. In some ways, for

all your abilities, you are blind, my son.”

"Do not call me that.”

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Harry flinched from his snarl but remained where he was. "Forgive an old fool, Morgan. I

have made it a policy never to seek into the pasts of my people, and I have broken that

rule with you. I only wish

that I might convince you that you are a better man than you

think.”

Morgan's temples had begun to throb. The hair on the back of his neck stood up at the

premonition of disaster. "I came to say good-bye, and to

thank you." He backed

toward the tent's entrance and stood awkwardly for a final second, despising his

hesitation, and strode from the tent.

He got no farther than the foot of the hills. He had not Changed. His heart weighed him

down, cold and smothering like a heavy snowfall. He would have welcomed a strong

snow now. It would disperse the scents of those he left behind, and draw a veil between

the world and the wordless silence of the wild.

The solitude. The loneliness. A howl built in the back of his throat, the only sound of

grief he could make.

But the snow did not answer his summons. The sense of wrongness he had felt in

Harry's tent had grown. An evil scent wafted up from the prairie, the acrid smell of

smoke.

He turned to face the east. A roiling cloud rose from the circus lot far below. Something

very large was burning.

He ran more swiftly than any human, bare feet finding purchase on loose pebbles and

sharp rock. The smoke curled inside his lungs and stung his skin. Soon the light of a

towering fire obscured the moon and stars. By the time he reached the lot he had to

force his way through the crowd of onlookers drawn by the spectacle of a large and

destructive blaze.

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Flames devoured what was left of the big top, and several other tents and wagons were

burning as well. Troupers stood about in forlorn knots, helpless, as the local volunteer

fire department struggled to extinguish the conflagration.

But the damage had been done. The prop wagons had been among those destroyed,

along with a number of tents and most of Harry's office wagon—the one that held the

troupe's wages and savings.

Sifting subtler scents from the overwhelming stench of smoldering ash, Morgan found

his way to Harry.

The old man was not alone. Caitlin and Ulysses stood with him. Firelight picked out the

grief on each upturned face. All the progress the troupe had made since Morgan's

coming had been undone in an hour.

"Harry," he said.

The old man turned, his eyes wells of misery. "Morgan?”

"You've come back?" Caitlin asked. Her face broke into a broad grin. "You couldn't

abandon us, not now. Not ever." She flung herself at him and embraced him tightly.

Morgan endured the touch in stoic silence.

Harry's eyes met his over Caitlin's head. "You are a good man, Morgan Holt.”

Caitlin stepped back and wiped at her face with her coatsleeve. "What do we do next,

Harry?”

He looked at the billows of smoke that rose from the dying fire. "We continue, as we

always have. We find a way to go on, even if we must perform through the winter.”

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"We go on," Caitlin agreed. "And we stay together.”