Wolf's Clothing, page 23
He limped through the last of the trees at the edge of the pasture, and his heart sank.
Too late.
A half dozen or more pitiful carcasses littered the field, one or two adult sheep, but mostly lambs, their throats torn out. Christophe crept forward and nosed one pathetic little corpse. The scent of its terror hadn’t yet faded, nor had the traces of Etienne’s vicious delight in that terror. Malice. Killing for the love of suffering. Etienne had dragged the body off to the side and eviscerated the poor thing. So he’s fed.
Despite his hunger, Christophe had no desire whatsoever to take so much as a morsel from these poor creatures. If not for me, they would still be alive. His head was suddenly too heavy to hold up, his chest hollow and raw as if he too had been eviscerated.
“There it is! Get it!”
The baying of hounds followed the shout. Christophe crouched, gaze darting around the field to assess the threat. Three men armed with long-bore weapons zoomed across the field toward him on ATVs, several hounds racing in front of them.
Must get away. Now. Livestock killers were fair game. As the only wolf at the scene of the massacre, Christophe was the obvious culprit. Just as Etienne intended.
He took off, his lame front paw impeding his speed, imagining the dogs’ breath on his heels at every step, until he could dodge through the underbrush and into the trees.
Was he back on the forest lands? Would the men follow him here? They weren’t supposed to, but would they abide by government rules when they’d just lost so many of their flock?
Christophe pelted around a boulder and—shite, where had that ravine come from? He skidded to a stop, falling to his haunches. Below, a river glinted between rocky banks. Trapped. There must be a way across. But where? He dropped his nose to the ground, seeking his own scent.
A sharp report rang out behind him, and a bullet struck the tree next to his head. The bark exploded outward, splinters catching in his fur. Yelping, he flinched away from the impact toward the edge of the precipice. Mistake! The ground gave way under his hindquarters. He scrabbled for purchase, but his injured paw had no strength, and one of his rear paws caught nothing but air.
The more he struggled to find a toehold, the faster he lost ground, until he slid over the edge and down the steep slope, tumbling head over arse, brambles tearing at his fur, rocks smashing into his ribs.
Dizzy. Hurts.
The slope disappeared suddenly, and he toppled out into the air. Down, down. He howled, but it was cut off when he hit the water, jarring his left hind leg against a boulder. The water, frigid from spring runoff, began to numb him even through his fur as he tried to paddle to the shore. Hampered as he was by two injured legs, the current swept him away. Then his head slammed against deadfall, and he knew no more.
Trent left Riley poring through online research about werewolves and sneaked down the stairs to the lodge’s side exit. He peered around the corner of the building—the quickest way to the cabin was through the parking lot or the lobby, but the place was teeming with wedding guests. Too risky. Jesus, what if he ran into Logan?
Damn it, it’s the fucking woods again. Sucking in a breath, he dove into the forest, fighting his way through the underbrush beneath the trees. He kept expecting the panic to strike, but it wasn’t too bad. The daylight was filtering through the thick canopy. Was that what made the difference?
The idea made him pause for a moment. He’d freaked the fuck out the other day just driving by Forest Park in the middle of the day, in a car, with two other men. Now he could bushwhack his way through the Mount Hood National Forest on his own. Sure, the resort had a few more amenities than the Witch’s Castle, but maybe he was finally getting better.
He stayed under cover of the trees until he reached the rear of Christophe’s cabin. His backpack, duffel, and garment bag were still barricaded behind the Adirondack chairs where he’d left them, and his phone charger was still plugged into the outside outlet.
Why wouldn’t they be? It wasn’t as if some tech-savvy squirrel had designs on his laptop, or a fashion-forward deer was eyeing his suit. And it’d be a damn desperate bear who’d want a duffel full of dirty clothes. Trent didn’t really want them himself, but they might be the only clothes he’d be able to afford for a while. Two birds. One stone. He’d haul it all back too, but Christophe came first.
As he crept onto the patio, a movement from inside caught his eye. Shit. He plastered his back against the cabin wall. Could it be housekeeping? What time was it anyway? Staying out of range of the vast expanse of glass in the French doors, he sidled over until he could peek into the living room.
Nothing there. But he could have sworn he’d seen movement. Could it have been a reflection in the glass? Just to check, he circled to the other side of the cabin by going back into the trees again, and peered through the bedroom window.
Anton. God damn it. He was too late.
The bastard took an armful of Christophe’s jackets from the closet and tossed them into the open suitcase on the bed in a jumble that rivaled Trent’s packing techniques. That’s so wrong. Christophe would never treat his clothes like that. That lack of regard for something so important to Christophe sent a spike of anger through Trent’s chest. And when Anton yanked open a drawer and scooped out a careless armful of Christophe’s meticulously folded undershirts and socks? Trent couldn’t watch any more or he’d be in danger of punching the wall.
He ducked down and pulled out his phone, speed-dialing Riley, who answered on the first ring. “Did you find anything?”
“Yeah, unfortunately. Anton.”
“Crap.”
“Tell me about it. What now?”
“Do you think there’s any chance he’ll leave something behind?”
“I don’t know. He’s being sloppy.” The asshole. Trent inched up and peered over the window ledge. “Hurrying. But I don’t know if—” A dead branch under Trent’s foot cracked like a rifle, and Anton’s head shot up.
For an endless moment, their gazes locked. Then Anton threw down the underwear and strode back to the living room.
Trent stumbled toward the front of the cabin. “Shit-shit-shit.”
“What’s the matter? What happened?”
“He saw me.”
“Oh no,” Riley moaned. “This is not good.”
“You think?” Trent had no illusions about Anton’s scruples. The guy had been willing to get his ass reamed so he could frame his brother for murder. And now Trent was a witness. In the middle of nowhere where it would be way too easy to hide a body. “Listen. Play along, okay?”
Trent made it to the porch as Anton yanked open the door.
“The next time you send me on assignment in the middle of fucking nowhere, boss, you can at least verify the rendezvous.” Trent put on his best sulky twink voice, with a little whine thrown in. Don’t oversell it. But he was pleased that Anton had winced slightly at the word rendezvous. Guilty much, asshole? “Hold on. Here he is.” He smiled, the wide, charming smile that had guaranteed a drink, if not a hookup, in the past. “Hey. I’m . . . Logan. From the service.” Riley squawked, and Trent muffled the phone against his chest. “Sorry I’m late. The cab driver got lost in the Gorge.”
Anton frowned. “You have the wrong destination. Go away.”
Trent pouted. “No way. You’re Mister . . . Mister . . .” He put his phone back to his ear. “Boss, what’s the client’s name again?” Riley spluttered. “Got it.” He beamed at Anton. “Mister Cavalry. Or do you prefer Chris?”
“I tell you, you have the wrong—”
“Oh I don’t think so.” He pointed above the trees. “Big-ass mountain? Secluded cabin in the woods? Hot guy with a killer accent? This is definitely the place.” Trent buried his revulsion for the bastard and sashayed forward to drape his arms around Anton’s neck and press against him. If I can sell this, I deserve the Tony right fucking now. “It’s okay. You’re nervous. I get it. Giving up control is hard. But I’ll make it good for you, I promise. I’ve serviced dozens of satisfied bottoms.”
Anton wrenched himself out of Trent’s grasp, his face taking on an alarming purple hue. “Don’t touch me.”
“Don’t be ashamed, sugar. You wouldn’t believe how many of our ‘clients’ have second thoughts after they book something a bit naughty. We can do everything you asked for—the handcuffs, the blindfold, even the ball gag—and nobody but you and me will ever know.”
Anton gritted his teeth. He pulled out his wallet and tossed a couple of Benjamins at Trent. “Here. Now leave.”
Trent would have dearly loved to spit on Anton’s fucking money, but he was flat broke. And he couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather fleece than Anton, unless it was Etienne.
He turned and bent over to pick up the money, giving Anton a deliberate ass-shot. “This is a nice tip, you know, but we’ve got your credit card on the site.” He popped back up, lifting his chin in his best haughty club-boy imitation. “You’ll be charged for the full service anyway. That’s in the contract.”
“Whatever. Just go.” Anton slammed the door in Trent’s face.
Holy fucking shit. He bought it. Hook, line, and ass-play. Maybe a career in theater wasn’t totally out of the question.
Trent high-tailed it into the woods and around the cabin again. “Did you hear that?”
Riley snorted. “I think that particular rainbow snow-job was visible from the International Space Station.”
“Yeah, well, nuance would be lost on this guy. But since he’d seen me, I needed to make sure he wasn’t the last one who saw me, if you get my drift.”
Riley sucked in a breath. “He’s . . . ah . . . not exactly a boy scout, I guess.”
“Understatement much? And what are we gonna do without Christophe’s clothes?”
“I don’t know. Yet. But we’ll figure something out.”
“Okay. Be right there. Just have to get my stuff before brother dearest decides to burn it too. Later.”
Christophe floated. His fur, soaked and heavy, dragged at him, but he was caught in the branches of a deadfall across the swollen creek. He blinked at the sky through the tangle of branches. There is something . . . I must do . . . if only—
Anton. Etienne. The betrayal.
Christophe fought free of the clutching branches. The creek, though swift, wasn’t particularly deep at this point, so he could stand. He made his way to the bank and shook himself, spraying water in all directions, startling the crows from the trees, and setting the squirrels chittering at him in protest.
He assessed his condition—his front right paw and left rear leg were still painful. His ribs hurt when he breathed and his head felt as if someone had taken a mallet to it. For a moment, he was tempted to simply lie down here and be done. He’d been too late to prevent Etienne’s massacre, and had no chance of escaping his wolf form when the one who usually abetted his transformation had decided instead to prevent it.
What hope did he have? In his ancestor’s day, wolves had had power, a fair chance in a fight against any man. But now? He was virtually helpless. All the power lay now with the men with the guns, or almost worse, with the authorities who would do near as much damage to him in the name of preservation. To be collared and monitored as if he were no more than the animal he appeared? How could he deal with such humiliation?
He had few illusions about his ability to survive in the wild. A man with the spirit of a wolf might dominate in the boardroom, but a wolf with the spirit of a man had no such advantage in the primal savagery of the forest. He could barely force himself to hunt as it was; it made him feel less than human. If he were forced to remain in this state for long—as long as his ancestor had been—would he even remember how to be a man? Or would the wolf take over completely, turning him into the beast he resembled?
And what of his father? He didn’t know Anton’s plans, but he had no more faith in Etienne Melion’s professional ethics than in his personal morals. Between the two of them, his father’s odds of survival after the merger were as slim as his own.
So ironic that he’d been brought to this state just as he’d found a true partner at last, one who wouldn’t betray him for power or prestige or money. Yet the first Bisclavret’s wife had betrayed him, just as Anton had done. What guarantee had he that Trent wouldn’t tire of him and do the same?
Because if Trent tired of you, condemning you to a supernatural prison would be the last thing he would ever do. Not after enduring a similar fate himself.
Christophe had taken his measure that day in the park, when Trent had confessed his ordeal. If he’d admired the man before, his respect had increased tenfold then, hearing of Trent’s ability to reassimilate after seven years of being other.
Trent knew what he was now. If nothing else, perhaps if he could get to Trent, they could find a way to shield Christophe from the authorities. And do what? Put you in a private zoo? Would he be able to stand being around Trent if he was nothing more than a pet dog?
Better that than the wilderness. Better that than death.
He limped away from the water, and as he took the path through the trees, the wind shifted and he caught it.
Etienne’s scent.
Christophe growled, tempted to howl, but if he did that, he’d reveal himself to his pursuers and his prey. No, he intended to take Etienne unaware, as unaware as the poor sheep had been to their fate.
Etienne would pay for what he had done. One way or another, Christophe would see to it.
He took off into the trees at an awkward, uneven run. Pray God I’m able to stand when I meet him, because I couldn’t live knowing that Etienne Melion killed me.
Getting back to Riley’s room was trickier than getting out of it had been. Judging by the number of people in clothes too fashionable for mountain climbing, or white water rafting, or horseback riding, or whatever the fuck people did out here, wedding zero-hour must be close.
After two near-misses, he legged it up the stairs, calling Riley on the way. “I’m almost there. Open the door for me.”
“Yeah, about that—”
“Hurry. We don’t want anyone to catch on.” Trent cleared the last curve of the hallway. “We don’t want Logan,” the door swung open, “or Jul—” He skidded to a halt. Shit. “Uh . . . hi, Julie.”
She crossed her arms. “Nice to see you too, Mister Pielmeyer.”
Riley grimaced at him from the desk. “Sorry. I forgot she’d have to come back here to get dressed.”
“Yes. Dressed for your wedding, and yet I wonder why you aren’t making a similar effort.”
“Well, see, there’s this thing.” Riley fidgeted with the drawstring of his sweatpants.
“A thing. Really.” Julie’s narrow gaze flicked between Trent, hovering in the open doorway, and Riley. “What, are you two comparing Logan’s dick size or something?”
“Jules!” Riley jumped up. “It’s not like that.”
“No? Then I suggest you get your ass back to your room and put on your tux before Logan decides you’ve gotten a better offer from his old fuck buddy.”
“Hey.” Trent stepped inside and let the door close behind him. “A little out of line, don’t you think?”
“No. What I think is that Riley’s getting married in less than half an hour and he looks like he just rolled out of bed.”
“I don’t. I’ve been up for ages. Showered. Used that stupid hair product.”
“Then you’ve gotten sidetracked by some folklore shit. Your front hair’s doing that thing where it sticks up and sideways.
Riley clapped his hand on his head. “My— What?”
“It’s a total tell, Rile. You clutch it while you make notes.” She’d been edging toward the desk as she spoke, and on the word “notes” she lunged and grabbed the legal pad off the desk. “Aha! You have been making notes. Seriously, Rile? I know folklore is your passion, but it’s your wedding day and . . .”
Her eyes grew rounder as she read. Riley shared an oh fuck glance with Trent.
“You have got to be shitting me. A werewolf?”
“I know it sounds crazy.” Trent unloaded his backpack and duffel onto the floor and tossed the garment bag on the bed.
“Are you kidding? This is amazing! Forget the Witch’s Castle reunion episode. An honest-to-God werewolf? The ratings will be off the charts!”
“Jules, you can’t—”
“It’s a damn good thing Zack’s already here with the camera. We can take the van. Where is he?”
Trent stalked over to Julie and blocked her path. “You can’t exploit Christophe like that. We need to help him. He’s either about to get blamed for a sheep-killing and offed by a bunch of pissed-off ranchers, or else he’s gonna murder his own brother and another guy.”
Julie stared him down. “How are you going to get to him?”
Trent blinked first. “I thought—” Except he hadn’t thought. The cave Anton had told Etienne about was over ten miles away. They’d never get there on foot, and once they were there, then what? They still had no way of turning Christophe back.
Wait. François. “Christophe has a driver. He’s the one that brought me here. I’ll bet he could check out Christophe’s condo. Bring him some clothes.”
“Where is this alleged condo and this alleged driver?”
“The Pearl.”
“It takes a minimum of ninety minutes to get here from Portland. You think you have that much time?”
Riley shoved his glasses up his nose with his knuckle. “That’s assuming there are any clothes there that haven’t already been laundered.”
“Hell.” Trent smacked the wall. “I just remembered. Anton said he’d sent everything to the cleaners before he left town.”
“Damn it,” Riley muttered.
Julie smirked at them. “If you guys want to get there, you’ll have to do it my way. We’ll film it as a legend trip.”
“Jules, you can’t expose Christophe like that. It’ll ruin his life.”
“If he kills someone, or gets killed himself, do you think that won’t put a slight crimp in it? Come on, Rile. It’s a win-win for everyone.”
