Doctor Wolf (The Collegium Book 4) (4 page)

“Hence your visiting scholar-in-residence position at Kew Gardens,” she said.

“Yes. The house, here, was convenient. The greenhouse is substantial. It’s a Victorian construction, solid iron. There is surveillance equipment and the yard fence is secure. I don’t want to move the plants, if possible. I’m growing them from seeds I collected. None of the plants flowered this first summer, so I suspect it’ll be two, perhaps three years before they do. Gentian roots are generally harvested just before flowering. I need to know their life cycle.”

“Did anyone know the plants in the region where you found them?”

“It was the Tatra Mountains in Poland, the highest range in the Carpathian Mountains. The plants straddled the alpine and sub-alpine border. Part of the region is tourist-friendly. Poles ski there. Some hike. I went further into the wilderness. Real bears and wolves. Deer.” He paused. “If the local people knew of the plant, they didn’t mention its use to me. But I was a stranger.”

Liz grimaced sympathetically. “Did any of them look extraordinarily old?”

“Yes.” A small smile. “But none claimed to have been born in the nineteenth century. It is possible that knowledge of the herb faded. I couldn’t detect any use of other gentian species. Centuries ago, gentian was used to flavor beer, for instance. So many uses. It’s a bitter tonic. I tracked the Elixir Gentian through medieval herbals and old legends that got written down. However, even if local knowledge of the plant has been lost, they ought to profit from it. If we can commercialize a gentian extract, funds will be channeled to hospitals, scholarships and schools.”

Liz lived in the medical world. She grasped what he didn’t say. There’d be years before the gentian extract was a proven and permitted drug—if it made it that far at all. At any stage, testing could prove it a dud or possessed of unacceptable side effects.

On the other hand, people who wanted an immortality potion generally didn’t worry about proving the drug first. The Elixir Gentian would be a security risk for years, desired and potentially fought over.

“I hope you have additional gentian seeds secured off-site,” she said.

Her practical response—an obvious one, she thought—seemed to disconcert him.

“Yes. John insisted.” He rose, as if too restless to sit any longer, and paced to the window. The lamp cast his shadow against the far wall. It twisted, agitated. “You need to leave. Go home. Forget all about this.”

He was absolutely right—for reasons he’d never know. However, Grandfather’s words by the car haunted her. If she closed this door…if she let Carson close it…would it be a forever regret?

She pushed her feet back into her high heels. She was tired, finally. Exhausted to the bone. When she stood, she wobbled a moment.

Carson moved, as if he’d cross the room and steady her. He stopped by his armchair, and kept it between them. “Are you okay to drive?”

“Absolutely. I’ve been far tireder than this.” She smiled faintly. “A medical student’s life isn’t an easy one, and life as a junior doctor isn’t much better. I played Cinderella at the party tonight, and now forget midnight. Three a.m. has clobbered me. I’ll see you around.”
Play it light,
she told herself.
Don’t let regret creep in.

Mouth grim, he escorted her to the front door, passing her her handbag from where he’d stashed it in a drawer of the narrow hall table.

She slung the bag over her shoulder. “Don’t bother walking me to my car. It’s just around the corner…”

He pulled the door closed and walked with her.

Damp air was rising from the Thames and creeping into the suburb. Liz controlled the urge to shiver. Her dress was too thin for an English summer night.

Carson walked with shoulders hunched, hands deep in his pockets. “In other circumstances…”

Her smile felt forced. “Don’t go there.”

“No.” He inhaled deeply. “Thank you for inviting me to run with you.”

She got into her car, aware that he watched her fold her legs in and her skirt creep up her thighs. “Don’t thank me. I think it was one of my bigger mistakes.” She slammed the car door shut.
Good-bye, Carson.

“Was it a good party?”

“Kylie! You should be asleep.”

Liz’s houseguest pulled a comical face of disagreement. “I heard you get in.” Kylie slept light.

Liz knew she’d do the same if she’d been through what the other woman had, and what she still faced. But that was a problem that couldn’t be solved, now. “Can I tell you in the morning? I’m beat.”

“Sleep. I’ll make myself a hot milk.”

“Ugh. Rather you than me.” Liz climbed the stairs while Kylie ran down to the kitchen.

Barely twenty three, Kylie should have been the one partying. Instead, she stayed hidden, fighting her nightmares, determined to move beyond them.

If Liz could help, even in this small way of offering a refuge, then she would.

But no one could know Kylie was here.

The quiet of the Eaton Square home closed around Liz as she sunk into sleep. The narrow townhouse was a bit of a rarity among its exclusive neighbors. Where those houses had been opened up to one another, losing their independence to create expansive apartments across one or two levels and through original walls, Liz’s home was self-contained. It meant a lot of stairs, but it also meant privacy.

Albert, the mage it seemed her grandfather also knew, had warded the small home from rooftop to cellar and extended a look-away spell to any approach to the house. It meant that although the security services that protected Liz’s famous neighbors knew her house existed, they tended to forget about it and were, in any case, unable to monitor its comings and goings. Of course, the spell didn’t affect weres, which was why Liz had to keep those away by other means. Family included.

Her regular security was solid, both high-tech and security screens. No one got into the house without permission. Liz had hired a security firm to install it two years ago, following the complete renovation of the townhouse prior to her moving in. Great-Aunt Georgie, from whom she’d inherited the house, had kept things simple and stuck in a time warp from a 1970s revamp. Liz had the orange and brown tiles cleared out and a simple, light and modern style installed, one that respected the house’s age, but didn’t make a fetish of it. Her home was for living in, not a museum piece.

She was thinking of her home’s security as she showered the next morning. To some extent she had a bonus, her neighbors’ security efforts overlapped and supported her own. On the other hand, she’d just learned that someone was at large in London who could break Albert’s wards. At least his look-away spell. If he didn’t contact her today, she’d find him. Her expensive wards needed re-enforcing.

She dressed with calculated understatement in jeans and a shimmery silk shirt inset with lace, and debated ballet flats or heels. From downstairs came voices. She slipped her feet into the flats and ran downstairs.

Kylie and Urwin were in the living room with Kylie repeating phrases after him, and being corrected. Urwin Jones, speech coach and retired actor, was a patient teacher. Kylie would be a convincing Essex girl before she moved on to the new life being constructed for her in Liverpool. She already had the blonde hair and fake tan of the stereotype, but her new identity had to be second nature. It was a stretch for a woman who’d entered Liz’s life as Daria Gretsky, Belarusian witness testifying against the human trafficker who’d kept her in sexual slavery in London, but Kylie was determined to build a new life.

“Coffee?” Kylie asked immediately on sighting Liz.

“Please. Good morning, Urwin.”

“Good morning, my love.” The elderly man mimed an extravagant air kiss, but didn’t rise from the sofa. A bad car accident five years ago had left him in constant pain. Movement was something to be considered before indulging in. That he regularly visited Liz’s home in Eaton Square to coach Kylie was a testament to his own experience of crime and hatred. It hadn’t been easy being gay when Urwin had first come out. It still wasn’t easy. He helped others when he could.

It was Ooma Razavi QC who’d introduced them all.

Liz had met Ooma while dating Ooma’s son, Harry. They’d gotten along. “Boudicca’s, both of you,” Harry had said, and grinned, undaunted. When the two of them split, Ooma had quietly called Liz to meet her at the Ritz for high tea. That meeting had changed Liz’s life.

Over warm scones with jam and clotted cream, the high-profile barrister had been blunt. “I’m involved in a network that hides those failed by the justice system. Not the guilty, but the victims who remain scared long after their cases are closed. We give them new lives. To do that, we need safe places for them to stay temporarily while they learn their new identities. It wouldn’t be a frequent event, but if you were interested…”

Liz had gotten the security system installed the next day.

Kylie was only the third person Liz had hidden, but she was by far the highest profile, most-sought-after individual. Andrew Thirkell, who’d been sent to jail primarily on her testimony, had sworn to “get her”. By which he meant, have her tortured and killed.

Liz sat in a modern Scandinavian chair near the high-framed sofa that Urwin found comfortable. The living room was furnished eclectically, but the varied styles worked together, blended by the muted color palette of sand browns and stormy blues with a dash of blue-undertoned reds. “How is she?” Liz asked Urwin quietly. Sometimes, living with someone day to day, you noticed less than a visitor.

He glanced towards the kitchen doorway. “Brave. She’s determined and she’s learning. Unhappy but hiding it. Life will get better for her. She believes that. You’ve given her a sense of safety and that’s vital.”

Liz nodded. Everything she did, hiding this aspect of her life from her family and pack, was worth it for Kylie to have another chance at life. Everyone deserved a second chance, but Kylie’s courage had more than earned it. Mentally, Liz renewed her vow that Thirkell or his thugs wouldn’t get Kylie.

The human trafficker was a ruthless man, owed many favors by the criminal underworld and rich enough to buy those whose favors he didn’t own. His particular arm of the slave trade might have been dismantled by the international police investigation, but his personal influence remained. The prize for proof of Kylie’s painful death was a high one.

Despite the death sentence pursuing her, Kylie looked healthier these days. She could hardly look worse than when Liz had met her.

Kylie returned with Liz’s coffee and a plate of muffins warm from the oven. She smiled, and a dimple appeared in her left cheek.

That dimple hadn’t existed two months ago. Kylie had arrived at Liz’s home skinny to the point of ill health and almost stressed out of her mind. Any attempt at a smile had collapsed into a mouth twitching parody of that happy expression. Now, there was a shy pride.

It had taken a few days before the beaten-down woman had confided her dream to Liz. Kylie’s ambition was to run a small café. Nothing elaborate. Something cozy and welcoming. Liz had instantly gone out and bought an espresso machine so that Kylie could practice. The result was awesome coffee, generally accompanied by baked treats. It was a good thing Liz burned calories on her long shifts in A&E and as a wolf because she couldn’t resist Kylie’s baking.

“Yum.” She took her first bite of a pistachio and rose muffin. “Even your experiments are delectable.” Liz’s comment was honest, but also deliberate.

Andrew Thirkell, the human trafficker, had taken a personal interest in Kylie. It was why she’d known enough that her testimony guaranteed his conviction. He’d used her and abused her. Undermining a person’s sense of self-worth was a critical part of convincing them to stay enslaved. Get into their mind that they deserved the treatment they were receiving, and they didn’t struggle to escape. Brutality and other measures were used as well, but the psychological abuse left its own mark.

That Kylie had found the courage not only to run, but to testify against Thirkell in court, was incredibly brave.

Liz was determined that when Kylie left her home to take up a new life in Liverpool, she’d go with enough seed money to start her café. It wasn’t something she could do straight away. Ooma had someone carefully constructing an identity for Kylie to work in a quietly prosperous, family hotel where she could get her feet under her, learn the realities of the hospitality industry, and then, fly free.

“I’ve written down the recipe,” Kylie said. “I’ve been considering—”

“You thought,” Urwin corrected, lisping the
th-
sound to an
f, fought
.

Kylie concentrated on her Essex accent. “I fought as how I’d star it in me caff.”

Liz grinned and responded with appropriate, slang approval. “Sick!” Then she glanced at the clock and gulped her coffee. “Rats. I slept too late. I promised Aunt Natalie I’d be at the fashion show.” A grimace. A fashion show wasn’t Liz’s favorite event, but the designer was a member of the Beo Pack. Not that Liz could explain that to Kylie and Urwin. But it did explain why she had to be there. “Moral support for Natalie’s friend, Cobar.”

“One of our hottest young designers.” Urwin was interested.

“You should be going instead of me.”

“Hardly, darling. I’m not the granddaughter of an earl, tall and gorgeous.”

“And about sixteen sizes larger than the models.”

Kylie giggled.

“I blame you for feeding me delicious goodies,” Liz mock-scowled at her. “But if I’m not going to be late…bye!” She snatched up a second muffin and dashed out, snagging her leather jacket from the coat rack by the front door. She had to get across town to the National Trust house in whose garden the collection was to be displayed. She was debating car or Tube when she jolted to a stop, precariously balanced on one step, grateful that she hadn’t worn heels. “Brandon?”

“Hello, Liz. Cobar mentioned you’d be attending his show. I hoped I might escort you?”

She wobbled on the edge of the step. He put a hand out and steadied her. His hold on her arm was firm, but not intrusive, but she was barely aware of it. All her concentration was given to controlling the instinct to turn and study the windows of her home. Were any of them open? Would Brandon have heard her talking with Kylie and Urwin? They had called their good-byes after her.

And that’s what you get for counting on look-away spells when you know full well they don’t affect weres.
But she’d done her best to discourage people from dropping in since she’d agreed to help Ooma. Since no one would believe that someone as sociable as her didn’t want company, Liz had instead used the busy pace of her job and its long hours as an excuse. She didn’t want unexpected visitors because she might be sleeping. Lame, but people had accepted the reasoning…and she’d carefully ignored how little sleep she’d gotten by on as a medical student.

“That was thoughtful of you.” She tried to slip her arm from Brandon’s hold as she walked down the step to stand beside him. In her ballet flats they were the same height.

He merely adjusted his hold to politely clasp her arm. “I’m double-parked, so before someone gets cranky…”

And before he heard anything…Liz chanced a quick glance at her home. The front windows were open. Kylie must have, naturally enough, opened them to let in the lovely summer’s day. However, Liz didn’t want Brandon asking after her visitors or being curious about them.

She went swiftly to his car. “We’d better not block the neighbors. They get fierce.” She was grateful for her practical, if expensive, jeans as she got into the car with Brandon holding the door.

He closed it gently and walked around to the driver’s side, raising a hand in acknowledgement—it didn’t seem in apology—to the two cars waiting behind them. The car moved off with the low growl of a powerful engine.

Inside, it smelled of new car, leather and Brandon. Not an unpleasant combination.

He watched the traffic with a predator’s alertness and a Londoner’s exasperation.

“I was debating car or Tube,” Liz said as a van cut them off.

“I’m glad I spared you that,” he said. “I like driving, but not the stop-and-start traffic around here. It eats up time. I’m thinking of getting a driver, then I could work instead of wasting hours.”

“Mmm.” She preferred to drive herself, and yes, she knew that made her a bit of a control freak. Most doctors were. There was a reason nurses said doctors had god-complexes. She changed the topic. “How did you get roped into going to Cobar’s show? I didn’t think a fashion show was your sort of thing.”

“I heard you’d be going.”

Oh. Oh wow.
That was a blatant statement of interest. An assertive one.

“Brandon.” She didn’t know what to say. He was an attractive man. If she hadn’t been hiding Kylie, would she have let things ride, even enjoyed the chase while making up her mind? But Kylie was in her home and needed protecting.

Liz had sworn to Ooma that she’d tell no one of Kylie’s presence. It wasn’t that she mistrusted Brandon, her family or friends, but the more people who knew a secret, the more chance of it leaking. Weres were used to keeping secrets, but a promise was a promise.

“Brandon, I’m not looking for a mate.”

“I know.” A calm response. “I intend to change your mind.”

It was a level of arrogance that might have annoyed, if he hadn’t flashed her a grin.

“Liz, at least let me try.”

“I…” Her mind went blank. Trying would mean he’d turn up at her home. He’d learn her schedule. He’d find out about Kylie. Wolf-weres took determined to a whole new level. “You can’t.”

“Why not?” He brought the powerful car to a smooth stop at a red traffic light and gave her his complete attention. Shrewd hazel eyes studied her face and the giveaway of her fingers twisting around each other.

She stilled her hands. “I didn’t want to tell anyone.” She wished the wretched traffic lights would turn green. As it was, she struggled to hide her panicked reaction from him. She had to put him off in a way he’d believe. She needed a reason he’d accept, one that he couldn’t challenge. “I…I really don’t want a mate, but…I’m seeing Carson.”

By an immense effort of will she stopped her fingers from crossing. She hated lying! Loathed and felt dirty at the dishonesty. That meant she was stretching the definition of “seeing” to its limit—
I did see Carson early this morning!
—to imply they were dating.