Secret of the Wolf (15 page)

My father was very successful with such techniques

in effect suggesting to the open

mind that its incorrect assumptions are mistaken, and lead it to change the behavior of

the body.”

Quentin braced himself against a premature wave of relief. "But?”

"But even if I succeed, the thing that causes you to drink will still be there, untouched."

She held his gaze. "Do you understand?”

He thought he understood all too well. He'd have to give up on himself, for Johanna

never would. She was that generous, and that remarkable. But he'd recognized that

from the beginning
.

"If nothing else," he said with false bravado, "I can help you develop your new

methods.”

Her cheeks reddened. "I am sorry if you think my motives are—”

"No." Impulsively he slid from the chaise and went to her, knelt before her chair and

took her hands in his. "I have nothing to lose, Johanna. I'll be your willing subject.”

The color in her face remained high, and her hands tensed under his fingers.

"Quentin—”

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"Shhhh." He kissed first one hand and then the other. "You might as well turn my brain

inside out. You've already done it to my heart.”

She sucked in her breath. He could hear her heart hammering against her ribs, feel the

pulse throb in her wrists, blood and body giving the lie to her mask of composure.

"Quentin, you are my patient. We have known each other only a few days. It is not

uncommon for patients to think themselves

fond of their physicians, particularly when

they have come close to death.”

There. She'd given him an easy way out. He could laugh it off and beat a prudent

retreat, knowing he'd made too reckless a move in the game. A move even he hadn't

expected
.

Because he hadn't been speaking entirely in jest
.

He looked up at her lips, slightly parted as if she'd thought better of further conversation.

They were full, naturally rosy without a trace of paint. Had they been kissed before?

Had she ever found time in the midst of her doctor's theories to let a man hold her in his

arms? In that feminine brain, seething with frightening intelligence and devotion to the

study of the mind, had she any conception at all of the pleasures of the flesh?

Once he had known such pleasures intimately and frequently. Women had come gladly

to his bed, flattered by his attentions. He'd lived in a world of mutual gratification shared

among a well-bred set of rakes, roués, and worldly married women who knew exactly

what they were getting and giving away
.

Brilliant as she was, Johanna was anything but worldly
.

"Please go back to the chaise, Quentin," she said. "We should begin.”

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The rebuff was clear. She didn't take him seriously. Why should she? He'd become a

bitter joke, even to himself. With a sigh he returned to the chaise, resting his head and

shoulders on the pillows and wondering if he might not prefer to have various body parts

removed without benefit of the new anesthesia
.

Johanna rose from her chair and went to the desk. She started the metronome, setting it

into a slow, steady tick-tick. From a drawer in the desk she produced a candle and

matches, which she set down on a small table. She moved the table close to her chair

and lit the candle
.

"You need not be concerned," she said, resuming her seat. "You will be safe at all

times, in this room with me. We may not go beyond the very first stages of trance today,

and nothing I do will harm you.”

He laughed under his breath. "Fire away, Doctor.”

"Relax, as much as you are able. Try to clear your mind of all thoughts and worries.

Very good." She lifted her hand. From the end of a chain hung a multifaceted crystal,

catching the candlelight as it spun in slow circles. "Do you see this crystal? Look upon it

now. Notice its translucence, the quality of light, the gentle motion as it turns round and

round.”

Quentin looked. There was nothing particularly fascinating about the crystal. He'd much

rather gaze at the face above it, glowing with reflected light
.

Except she'd made very clear her sentiments regarding his attentions
.

"As you watch the crystal," she said, "listen to the rhythm of the metronome. How even

and steady it is, like a heartbeat. When you hear it, all your worries and fears leave your

mind. You feel at peace.”

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How could he feel at peace with Johanna so near, her scent drifting across to him? He

was like a boy in the schoolroom, fidgeting and impatient to get out into the free, fresh

air and away from the useless knowledge they crammed into his head

"You will notice, as you watch the crystal and listen to the beat, that your eyes are

growing very heavy. You are sleepy, and yet your mind is clear. Look, Quentin. Look,

and listen.”

Perversely, he resisted. Johanna was confident of her ability, but she hadn't faced a

werewolf subject. What if he chose to fight her? Would she still be so determined to

keep at it until she found his "cure"?

"You're resisting, Quentin," she said. "You must let go.”

You instruct me to do what you cannot. He set his jaw. You must work a little harder,

Valkyrie
.

"Come, come. This won't do." She gazed into his eyes. "Trust me, Quentin. That is all I

ask. Trust me." Her voice softened to a low, soothing drone. "You want my help. I want

to help you. Be my ally, Quentin.”

Such a cold word, ally. It didn't satisfy him, not in the least. But after a few moments he

realized that her peculiar magic was working, if not as she expected. It was her voice he

listened to, not the metronome—her eyes he watched, not the crystal. He felt himself

falling, falling into ocean-deep blue
.

"Good," she said. "Very good. You are closing your eyes now. You continue to hear my

voice, but your mind is relaxed, open. You are able to answer questions put to you

without hesitation. Whatever you experience from now on, it has no power to harm you.”

Quentin closed his eyes. Johanna's face remained as a pale shape against the

darkness behind his lids. He felt his heartbeat settle into a lazy, comfortable rhythm
.

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"How do you feel?" she said from a slight distance
.

"Fine." And he did. Remarkably well, in fact
.

"Excellent. You will notice that your right arm has lost all weight. It is floating up of its

own accord.”

The sensation of his arm floating in midair felt agreeable and not at all strange. The rest

of him felt ready to join the arm
.

"What is your full name, Quentin?”

"Quentin

Octavius

Forster. The Honorable. That means

I'm not the earl." He was

aware of the oddness of his speech, but it didn't trouble him
.

"And who is the earl?”

"My brother, Braden.”

"Have you other siblings?”

"My sister, Rowena." He felt a twinge of guilt, but it passed into the same dream state

as his other emotions. "I think

she's in New York now.”

"You have lost touch with her?”

"I

haven't written to her in over two years.”

"When was the last time you saw her?”

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"In England.”

"When were you last in England?”

"In 1875. Autumn.”

"Why did you leave?”

A darkness intruded upon his tranquillity, drawing him away from Johanna's voice. His

arm grew heavy, began to fall
.

"You're safe, Quentin," Johanna said. "We will return to that some other time. You may

lower your arm now.”

He obeyed, feeling the darkness recede again
.

"Have you been in America since you left England?”

He nodded. That was an easy question
.

"Please tell me what you've been doing since your arrival in this country.”

What he'd been doing? He thought back to the first day he'd stepped from the steamer's

gangplank onto the dock in New York. He'd gambled in some high-class saloon—

winning as he always did, sleeping on a fine bed in a fine hotel, boarding a train heading

west the next morning. No plans, no future
.

"It isn't

very interesting," he said. "Can we talk about something else?”

"As you wish. I once asked you about periods of amnesia following consumption of

alcohol. How often have you suffered this?”

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"I haven't kept an account.”

"What do you do when you wake from such an episode?”

His stomach tightened. "Go. To the next place.”

"Why?”

He couldn't make sense of her question. She fell silent, and he allowed himself to drift in

pleasant nothingness. This was much better than drinking
.

"Think about what happened yesterday, outside of Harper's room," she said
.

Yesterday. It came to him, sprung fully formed into his mind. Johanna speaking of

soldiers and war. The stench and the blood and the rattling din of guns
.

"India—" he began, shivering
.

"You're safe, Quentin, calm and at ease. India is far away.”

"Far away," he repeated. "I was

on the northwest frontier. A subaltern with the Punjab

Frontier Force, 51st Sikhs.”

"What did you do there?”

"We

tried to keep the peace on the borders. Skirmishes with the tribesmen, bandits.

Never stopped.”

"How many years did you serve in the army?”

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"Three. I was nineteen when I got my commission. I requested India.”

"What happened in India, Quentin?”

He was nineteen again, eager and itching for action. There hadn't been any major

battles in India since the Mutiny, but there were still the hill bandits and the occasional

rebellious tribal leader to defy British rule. Quentin had fallen in love with the place, with

its scents and colors and exotic ways. It almost didn't matter that nothing seemed to

happen except drills and exercises and the occasional punitive foray. He was away from

England, from Greyburn and

"You were in a battle," said Johanna
.

His first real battle, and his last. It began as a chase, with his captain, a fellow subaltern,

and the Indian troops, into the hills after a particularly daring and elusive raider. It ended

in slaughter
.

He heard his own voice speaking, cool and unmoved, as if it belonged to someone else.

As if the things he'd seen had been witnessed by someone else
.

"And then?”

"I

don't remember." His throat closed up, trying to lock the words inside. That had

been the first of the blank times, the beginning of a life of constant motion, desperate

escape. "I woke up in hospital at the post, barely hurt. They said most of the men had

been saved, the rebels destroyed. They gave me a commendation, but I didn't know

what I'd done to earn it. My friends wouldn't tell me. They avoided me, and I didn't know

why. I don't remember.”

"What do you think happened?”

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He shut her out, her and her ugly questions. He drifted back to that agreeable place of

nothingness where he simply existed, free of ties and emotion
.

"Quentin, are you listening to me?”

"Go away," he muttered
.

"We won't talk more about India for now. I would like you to think about something else

instead. Remember when you were a child, with Rowena and Braden, before you ever

thought of becoming a soldier.”

Like a relentless Pied Piper, Johanna seduced him out of hiding. He couldn't help but

follow where she led—back to a past that felt less real than a dream
.

"Where did you grow up, Quentin?”

His mind went vacant for a moment, and then the words came to him. "Greyburn. My

brother's estate in Northumberland. Only it wasn't his then. It was my—my

grandfather's.”

"And your father?”

"He died when I was a child. So did my mother.”

"I'm sorry. That must have been very difficult.”

"I was

the black sheep." He tried to chuckle. "Always in trouble. The peals Braden

rang over my head

”

"Your grandfather raised you?”

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