Secret of the Wolf (25 page)

himself, and what came so spontaneously from his unconscious mind was more

distressing than she could have predicted
.

But this wasn't Harper's pain he was experiencing. It was his own
.

He needed her. He needed her now
.

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Johanna rose from her chair and moved quickly to Harper's side. "Harper, you did not

deserve to die. You did what you could to help your friends. You served with honor and

loyalty. In time, you will come to understand why your memories bring so much guilt and

unhappiness, and realize that you need no longer carry these burdens.”

"I won't do it," Quentin shouted. "You can't make me!”

Johanna flinched. Quentin's anguish reverberated through her body, but she could not

comfort him yet. She grimly concentrated on finishing the task at hand. "Harper, I will

count backward from five to one. You will awaken, peaceful and refreshed, and rest until

you feel ready to rise. What you remember of the War cannot hurt you, and you will

begin to believe that healing is possible. Because it is possible.”

"Yes," Harper murmured
.

Johanna brought him out, watching carefully to make sure that he was conscious and at

peace
.

She turned back to the man behind her. "Quentin—" She paused at the tortured

expression on his face. "Quentin, it will be all right—”

"No!" he cried. "I don't care what you do, I won't—" He tumbled from the chair and

crouched on the ground, arms flung around his head. "I won't kill them!”

Gott in Himmel. Johanna sank to her knees beside him, reaching out as if to hold him,

letting her arms fall to her sides again. She could not, at such a crucial juncture, forget

herself, no matter how much she wished to console him. He needed her to be strong
.

"Quentin, it's Johanna. You hear my voice.”

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He pulled his head closer to his chest and whimpered, a lost, despairing sound
.

She locked her arms rigidly in place. "You do hear me, Quentin.”

"Yes," he gasped. "Don't let him—”

"No one will hurt you. I will not let them." She hugged herself. "To whom were you

speaking?”

"I can't—”

"He is not here now. Tell me his name.”

"Grandfather." He looked up, face wet with tears. "My grandfather.”

His grandfather. "He was something of a tyrant," Quentin had said. "I gave as good as I

got.”

Maybe he hadn't
.

"Where are you now, Quentin?" she asked
.

"In the cellar. At Greyburn.”

She shivered with foreboding. "How old are you?”

"I'm

eleven. Almost twelve.”

He was reliving his childhood—the hidden childhood she'd never gotten him to reveal in

more than bits and pieces. For just a moment his glazed eyes shone with pride. "I can

Change now.”

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"Change?”

"Into a wolf, of course. That's because I'm a man." The fear returned, wild with defiance.

"That's why he wants me to—to—”

"I'm here with you, Quentin. You can talk to me. What did he want you to do?”

He chewed his lip so hard that she feared he'd tear through the skin. "The kittens. He

brought the kittens from the barn." He hugged himself. "He says I have to learn. He

says I should like it—”

She didn't have to ask him again what his grandfather had wanted him to do. He'd

already told her. "I won't kill them.”

What sort of monster would ask his grandchild to kill kittens on command?

"You don't have to like it, Quentin.”

"If I don't do what he says—I won't—he locks me up in here. Sometimes I don't know

how long. I get hungry. Not very cold—" He sniffed and wiped at his nose. "We don't get

cold easy. But then Grandfather brings the ropes—" He broke off and crawled to lean

against the wall, curling into himself
.

It was enough. She wouldn't force him to experience more of this

this torture. For that

was what it must be. The questions could wait for another time
.

"It's all right, Quentin," she said. "You're going to be all right now.”

"Don't tell Braden." He stared at her almost as if he really saw her. "Don't tell him. He'll

do something and Grandfather will hurt him. Rowena doesn't know. I make sure she

doesn't find out. Promise you won't tell!”

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"I promise." She swallowed hard. "Take my hand.”

He did so with such immediate trust that she felt dizzy
.

"We're going to leave here, now," she said. "Can you do what I say?”

His eyes—those rich cinnamon eyes overlaid with pain—gazed right into hers. "Yes.”

"Then I want you to remember another place, another time. The Napa Valley, and the

Haven, and the room where I am talking to you. You've been here before.”

"I

can't.”

"You will. It's a restful place, where the sun shines and the air smells like green things.

Here you cannot be hurt.”

"There is no such place.”

"At the Haven there are people who care for you.”

His face was utterly open, all hope and gratitude. "Do you

care for me?" he

whispered
.

It had been possible until that moment to maintain some semblance of detachment.

With that simple, guileless question, objectivity shattered along with her heart. She

pulled him into her arms
.

"Yes," she said. "I care for you, Quentin.”

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His mute sobs shook her body. He fought them, as any boy might fight such humiliating

weakness, and yet he clung to her. His mind had journeyed back to his childhood, but

his arms were still those of a man, strong and apt to wring the breath from her lungs
.

She stroked damp hair away from his forehead and murmured in what she imagined

must be a maternal fashion, but she felt anything but maternal. His cheek rested on her

breast. His breath burned through the fabric of her bodice. Soon he'd wake, and no

longer be a child. What then?

As if he heard her thoughts, he stiffened and pulled himself up. The child in his eyes still

reached for her, but she could see it—him—fading away, subsumed by another

presence. Quentin, coming out of the trance at last
.

But he didn't let her go. "You care for me?" he said, his voice nearly a snarl. "Liar.”

Her heart stopped. "Quentin—”

"Don't call me that!" He shook her, just enough so that she felt clearly how much he

could hurt her if he chose. "You think you can help him?”

"I don't perceive your meaning," she said. She couldn't show any hesitation now, or

uncertainty. "Please explain.”

They were knee to knee, chest to chest. Each of his harsh breaths rocked her forward

and back. "He explains. I don't have to." He jerked her against him. She turned her head

just before his lips touched hers
.

"Never again," he rasped. "It will never happen again. Do you hear me?”

"Yes. I hear you.”

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"He tries to shut me out, but I won't be buried." His fingers framed her face. "He won't

take what he wants. But I will.”

He was going to kiss her. Not gently, not lovingly, but with the merciless drive to

dominate
.

"No, Quentin," she said, planting her hands between them. "It's time for you to come

back. I will count backward from five to one—”

"No." He pushed her away. "No." Leaping to his feet, he flung himself against the wall

like a caged animal, raking at it with curved fingers. His nails bit deeply enough to tear

the wallpaper
.

"That's enough, my friend." A tall, lean shape passed between Johanna and the

madman Quentin had become
.

"The enemy is gone," Harper said. "The War is over.”

Quentin swung about, teeth bared. He looked just as he had that night in the hall, more

bestial than human, his features shifting into something almost unrecognizable. His

eyes narrowed to slits, spewing hatred at the world
.

This was the wolf he claimed to be, the dangerous lycanthrope Johanna had assumed

was a product of Quentin's wounded mind. This was the transformation he spoke of,

and she didn't for an instant believe that he controlled it
.

She got to her feet and stood shoulder to shoulder with Harper
.

"It's safe to return, Quentin," she said. "You're safe. Come back to us.”

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Whether it was because of her words, Harper's tranquil presence, or something within

Quentin himself, he began at last to respond. The savage light left his eyes. His body

went boneless, sliding along the wall to the ground
.

Harper knelt beside him. "Are you all right, brother?”

Quentin squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. "What?" He braced his hands

on the floor. "Did I fall?”

"You could say that," Harper said. He glanced at Johanna with a faint frown
.

She shook her head in warning. "How are you feeling, Quentin?”

"Dizzy." He pushed at the wall to regain his feet. His face was expressionless.

"Something happened

like before, didn't it?”

Her memory made the leap to their first session, when he'd kissed her and promptly

forgotten
.

"I'm not sure," she said. "When I was working with Harper, you entered a spontaneous

trance.”

"Again?" He smiled raggedly at Harper. "Sorry about the interruption, old chap. I hope I

didn't spoil it." He pressed his forehead with the heels of his hands. "I appear to be just

a little too susceptible to the good doctor's expert technique.”

"You are extraordinarily sensitive to hypnotic induction," Johanna said. "I had thought,

given our last few sessions—”

"That I was safe?" He laughed. "My old friends in England would be amused to hear

that I'm sensitive to much of anything." He looked from her to Harper and back again.

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"The way you're both staring at me, I suppose I must have stood on my head and

recited Shakespeare. Or did I sing 'God Save the Queen' horribly off-key?”

His jokes failed to conceal the real fear in his eyes. He suspected something of what

had happened. His gaze found the torn wallpaper, and his expression froze
.

"I must have been very badly off-key." He yawned behind his hand. "It's all quite

exhausting, really. I'm ready for a nap—if you'll both excuse me.”

Johanna's stomach twisted with the realization that she was afraid. Not of Quentin, but

for him. She'd seen him transform from hurting, vulnerable child to an angry, violent

man. Neither was a part of the Quentin she knew. Both were somehow connected to

terrible childhood pain—and either might be the means of destroying him
.

The Quentin she knew would more likely harm himself than any other creature
.

"I would like you to go straight to your room and rest," she told him. "Will you remain

there until I come for you?”

"You'll be lucky if you can get me to wake up," he said. "Don't hold luncheon for me.”

He gave her and Harper a choppy salute and left the room
.

Harper let out a long breath and sat down on the edge of the chaise. "Was I like that

when I was hypnotized?”

"No." She moved behind her desk, trying to regain a sense of calm. "Thank you for your

assistance.”

"What did happen, with him?”

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"I cannot tell you, Harper. Not for the time being." She shuffled a pile of papers. "How do

you feel?”

He cocked his head. "Better. Except that I don't really remember much of what we

talked about.”

"That's quite normal. You will begin to remember things as you are ready to do so. We'll

continue to work toward that end.”

He was silent long enough that she was forced to look up from her papers and meet his

gaze
.

"It's funny, isn't it," he said, "how we're all hiding, one way or another.”

She searched for a response that wouldn't betray her. "It's the nature of the mind to hide

from itself. But it is possible to come out of hiding, and find life again.”

"You'd know best, Doc. You'd know best." He stopped at the door. "You'll let me know if

you need help?”

With Quentin, he meant. With the unpredictable savage they had both confronted
.

"Yes," she said. "Thank you, Harper.”