Secret of the Wolf (39 page)

me up in here

then Grandfather brings the ropes—”

"You were beaten," she said, her voice thick to her own ears. "Who hurt you, Fenris?”

"You know. He told you.”

"His—your grandfather.”

She hadn't thought it possible that Fenris's face could grow more malevolent, but it did

so now. Hate beyond hate. The promise of punishment beyond the fires of hell itself
.

"Yes," he whispered
.

"He wanted you to hurt something, and you wouldn't.”

"Quentin wouldn't.”

"But you did?”

"I took the punishment." Fenris's lips drew away from his teeth. "And I fought back.”

She almost found it in her heart to pity the grandfather who had created such a monster.

Had Fenris taken revenge?

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"Quentin knew about you then, when he called you for help," she said. "Did he forget?

What made him forget, Fenris?”

"He forgot everything." Fenris backed up and slammed his arms against the wall. "I

remember. I suffered it all for him.”

And you hate him for it. Fenris was hatred—Quentin's hatred and pain and terror. The

memories he couldn't face
.

"I'm sorry, Fenris," she said. "I'm sorry you had to suffer so much.”

His gaze became terrifyingly lucid. "Sorry?" He threw back his head and laughed. "You

think you can help him, don't you?”

"Help him—and you.”

"I don't need help." He pushed free of the wall and advanced on her. "When the time is

right, Quentin will disappear. Only I'll be here." His feet made no sound on the floor.

"Get used to it, Johanna. You're mine.”

The backs of her thighs bumped against the chaise. Fenris's evil intent, his unfettered

lust, poured over her like a dirty fog. Her flesh crawled with it
.

Quentin's body would lie against hers; Quentin's hands would touch her, his weight

move upon her. But Quentin would not be there
.

Fenris had said she wanted Quentin. She did. Only Quentin. And he alone could save

her now
.

"Quentin," she said, searching his face. "I know you're there. It's time to wake up.”

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"It won't do you any good," Fenris said. "He's cowering in his little corner, and he won't

return until it's too late.”

"Quentin was the one who created you, and he can banish you as well." She lifted her

chin and gave Fenris stare for stare. "It's not your time, or your place. Go.”

Fenris flinched, as if her command had actually affected him. He shook himself and took

another step toward her. One more and he'd be on top of her
.

"Quentin," Johanna repeated. She reached out and pressed her palm to Fenris's cheek.

"You have nothing to fear. Come back to me.”

The unshaven skin under her hand twitched and jumped. Fenris opened his mouth on a

scream
.

"You lied," he roared. "I'll make you—”

He didn't complete his threat. It faded to a whisper, and the ferocious glint in his eyes

went out like a snuffed candle. The transformation she'd witnessed so recently began to

reverse itself as he surrendered his body to its original and rightful owner.

Quentin's eyes fixed on her in bewilderment, as warm as they had ever been. "What did

you say?”

She knew instantly that he remembered nothing of Fenris's appearance, or what had

been said since his other self had seized his body. He had spoken of "shadows" that

haunted him, but those shadows had no name or personality he could grasp with his

conscious mind. For him, it must seem as if he'd simply lost track of the conversation
.

Fenris hadn't lied. Quentin was unaware that he lived a double life. He didn't know that

he had attacked May's father
.

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Johanna's first impulse was to tell him everything. He deserved to know, and curing

such a profound illness could not begin until he confronted the dark half of himself. She

understood with a deep, unwavering insight that any cure must come from the

deliberate reunion of Quentin's divided selves
.

But how was such a thing to be accomplished? She had no experience to draw on,

nothing but a few scattered cases to use as precedents. Fenris had been "born" in a

time of great suffering, created by Quentin's own mind to bear the unbearable. She

guessed that he had also emerged during the battle in India, the "massacre" that

Quentin didn't consciously remember. And any number of times since
.

Even so, she could not believe that Fenris was a killer. He must remain alive because

he still served a purpose—a purpose that Quentin could not acknowledge
.

If she told Quentin of Fenris now, she might be taking a terrible risk. He knew something

had happened with May's father, but Fenris hid the true facts from his conscious mind.

In his own way, Fenris was protecting Quentin from a more deadly madness—one that

could destroy both of them
.

Only by exposing Quentin's hidden rage, and the suffering in his past, could she

eliminate the menace of Fenris's insidious presence. Only with Fenris's cooperation

could she cure Quentin without shattering his sanity forever
.

"What was your last question, Johanna?" Quentin said with a ragged smile. "I'm afraid I

don't remember.”

"It doesn't matter." She let her hand fall. "Our session is over, for now.”

"Did you find out what you wanted?”

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"Enough, for the time being.”

He dropped his head into his hands, as if the dim light in the room hurt his eyes. "Did I

do anything? In town?”

"No, Quentin. You did not.”

"You aren't lying to me.”

She felt slightly ill. "No.”

"And May—she's safe? You won't let anything happen to her.”

"I promise you, Quentin. She will be safe.”

"Then I think

I'll go and rest." He walked unsteadily to the door and turned. "I thought I

might finally be over it—the drinking, and what comes after. I was wrong." He stared at

the floor between his feet. "You were right, Johanna. There's nothing you can do to help

me.”

Her visceral protest stuck in her throat. He walked out of the room as if he didn't expect

one
.

She went to her desk, sat down, and attempted to take notes. Her hand only managed

to make uneven ink blots on the paper
.

Notes were unnecessary. She was all too sensible of her current predicament: two

equally urgent cases, May's and Quentin's, strangely—and dangerously—

interconnected. Fenris had attacked Ingram. He might reappear at any time if

provoked—if May should be threatened again. And there was no telling how far he

might go
.

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Why did Fenris, and Quentin, react so strongly to May's situation? Quentin had said that

Ingram was "forcing his attentions" upon a young maid at the hotel. Fenris knew all that

Quentin experienced. He had acted upon Quentin's desires. In his mind, May and the

maid were one and the same
.

Quentin would have understood the difference, but Fenris didn't care. He was a force

immune to reason and negotiation, to all the civilizing elements that made Quentin who

he was
.

As long as Fenris continued to exist, Quentin must be watched, and kept close to the

Haven. There were times she could not be with him—at night, and when she saw the

other patients. That meant she had to believe that Fenris would remain dormant as long

as Quentin was not provoked
.

Restraining him by physical means was out of the question. And so, now, was sending

him to another doctor. The responsibility was entirely hers. And if she could no longer

call him her patient

He remained her friend. She would lay down her life for him. She would save him, if it

was the last thing she accomplished as a doctor
.

Or a woman
.

Resolutely she set aside her pen, gathered her notes, and hid them in a new place

behind several heavy medical volumes on her bookshelf. She resumed her routine until

dinnertime, visiting her father and the other patients and joining them at the table in the

usual manner. Quentin remained in his room
.

She tossed and turned that night. When she slept at last, vivid dreams swept her away

on a tide of ever-changing images, both nightmarish and sublime. She found herself in

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Quentin's arms, turning her face up to his tender kisses, feeling his hands on her body.

Between one moment and the next, in the manner of dreams, she was naked in his bed
.

He stretched his length over her, murmuring endearments as he stroked her belly, her

most intimate places. Her own voice emerged as a low moan of anticipation and need.

She was about to be initiated into the mystery she knew only as theory: the supreme

pleasure of sexual ecstasy, the joining of a man and woman in the act of love

He kissed her. She cried out in pain, tasting blood on her lips
.

Fenris held her; Fenris pushed her thighs apart and laughed in his victory. She fought

him, raking his face and his chest with her nails, but he was immune to hurt. He pressed

down, overpowering her, smothering her, possessing her
.

"Quentin!”

The cry yanked her from the dream and halfway out of the bed. For a terrifying instant

she couldn't move. Her nightgown was twisted around her body and wedged between

her legs; the sheets lay spilled on the floor
.

Hunched up against the pillows, she concentrated on catching her breath. Her skin was

clammy to the touch, her heart leaping from beat to beat like a panicked doe
.

Still halfway caught in the snares of her own mind, she crawled from the bed and felt

her way to the door
.

Quentin. She must see him, make sure of

what? That he wasn't the cruel and ruthless

creature who laughed as he subjugated all her strength and confidence, and stripped

her of herself? Or was it to prove she wasn't afraid?

She bumped into the walls of the hallway and flailed for the knob of Quentin's door
.

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Her clumsy movements would surely have awakened the heaviest sleeper. But as she

reached Quentin's bedside she found him insensible, locked in a fathomless sleep
.

In sleep, he was at peace. Fenris had no part of that face, those lips softly curved in

some pleasant dream. She knelt beside the bed and gazed at him until the last

remnants of her nightmare shredded and drifted away into the summer night
.

This was Quentin. This was the man who had made such a vital place in the life of the

Haven. The man who had held her in the dream, claimed her long before Fenris broke

free to taunt and bully
.

But no man claimed her. She belonged only to herself. She couldn't be taken
.

She could give
.

She leaned over the bed and kissed his brow, meaning it to end there. His skin was

warm and slightly damp, tasting of male. One taste was somehow not enough. She

kissed the outer corner of his eyelid, and then the high arch of his cheekbone. He

sighed through slightly parted lips. She caught the last trace of his breath with her own

mouth
.

The dream wasn't over. She felt his arms come up around her, gently, neither

constraining nor demanding
.

"Johanna?" he murmured
.

She tensed to flee, suddenly aware of where she was and what she did. The darkness

was no hiding place. Quentin was awake. He held her. Not like Fenris, with the desire to

seize and devour, but as if he had the most uncertain clasp on a miracle and might

crush it with a twitch of his finger
.

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The decision was hers to make. She wasn't even sure how she'd come to this moment
.

But she did know: She'd come to it step by slow, plodding step, just as she treated her

patients in small, alternating increments of gratifying progress and frustrating reversal
.

The dream was only an excuse. Hadn't it all been leading to this, from the hour she'd

saved him by the lane? Hadn't she admitted her attraction at the beginning, no matter

how much she fought it?

Quentin faced a terrible challenge. She'd vowed to see him through it, regardless of the

cost. Fenris wished to drive her away from this man, who knew but half of himself
.