Secret of the Wolf (52 page)

Johanna watched in horror as Quentin took Boroskov's hand
.

He'd forgotten who he was.

He hung, suspended, between two wills, two souls. One cried out for release, for a

peace he had never known; the other screamed in triumph, sensing final liberation from

all the chains that had bound him
.

Only one anchor offered itself. He clutched the extended hand
.

It anchored him to the present as memories crashed about him like a storm. The first

time Grandfather had taken him to the cellar, a few months after Mother's death, and

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explained what he was to become. The years of beatings, starvation, promises of dire

punishment he'd kept hidden from Braden and Rowena—yes, even from his twin, who

thought she knew everything about him. How he'd fooled them, laughing his way

through hell
.

Sometime, in those years, Fenris had been born: to take the punishment, to endure the

pain—and, in the end, to turn against his tormenter
.

Alien, terrifying images spun in an endless loop through his mind. Grandfather's face,

grim and merciless, leaning over to administer his brand of "discipline"

his expression

dissolving into astonishment. And fear
.

Victory. Grandfather never took him to the cellar again. The beatings didn't stop, not

entirely. But the terror did. Eventually Grandfather died, and he'd thought himself free.

The memories faded. His other self had little reason for existence, and went into

dormancy. Whatever he had once known, or guessed, of Fenris was buried under layer

upon layer of protective armor
.

But he remained haunted still. He looked for escape in every sort of harmless

debauchery available to a young man of good family who possessed a generous

income. He gained a reputation as a rake and gamester, ever amiable and full of high

spirits
.

Those spirits had led him to join the Queen's Army as a subaltern on the northwestern

frontier of India. He'd sought adventure, and found violence instead. And his other self,

so long asleep, woke to kill when he could not. Details of the battle he hadn't

remembered formed an explosion of blood red, smoke gray, and smothering black

behind his eyelids
.

He'd awakened in the hospital and, after his swift recovery, was prompted to resign his

commission. Boroskov was right; he'd been a hero who'd saved his troops, but what he

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had done was too terrible for his comrades and officers to accept. He'd never known

why, until now
.

Fenris was responsible
.

So home he came, to take up the threads of his civilian life, running occasional errands

for his brother the earl and otherwise losing himself in the pursuit of pleasure. Everyone

knew that the honorable Quentin Forster hated any sort of conflict
.

Then the year of the Convocation had arrived—that grand meeting of the world's

werewolf families on Braden's Greyburn estates in the far north of England
.

Boroskov had disrupted the proceedings with his challenge to Braden. And when

Braden won the fight, Quentin ran. Ran all the way to America, and had never stopped

running
.

Because Fenris could no longer be forced back in his dark corner. Because the memory

lapses had already begun, and the implacable urges, half recalled, could no longer be

borne
.

America offered no sanctuary. The Other was always with him. But he blocked the

awareness that would have led him to recognize what he was becoming
.

"You know, don't you?" Boroskov said. "You see that I speak the truth.”

Quentin heard the voice as if he were under water, on the verge of drowning. It was

seductive, commanding, and the coward within wanted nothing more than to give

himself up to its master
.

He disregarded the coward's whimpers and sought the one who would fight, no matter

what the odds
.

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Fenris. Fenris, who was Boroskov's ideal killer, except that he would never obey any

master. Who would turn on the one who tried to control him?

Fenris would save them both
.

But something snapped inside. It was as if the restoration of Quentin's memories

sapped Fenris's strength—as if their absence alone had been the foundation of Fenris's

very existence. He stirred, roared, writhed in impotent fury
.

And vanished
.

"Quentin!”

Johanna. He pushed his way toward the lightless surface high above him, let go of

Boroskov's hand, and grasped the other that plunged so fearlessly into the seething

waters
.

He opened his eyes and looked into hers. She smiled, warm and brave
.

"How touching," Boroskov said
.

Quentin realized that he'd made a crucial mistake. One glance at Boroskov's face told

him that the Russian knew he'd won his internal straggle
.

Quentin's only secret advantage, however dangerous, was Fenris. And Fenris was

gone
.

"I thought, for a moment, that you had come to your senses," Boroskov said. "But I see

you will need further persuasion.”

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"Boroskov," Johanna said. "You said that you had been intended by your father to

become one of these assassins, like Quentin.”

He glanced at her through half-lidded eyes. "What of it?”

"You were tortured, as he was.”

Quentin followed her line of thinking and despaired at her hopeful ignorance. Stefan

Boroskov was not one to be reasoned with, drawn from past suffering to recognize the

source of his own evil
.

Boroskov laughed. "Ah, Johanna. Let me guess

you wish to persuade me that I, too,

can be relieved of my sorrowful burdens. What will you do, place me under hypnosis

and assure me that I can be cured of my madness?”

"You didn't choose who you were to be, did you, Stefan?" she said, her gaze locked on

his. "Your father chose for you. He betrayed his own son.”

"And he paid for this so-called betrayal," Boroskov said. "I killed him when I came of

age, and took his title and all he owned. But he taught me much, and his goals were

worthy. They are now mine.”

"And so you have become what he was.”

"I have become more than he ever was. And I will succeed where he did not.”

Johanna shook her head. "No, Stefan. There can be no peace in such a victory. If you'd

only let me help you—”

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"Enough!" He swept out his hand, and Quentin barely had time to intercept the blow. It

sent him stumbling, but he caught his balance and placed himself between Boroskov

and Johanna
.

"Never touch her again," he said
.

"That is your choice." Boroskov smiled at Johanna. "My dear doctor, you have proven

yourself a failure in rehabilitating your patient, and I suspect you know it. But you can

save him yet." He negligently twirled his pistol. "I have the power to force Quentin to

bend to my will. It is one of the superior skills the greatest among loups-garous possess,

and I'll use it if I must. But I would prefer his cooperation, to spare myself a waste of

time and resources
.

"Convince him, Johanna. Convince him to do as I command, and you will be allowed to

leave with the girl. I have no further interest in your affairs. But if you do not succeed—"

He shrugged. "I don't think I need elaborate." He pushed past Quentin and seized May's

arm before either Quentin or Johanna could react
.

"Now," he said, gesturing toward a doorway at the rear of the room, "if you will kindly go

through that door." He aimed the gun at Johanna until Quentin obeyed, and she

followed, casting anxious glances at May
.

The door led into a black hallway and to more closed doors, one of which Boroskov

kicked open with his foot. The room was as lightless and dank as the rest of the house,

its sole furnishing a soiled mattress scattered with a heap of blankets
.

"I'll leave you two alone now, to make your tender farewells. You have two hours. The

girl will come with me—in the off chance that you get the notion to take an unscheduled

trip.”

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Quentin growled, stricken with the savage fury that should have summoned his other

self. Fenris remained silent. "If you hurt her," he rasped, "so much as a hair on her

head, you'd better kill me.”

"As I said," Boroskov replied, dragging May toward the door, "that is entirely up to you."

He bowed to Johanna and walked out. A lock clicked into place, and Boroskov's

footsteps, accompanied by May's stumbling counterpoint, receded down the hall. A

minute later Quentin heard hoofbeats, the jingle of harness, and the clatter of a carriage

driving away
.

Johanna went to the door and rested her hands against the scored wood and peeling

paint. She had no hope of breaking the lock. Quentin might have the strength, but what

good would come of that? Boroskov had them trapped as surely as if he'd barred them

in a cage
.

And there was nothing she could do about it
.

Nothing
.

"Where is he taking May?" she whispered
.

"To his henchmen, no doubt, for safekeeping," Quentin said. His voice emerged from

the darkness, somewhere in the vicinity of the mattress. "He won't harm her. He has no

reason to.”

She struck her forehead against the door once, and then again. Quentin was at her side

before she could strike again
.

"Johanna.”

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She turned. Quentin looked at her, such transparent compassion on his face that her

body bowed under the weight of her emotions
.

Shame. Fear. Anger. At herself most of all. Johanna Schell, the great and innovative

doctor who would show the world how the insane could be healed. It had all become

one vast joke
.

Worst was the hopelessness that stripped her of even the desire to continue fighting
.

"Well," she said, her voice cracking. "What now? I have not a single suggestion to make

to you. Shall we draw lots to see who shall live and who shall die?”

He remained where he was, as if he feared to approach her. As one might fear to

approach a lunatic. "Don't blame yourself," he said in a raw whisper. "You're not

responsible.”

"Am I not?”

"I brought all this down on your head, Johanna, and on May's. I. My own selfishness—”

"And my insufferable arrogance. Now we shall spend the time Boroskov has left us

discussing which one of us is more contemptible." She walked to the mattress and sat

down. "Perhaps that is his plan: divide and conquer. Not that I should ever be the least

threat to him—”

"You heard him, Johanna. He'll use you as a way to get to me.”

"And May as the means of forcing both of us to do his bidding." She rested her head in

her hands and began to rock. "I am sorry. So sorry. So sorry—”

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"Stop it." Quentin knelt before her and took her hands, pulling them away from her face.

"Don't leave me now, Johanna.”

Was he afraid that she was descending into madness? She wished it were possible.

Possible to let go, dismiss reality, and resign every responsibility for her life. She felt like

collapsing into Quentin's arms and wailing like a child, begging for him to make it all

better
.

Even May hadn't done that. May had kept her head and her courage, and look what she

had received as a reward
.

She, Johanna Schell, was supposed to be the strong one. No longer. All her illusions

were cracked apart like the last of her mother's china figurines, destroyed by an angry

patient. Like a mind that had borne too much
.

"I never thought I'd see the day when you felt sorry for yourself." Quentin forced her chin

up. "Look at me, Johanna.”

She had no choice. He compelled her with his eyes, with his voice, with his will. Above

all, with his heart
.

His gentle, generous heart, warped into a monster by pain. Fenris was nowhere visible