Secret of the Wolf (53 page)

in his gaze, in spite of all that provoked him. Where had he gone?

"Johanna," he said, stroking her chin with his thumb. "I brought you and May into this. I

was selfish—selfish in wanting the peace your Haven offered, though I knew my mere

presence was a menace to everything I valued. I refused to consider the dangers once I

had

grown to care for you. And I never dreamed that Boroskov was part of the

danger. If I could only go back—”

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"I was arrogant," she interrupted harshly. "I thought I had perfect mastery over the

situation with May. I was so sure I could cure you, even share your bed without making

a single compromise." Tears dripped onto her sleeves. She thought they must be hers.

"I thought I had all the answers—and this is where they've led us both.”

He rested his forehead against hers. "We are pitiful creatures, are we not?”

She looked for mockery in his eyes and found none. His smile was heartwrenchingly

calm
.

"You've

given me a chance at something I didn't have for most of my life, Johanna.

Faith in myself and in my ability to rise above what I'd become. Hope.”

And what worth has it now? she wanted to rail at him. What worth has anything?

"We can't fight him," he said. "He's too strong. He has skills I do not. And I

I can't kill."

He kissed her lips with a feather-touch. "I won't allow you or May to pay for my

debilities. When Boroskov returns, I will tell him that I'll go with him—after I've watched

him release you and May.”

She shook her head wildly
.

"I assure you that I won't let him use me.”

"You mean that you'll die before you become his assassin.”

"Yes. You know it's right, Johanna. I can't be unleashed on the world, as unstable as I

am." He skimmed his knuckles across her cheek. "If I can stop Boroskov for good—any

sacrifice is worth it. He's my kind. It's up to me. And if I succeed

I'll have redeemed

myself.”

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"And escaped one more time," she lashed out. "Never having had to face life squarely.

An easy end to all your suffering.”

"You said you didn't have the answers." His voice grew distant, as if he were

withdrawing into himself. "This is mine. You must be the one to go on living, so that you

can help people as you were meant to.”

"I can help no one.”

"You can. I know you, Johanna. You're too strong to give up. Not even for me." He

began to rise. "I'm sorry.”

She grabbed his hands to stop him. "I am not strong!" she cried. "I want to do what I

wish, only what I wish. The world can go to hell. I want to be happy—" She wrapped her

arms around Quentin's neck and kissed him hard on the mouth
.

The room disappeared. The stale scent of the mattress, the cold dampness of the floor

and the walls, vanished
.

Happiness was not hers to own. Perhaps even hope was beyond her reach. But she

could snatch what small joys were to be had in this terrible place
.

And when she left, she'd take a part of Quentin with her
.

The part he had held back the first time
.

Now she'd have all of him
.

She tugged at the bottom of Quentin's rough shirt, barely glancing up to see his

response. The pupils of his eyes had grown very large, engulfing the color
.

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"Johanna—”

"No talking. No words." She kissed him again. He responded ardently, recognizing, as

she did, how little time they had left. He would not deny her
.

She lay back upon the blankets, and he knelt over her. He stroked his hand from the top

of her bodice to her skirts, cupping his fingers against her womanhood. Her body

reacted instantly. He found the hem by touch alone, watching her face, and drew her

skirts up around her thighs
.

Hard and fast was how it must be. Johanna's breath grew short. She gripped Quentin's

hands and met his questioning gaze
.

"Yes, Quentin," she said. "Yes.”

"I've wanted you, but not like this," he murmured. "I wanted to love you the way you

deserve to be loved.”

"I don't know what I deserve," she said. "But if you ever cared for me, give me

something to take away.”

In answer he brushed his fingers up the length of her stocking, seeking bare flesh. Her

unadorned, knee-length drawers posed no barrier to him. He opened them and touched

her moist skin
.

She arched up into his caresses. The memory of the last time flooded into her mind,

joining with the present. She feared that her body's completion might come too fast,

before she could feel Quentin moving inside her
.

"Don't

wait," she begged
.

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He whispered unintelligible endearments and joined her on the mattress. He parted her

legs with his hands, raising her skirts to her waist
.

Too slow. She didn't want his tenderness now, only to be possessed, claimed by him

forever. She seized the front of his shirt to bring him closer and all but tore at the

buttons of his trousers. He was hard under her fingertips. She set him free and held him

between her hands
.

"Do you wish to make us both suffer?" she demanded fiercely. "Do you?”

He closed his eyes with a groan and flung himself down upon her. The drumming of his

heartbeat pierced her bodice, the flesh and bone beneath to mingle with her own heart's

frantic pace. His skin was burning where it touched her, the cloth of his trousers

deliciously rough on her flesh. His hips found their natural cradle between her thighs,

and just as she rose to meet him she felt the clean, swift thrust of his entry
.

Nothing had prepared her for this. There was an instant of discomfort, and then a sweet

ache more beautiful than anything they'd done before. He moved, withdrew, then thrust

again. Fire filled her womb. She throbbed in time to his motions, each pulse drawing

him deeper
.

He kissed her lips and her chin and her cheeks, murmuring her name like a nonsensical

rhyme. She clenched her legs about his waist. Abruptly, with stunning ease, he lifted her

from the mattress and carried her, still impaled, to the nearest wall. He held her there,

his strong hands cupping her buttocks, and thrust again and again, making her feel

what it was to be in another's power and willingly submit
.

It was that surrender that finally pushed her over the brink. Her body and her mind

ceased all resistance. She gasped and pressed her head back against the wall as the

waves of pleasure came. Still he did not finish, not until the pulsing had stopped and

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she went boneless in his arms. Then, with one last great thrust, he found his own

completion
.

He kissed her and let her slide to the floor. When her legs trembled in reaction, he

swept her up and carried her back to the blankets, drawing her into his lap. She felt raw

and fragile and lost in bliss
.

Bliss that couldn't last. It had no more substance than the fog outside these walls, no

more solidity than sand on the ocean shore
.

Like sand, it slipped through her fingers and was gone. But it left in its wake the hard,

bright knowledge of what must be done
.

She was afraid. Fear had been an abstract concept before this moment, no matter how

much she'd thought herself capable of it. Never before had so much been at stake
.

If she failed in this, it would mean Quentin's sanity, if not his life. It might mean letting

loose a creature prone to violence few men could envision, and relinquishing Quentin's

chance to fetter Boroskov
.

She didn't know if she could do what her plan demanded. Her deficiencies had become

all too clear, and all too deadly. She must be far more daring, more cool-headed, and

more skillful than her best image of herself, let alone the flawed woman she'd turned out

to be
.

Her mouth went dry, and her heart beat so loudly that Quentin must have heard. He

shifted her about and held her face steady between his hands
.

"What is it?" he asked. "Did I hurt you, Johanna?”

"No." She swallowed. "There is something I must tell you, Quentin.”

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The slightly dazed look left his eyes. His mouth tightened. "Tell me.”

"I love you.”

He laughed in startlement, and saw Johanna's face. She was serious. More than

serious; she was giving him the most precious gift she had
.

Johanna—his grave, beloved Johanna, gazed at him as if he were someone worthy of

love. As if they sat in a rose-scented bower, and he were the gentleman he was born to

be, she the brave and true lady her soul and spirit made her
.

"Johanna," he said, choking back ridiculous tears. "God.”

"I know it's hardly a suitable time to make such a declaration." She wriggled from his

hold and stood, shaking her skirts down around her ankles as if she dismissed what had

just passed between them. "In light of what we've just done

”

"Do you know what we've done?" he asked. "I've been with other women, yes. But none

of them—not one of them—" How could he tell her that he could take her a hundred

times more and not get his fill of her? She made him feel formidable, sure of himself, the

man he might have been
.

Might have been, but was not. Johanna carried that Quentin away with her and sent the

familiar craven Quentin back in his place. The man who was so very good at running
.

The man who couldn't speak the words she wanted to hear
.

Her back was turned to him, head high, spine erect. The pliable, passionate woman

slipped from her body like a ghost. What remained was not Doctor Johanna Schell but

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some brittle reproduction held together by filaments of habit and sheer pluck, a

doppelgänger who spoke with Johanna's voice in a parody of her competent manner
.

"Forgive me," she said. "It was foolish of me to speak as I did, but I was not sure I'd get

another chance.”

"Johanna," he whispered
.

"We need not dwell on it any longer. In fact, we must put it behind us now if we are to

save ourselves." Her shoulders rose and fell. "I have an idea, Quentin. A dangerous

idea, and so much of it depends upon you. I do not know if I am capable of what is

necessary.”

He stood up, took a few steps toward her, stopped at the stiffening of her body. She

took another deep breath. "You've said that you wish to go with Boroskov and find a

way to overcome him. But I believe there is a chance to defeat him, here and now, by

confronting him with what he would never expect to see.”

Dire premonition turned guilt and grief to icy lumps in his chest. "Fenris.”

"Fenris." She turned to face him, her expression blank. "Boroskov knows nothing of him,

though your other self is the embodiment of what his father, and your grandfather,

desired to create.”

"Something evil, murderous—”

"But Fenris is a part of you, Quentin. He has your werewolf abilities, as well as the very

traits of character that make him an equal to Boroskov in ruthlessness and lust for

power. Don't you see?”

"I see. I see very clearly.”

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"Then

we have no choice but to enlist Fenris's help in defeating Boroskov.”

The last remnants of the ephemeral well-being that had come with their loving drained

from Quentin's body. "Yes," he said. "Get Fenris to fight in my place, because he is the

last thing our enemy will be expecting. The only problem with your otherwise excellent

idea is that I've already tried it. I can't make him come.”

"You've tried to summon Fenris?" She frowned. "But you've never truly met him, only

sensed his presence—”

"Just before I found you and May and Boroskov, I woke up in another part of town with

no memory of how I'd arrived in San Francisco. It hasn't been long since Fenris was

here. But now—he is gone.”

Her eyes darkened. "How can this be?”

"Oh, I'm not free of him. He still perverts our joint existence as he wishes it to be. I'd rip