The Wolf Gift (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 1)

But he had to leave now.

He was just beginning to feel tired.

If he didn,t move fast through the forest, the change might come way too far from the car he,d left hidden on the bluff high above the kidnap scene.

He kissed her now with this lipless mouth, feeling his own fangs pressing against her.

Her eyes snapped open, large, alert, glistening.

"You,ll welcome me again?" he asked, a low husky voice, soft as he could make it.

"Yes," she whispered.

It was almost too much. He wanted to take her again. But there simply wasn,t time. He wanted to know her, and he wanted - yes, wanted her to know him. Oh, the greed of it, he thought. But he was overcome again by the realization that she hadn,t run from him in fear, that she,d nestled with him here in the fragrant warmth of this bed for hours.

He lifted her hand and kissed it and kissed her again.

"Good-bye then for a little while, beautiful one."

"Laura," she said. "My name is Laura."

"I wish I had a name," he answered. "I,d gladly give it to you."

He was up and out of the house without another word.

He moved fast through the treetops, back through Muir Woods, and southeast, seldom if ever touching down until he had emerged from the park itself and was roaming the wooded thickets of Mill Valley.

He found the Porsche without ever consciously thinking about it, right where he,d left it, safe under the shelter of a grove of scrub oaks.

The rain had slacked off finally to a drizzle.

The voices rustled and whistled in the shadows.

Far below he could hear the radios of the police who still swarmed over the "kidnap scene."

He sat down beside the car, hunched over, and tried to induce the transformation.

Within seconds it began, the wolf-hair melting away, as paralytic waves of pleasure gripped him.

The sky was growing light.

He was weak to fainting.

He dressed in the loose baggy clothes, all he,d brought with him. But where was he to go? He couldn,t make it to Nideck Point. That was out of the question. Even the short journey home seemed out of the question. He couldn,t be at home, not now.

He forced himself to get on the road. He could hardly keep his eyes open. Chances were the reporters had booked the Mill Valley Inn, and every other motel or hotel for miles. He headed south for the Golden Gate, struggling again and again to stay awake as the sunrise broke through the fog with a steely heartless light.

The rain had begun again as he entered the city.

As soon as he saw a big commercial motel on Lombard Street, he pulled off, and got a room. What had caught him were the individual balconies of the top floor, right under the roof. He got a suite up there on the back, "away from the traffic."

Closing the blinds, and stripping off his uncomfortable rough clothes, he climbed onto the king-size bed as if it were a lifesaving raft, and fell fast asleep against the cool white pillows.

Chapter Thirteen

FATHER JIM LOCKED UP St. Francis at Gubbio Church in San Francisco,s Tenderloin as soon as it was dark. By day, the homeless slept in the pews, and took their meals at the dining room down the street. But at nightfall, for safety,s sake, the church was locked.

Reuben knew all this.

He also knew that by 10:00 p.m. - which it was now - his brother would be sound asleep in his own small spartan apartment, in a flophouse building just across the street from the entrance to the church courtyard.

The old rectory had been Jim,s place of residence for the first couple of years. But now it housed parish offices and storage. Grace and Phil had sprung for the apartment, with the archbishop,s approval. They,d even bought the building, which Jim was slowly transforming into a decent hotel of sorts for the more stable and dependable residents of the old downtown neighborhood.

Reuben, in his brown trench coat and hoodie, clawed feet bare, and paws bare, had traveled over the roofs to reach the church, and dropped down into the dark courtyard. The transformation had come over him three hours ago. He,d been fighting the voices since then, the voices calling to him from all around him. But he could fight no more.

He rang his brother now on his cell, a little more adept at handling it now that he had a bit of practice.

"I need to go to Confession, in the church," he said in the deep guttural voice that was now all too familiar to his own ears, but not at all recognizable to Jim. "I need the confessional. I must do it there."

"Ah, right now, huh?" His brother was struggling to wake up.

"Can,t wait, Father. I need you. I need God. You will forgive me for this when you hear me."

Well, maybe.

Reuben adjusted the scarf up around his mouth and pushed the sunglasses in place as he waited.

Jim, ever the devoted and tireless priest, entered the gate and, surprised to see that the penitent was already inside, and maybe a little awed by the size of the guy, nevertheless nodded, and unlocked the heavy wood door of the nave.

What a risk, Reuben thought. I could easily hit him over the head and rob the church of its gold candlesticks. He wondered how often Jim had done this kind of thing, or why Jim,s life was such a round of sacrifice and exhausting work, how it was Jim could ladle up soup and corned beef hash every day for people who so often let him down, or go through the same ritual every morning at the altar, as if it really was a miracle when he consecrated the bread and wine and gave out "the Body of Christ" in tiny white wafers.

St. Francis was one of the most ornate and colorful churches in all the city, built long before the Tenderloin had become the city,s premier and most legendary slum. It was large with old heavily carved scrollwork pews, and walls covered with richly painted and gilded murals. The huge paintings embraced its altar under a trio of Roman arches, then moved behind its side altars - to St. Joseph and the Blessed Virgin Mary - and down the sides to the very back, where, on the far right side, stood the old wooden confessionals, each a little tripartite wooden house with booths for penitents to kneel on either side of a central place where the priest sat as he pulled back the wooden panel that covered the screen through which he could hear the confession.

It was not strictly necessary to be in such a booth when one confessed. You could confess on a park bench or in a room, or anywhere for that matter. Reuben knew all that. But this had to be utterly official, utterly secret, and he wanted it this way, and so he had requested it.

He followed Jim towards the first confessional, the only one of late that Jim ever really used, and he watched patiently as Jim took out his small satin stole and put it around his neck, this to assure the man behind him that he was now ready officially to offer the Sacrament of Penance.