The Wolves of Midwinter (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 2)

“Why would I think that?” asked Reuben.

Stuart gave a droll laugh. “Yeah, right!” He said. His freckles darkened again as his face reddened a little, and he shook his head.

“What else are you sensing?” Reuben prodded him.

“I don’t mean the spirit of Marchent,” said Stuart. “God help me, I haven’t see that. I know you have, but I haven’t. But I tell you, there’s something else in this house at night. Things moving, stirring, and Margon knows it and he’s furious about it. He said it was all Felix’s fault, that Felix was superstitious and crazy, and that it had to do with Marchent, and Felix was making a dreadful mistake.”

Stuart sat back as if that was about all he had to report. He looked so innocent to Reuben suddenly, the way he had when Reuben had first seen him on that awful night when the thugs had killed Stuart’s partner and lover, and Reuben in the melee had accidentally bitten Stuart and passed the Chrism.

“Well, I can tell you what I know about it,” said Reuben. He’d made up his mind.

He wasn’t going to treat Stuart the way they were treating him. He wasn’t going to hold things back and play games, and make vague statements about waiting for the boss to speak. He told Stuart everything.

In detail, he described Marchent’s visitations, and how Lisa could see Marchent. Stuart’s eyes became huge as Reuben recounted this.

Then Reuben related what had happened to him the night before. He described the Forest Gentry, how they’d been gentle, and trying to help him in the dark, and how he’d freaked and changed. He described Margon sitting dejectedly in the kitchen and Lisa’s strange words about the forest people. He recounted what Sergei had said. And then he confided the entire revelation from Lisa.

“My God, I knew it,” said Stuart. “They know all about us. That’s why nobody ever goes all ‘discreet’ when they’re serving in the dining room! And you mean they’re some kind of tribe of immortals themselves that exist to serve other immortals?”

“Ageless Ones, that’s what she said,” said Reuben. “I heard it with capital letters. But I don’t care about her and them, whatever they are. What I care about is this Forest Gentry.”

“It has to do with Marchent’s ghost,” said Stuart. “I know it does.”

“Well, I figured that much, but what exactly? That’s the question. How are they related to Marchent?” He thought of his dream of Marchent again, of Marchent running through the dark, and those shapes around her in the dark reaching out for her. He couldn’t put it all together.

Stuart looked really shaken. He looked as if he was about to cry, about to turn into a little kid right before Reuben’s eyes the way he’d done in the past, his face crumpling. But their little tête-à-tête was suddenly over.

Thibault had returned. “Gentlemen, I need you both,” he said. He had a list of errands to be run for each of them individually. And Stuart’s mother was calling again about her clothes for the party.

“Damn,” Stuart said. “I’ve told her fifty times. Wear what she likes! Nobody cares. This isn’t a Hollywood luncheon.”

“No, that is not the approach with women, young man,” said Thibault gently. “Get on the phone, listen to everything she says, dote upon one color or article of clothing she’s described, tell her that really strikes a chord, and elaborate on that as best you can, and she will be marvelously satisfied.”

“Genius,” said Stuart. “Would you care to talk to her?”

“If you wish, I certainly will,” said Thibault patiently. “She’s a little girl, you know.”

“Tell me!” said Stuart with a groan. “Buffy Longstreet!” He scoffed at his mother’s stage name. “Who in the world goes through life with the name of Buffy?”

Frank was at the door.

“Come on, Wonder Pups,” he said. “There’s work to be done. If you’re finished buzzing around the Christmas tree like a couple of little woodland spirits, you can come help with these boxes.”

It was late afternoon before Reuben caught Thibault alone. Thibault had put on his black raincoat and was heading to his car. The whole property still swarmed with workmen.

“And Laura?” Reuben asked. “I was with her yesterday but she wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“There’s nothing much to tell,” said Thibault. “Calm yourself. I’m on my way there now. The Chrism’s taking its time with Laura. This sometimes happens with women. There’s no science to the Chrism, Reuben.”

“So I’m told,” said Reuben, but he was immediately sorry. “No science to us; no science to ghosts; and probably no science to spirits of the forest.”

“Well, there’s a lot of pseudoscience, Reuben. Wouldn’t want to become involved in all that, would you? Laura’s doing well. We are doing well. The Christmas gala will be splendid, and our Midwinter Yule will be more festive and joyful than usual—because we have you and Stuart and we will have Laura. But I have to get on the road. I’m late getting away as it is.”

13

WEDNESDAY MORNING, the small hours.

The house slept.

Reuben slept. Naked under the thick down comforter and quilts, he slept, his face against the cool pillow. Go away, house. Go away, fear. Go away, world.

He dreamed.

It was Muir Woods, and he and Laura walked alone in his dream amid the giant redwoods. The sun came down in soft dusty shafts to the dark forest floor. They were locked so close together they were as one, his right arm around her, her left arm around him, and the perfume of her hair was gently intoxicating him.

Far off in the trees, they saw a clearing where the sunlight broke violently and warmly on the earth, and they went to it and lay with their arms around each other. In the dream it didn’t matter whether anyone came, whether anyone saw. Muir Woods was theirs, their forest. They took off their clothes; their clothes vanished. How marvelously free Reuben felt, as if he were in wolf coat, that free, that wondrously naked. Here was Laura beneath him, her opalescent blue eyes looking up into his eyes, her hair fanned out against the dark earth, such beautiful yellow hair, white hair, and he bent down to kiss her. Laura. Hers was a way of kissing like no other, hungry yet patient, yielding yet expectant. He felt the heat of her br**sts against his naked chest, the moisture of her pubic hair against his leg. He rose high enough to guide his organ into her. Ecstasy, this little sanctum. The air was golden with the sun, dazzling on the leafy bracken that surrounded them in this temple of the high redwoods. Her hips rose just a little and then his weight brought her down firmly against the sweet, fragrant earth, and he fell into a great delicious rhythm riding her, loving her, kissing her soft delicious mouth as he took her, as he gave himself to her, Love you, my divine Laura. He came, his eyes shut, the wave of pleasure rising and rising until he could barely stand it, and he opened his eyes: