The Wolves of Midwinter (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 2)

Phil only nodded.

“I feel larger and stronger here than I’ve ever felt anywhere,” said Reuben. “That day at the village fair and the banquet here, I sensed a creative energy all around me. I felt a creative spirit that was infectious. I don’t know any other words to describe it. I felt it was good, all that Felix had done, all that Felix had brought into being. It was like magic, Dad. Over and over he made something out of nothing. A bleak winter, a dying town, a great empty house, a day that might have been like a thousand other days. He transformed all this. And it was good. I swear it was. Yet here comes Hockan’s judgment, Hockan’s dark reading of the script to make some other story out of it.”

“Yes, Reuben, that’s just what Hockan did,” said Phil.

“Hockan calls this great house a snare, an abomination.”

“Yes, son, I heard him.”

“What is Felix’s sin, Dad? That he wants to live in fellowship with all living creatures—with spirits, ghosts, Morphenkinder, with Ageless Ones like Lisa, with human beings? Is that really evil? Is that the Original Sin here that killed Marchent?”

“What do you think, Reuben? Is it?”

“Dad, I have no idea what immortality is. I’ve admitted that before. I just don’t know. But I do know I’m struggling here for the finer feeling, for the finer understanding. Whatever I am, I have a soul. I’ve known that always. And I can’t believe that Marchent’s out there lost and suffering because of the dreadful secret of what we are, because of the sins of Felix in loving her and her parents and keeping our secrets from them. Felix would never have left Marchent if those evil men hadn’t taken him prisoner.”

“I know, son. I know the story. Hockan provided all the missing pieces of the puzzle to me as I was lying there in that clearing.”

“And I can’t lay the blame on Felix that the Forest Gentry astonished everyone. They did something that no one knew they could do. That’s obvious. But was that Felix’s doing because he called them and invited them here?”

“No. I don’t think it was,” said Phil. “The Forest Gentry have always had their own reservoir of power.”

“If only I could talk to Marchent!” said Reuben. “If only I could hear her voice. I’ve seen her, seen her tears, seen her misery. Hell. I’ve even made love to her, Dad, held her in my arms. But no voice comes from her. No truth comes from her.”

“And what could she tell you, Reuben?” Phil asked. “She’s a ghost, not a deity or an angel. She’s a lost soul. Beware of what she might say, just as you should beware of Hockan.”

Reuben sighed. “I know that. I know that. I keep wanting to ask Elthram. Surely he knows why she haunts. He must know.”

“Elthram knows what Elthram knows,” said Phil. “Not what Marchent knows, if she knows anything.”

They were quiet. Phil drank another mug of coffee. And outside the rain picked up, shimmering and singing on the windows. Such an intimate sound, the rain gusting on the panes. The colorless sky unaccountably brightened in spite of the rain, and far out to sea a ship moved on the distant horizon. It was barely visible in the gray dazzle of the sea.

“You won’t tell me what to do, will you?” asked Reuben.

“You don’t want me to tell you what to do,” said Phil. “You need to discover that for yourself. But I will tell you this. You’ve taken my mind off my rapidly fading aches and pains; you’ve done me wonders. And whatever happens, whatever you decide, whatever Felix decides, nobody will separate you from me or me from you and Laura.”

“That’s true. That is absolutely true.” He looked at his father. “You’re happy, aren’t you, Dad?”

“Yes,” Phil answered.

24

IT WAS THEIR FIRST DINNER together since Modranicht. They sat around the dining room table, eagerly feasting on the baked fish, roast chicken, and sliced pork with platters of hot steaming buttered greens and carrots. Lisa had baked fresh bread, and apple pies for dessert. And the chilled Riesling was sparkling in the crystal decanters and glasses.

Reuben was in his usual place, to the right of Margon, and Laura sat beside Reuben. Then came Berenice and Frank, and Sergei, while opposite sat Felix as always with Thibault on his left and Stuart next with Phil beside him.

It was easy and quiet as if they’d dined this way a hundred times before, and when the conversation erupted, it was of ordinary things, like the little New Year’s Eve party scheduled for the village Inn, or the unchanging weather.

Felix was silent. Utterly silent. And Reuben could hardly bear the expression on Felix’s face—the shadow of dread in his eyes as they stared listlessly at nothing.

It seemed that Margon was being uncommonly gentle with Felix, and more than once tried to talk to him about unimportant or neutral matters, but when no answer came from Felix, Margon didn’t press it, as if he knew this would defeat his kind purpose.

At one point, Berenice said in a casual polite way that the other female wolves had gone back to Europe, and that she might soon be joining them. This was obviously not news to Frank, but it was news to the other men, yet not a single one asked what Reuben wanted to ask: had Hockan not gone with them?

Reuben wasn’t going to utter the name “Hockan” at this table.

Finally Margon said, “Well, Berenice, you are certainly welcome to remain here if you don’t want to go. Surely you know that.”

She only nodded. There was a look of deliberate resignation on her face. Frank was simply staring off as if this were of no concern to him.

“Look, Berenice,” said Thibault. “I think you should stay with us. I think you should forget your old ties to those creatures. There’s no reason why we can’t attempt a pack of males and females again. And this time we ought to make it work. Indeed, my dear, we have Laura with us now.”

Berenice was startled, but not offended. She only smiled. Laura was watching all this, with obvious concern.

In a soft voice, Laura said, “I would like it if you stayed, but of course this is your affair, not mine.”

“We’ll all like it if you stay,” said Frank dismally. “Why do women so often form their own packs? Why can’t we live in peace together?”

No one said a word.

Just before the end of the meal, when they’d had their fill of the apple pie and the espresso and Sergei had gulped down an enormous quantity of brandy, in came Elthram, dressed in his familiar beige chamois leather, and without a word, he seated himself in the armchair at the foot of the table.