The Wolves of Midwinter (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 2)

Felix’s smile was sad but thoughtful.

“Well, for the last time,” said Margon, “let us say their names, and pray that they have gone to a place of rest and understanding.”

“Hear, hear,” said Thibault and Sergei right after him. “And you forgive us for this, Philip, please,” said Frank.

“Forgive you?” asked Phil. “What is there to forgive?” He lifted his glass. “To the mothers of my Modranicht and the life I have now inside me. I bear you no ill will and won’t insult you with my thanks for this new chapter in my story.”

There was a quick soft round of applause.

Phil drank.

“And to this coming year and all its blessings,” said Felix. “To Reuben’s son, and to all the bright futures of those gathered here. To fate and fortune, that they be kind, and to our hearts that they not forget the lessons learned from all we’ve witnessed in this Yuletide, our first Yuletide, with our new kindred.”

Sergei gave the usual roar, and swung the bottle of brandy over his head, and Frank beat on the table and declared that solemnity had worn out its welcome.

“The clock’s ticking towards midnight,” said Frank, “and another year is dying whether we are any older or not, and the same damned challenges as always lie before us.”

“Well, that’s pretty damned solemn,” said Berenice with a soft laugh. In fact, laughter was breaking out spontaneously on all sides for no apparent reason except the comfortable and drunken spirits of the group.

“So many thoughts are running through my mind,” said Felix, “as to what this new year holds for us.”

“Too much thinking!” cried Sergei. “Drink, don’t think!”

“Ah, but seriously,” Felix pressed on. “One thing that we must do in the next year is share the stories of our lives with our new brothers and sister.”

“Now, I’ll drink to that,” said Stuart. “The truth and nothing but the whole truth.”

“Who said anything about the truth?” asked Berenice.

“As long as I don’t have to hear one single word of it tonight,” said Sergei. “And you young ones just wait until the Geliebten Lakaien start weaving their tales of origins and histories.”

“What do you mean? What are you saying?” Stuart said. “I wanna know the truth, damn it, about everything.”

“I’m game to hear all of it,” said Reuben. Phil nodded to that and raised his glass.

The laughter was rolling back and forth as if it were speech.

And Felix had all but given up on bringing any final serious note to the evening, settling for toasts and teasing Stuart and fending off Margon’s light jabs.

Reuben drank his coffee, loving the sharpness of the taste and the jolt of the caffeine, and pushed his wineglass away from him. He gazed lovingly and sentimentally at Laura, her blue eyes so vivid with her blue dress, and the emotions welled dangerously inside him. Seven minutes to go, he thought, his watch right in time with the grandfather clock in the main room, and then you take her in your arms and crush her with all your might and main as she crushes you, and you never forget this night, this Yuletide, this Modranicht, this year, this season in which your new life was born, and your deepest loves and understandings with it.

Suddenly a loud booming sounded from the front door.

And for a moment no one moved. Again came the sound, someone out there in the downpour, pounding on the front door.

“But who in the wide world!” declared Frank. He rose like the sentry on duty and marched across the dining room and into the main room.

A fierce draft swept through the house as the door was opened, lifting the fragile flames from the candles, and then came the crack of the door being slammed hard and bolted once more, and the sounds of two voices in argument.

Felix stood quietly at the head of the table, glass in hand, listening as if he had a presentiment or realization of who it was that had come knocking. The others were listening, trying to catch the identity of the new voice, and Berenice gave a soft little sound of misery.

Frank appeared, flushed and annoyed.

“You want him in this house?”

Felix didn’t immediately respond. He was looking past Frank into the alcove between the dining room and the living room.

And then as Frank moved away and returned to his chair, Felix beckoned to the newcomer.

A soaked and bedraggled Hockan appeared, his face and hands white and trembling.

“Good Lord, you’re drenched,” said Felix. “Lisa, one of my sweaters upstairs. Heddy, towels.”

The rest of the company sat silent around the table, and Reuben found himself watching in fascination.

“Come, take off this coat,” said Felix, unbuttoning the coat himself and slipping it from Hockan’s shoulders.

Heddy came behind him, blotting at Hockan’s wet hair, and then offering him the towel to wipe his face, but he just stared at the towel as if he didn’t know the significance of it.

“Step out of your wet shoes, master,” she said.

Hockan stood there in a daze.

He stood before Felix looking into Felix’s eyes, his face quivering and unreadable.

A small sound came out of him, something like a strangled word or a groan, and quite suddenly, Hockan broke down, his hand up to cover his eyes as his body shook with dry sobs.

“They’re gone, they’re all gone!” he said in a deep agonized voice, sobs erupting like coughs. “They’re gone, Helena and Fiona, and all the others.”

“Oh, come,” said Felix gently. He put his arms around Hockan and brought him to the table. “I know,” he said. “But you have us. You will always have us. We’re here for you.”

Hockan clung to Felix, weeping on his shoulder.

Margon rolled his eyes, and Thibault shook his head. Out of Sergei there came the inevitable deep growl of disapproval.

And Frank said in a hard low voice, “My God, Felix, you are past all patience, my friend.”

“Felix,” said Sergei ominously. “Is there no person under the sun—fairy, elf, demon, troll, or perfect scoundrel—whom you will not try to love and live at peace with!”

Thibault uttered a short bitter laugh.

But Hockan seemed to hear none of this. His soft helpless choking sobs continued.

Felix held him in a gentle embrace but he still managed to turn his head and look at the others.

“Yuletide, gentlemen,” said Felix, his eyes glazed. “Yuletide,” he said again. “And he’s our brother.”