The woman beside him was breathing deep, still oblivious to his presence. His
human
presence anyway. He turned his attention to carefully studying her features. There were faint, fine scars along the cheekbone, the underside of the jaw, tiny irregularities that Changeling eyesight perceived, but ordinary human eyes would never know. What had happened to her? He felt he should know, that it was important. It meant something. The woman—
J-something, her name begins with J—
certainly meant something to the wolf. Did his wolf side know things that his human side did not?
J, Jane, Jennifer, Julia, Ji—Ji—Jill, Jill,
Jillian. It was a small triumph to remember her name, although he suspected the wolf had supplied it. He whispered it softly, conscious of how his human mouth formed each syllable. “
Jil-li-an
. Jill
i-an.”
Repeated it until it didn’t feel so damned awkward, as if his lips were out of shape or something. He had a name now but it didn’t prompt any further memories. He wondered if she knew
him,
then realized it was far more likely that she knew not the man but the wolf, had seen the animal somewhere. She probably wouldn’t recognize James at all. Disappointment poked again at his insides, and he swore softly, then got up and paced silently about the room.
A hefty pile of mail and newspapers occupied a small table by the door and he fanned out the top few envelopes.
Dr. Jillian Descharme, DVM.
He was strangely relieved to have remembered her first name before the address labels revealed it to him—yet her last name was unfamiliar. It looked like it might be French, maybe French-Canadian, but he had no idea how to pronounce it. She was a veterinarian, and that struck no particular chord either, except to explain why she was living at the clinic. She obviously worked with his brother. For a fleeting moment James considered asking Connor about the woman—but dismissed it quickly. He didn’t want to involve his brother unless he had to, would far rather figure things out for himself.
James replaced the mail, trying to arrange it the way it had been, when he happened to glance up. A calendar was on the wall, and he stared at the year in disbelief. It was a joke, had to be. His attention snapped back to the mail and he pawed through it now, seeking postmarks, rifling through the newspapers for a date. Each time he found one, he’d toss it to the floor and find another. And another.
Jesus Murphy, that can’t be right. There has to be a mistake.
The year looked bizarre, like science fiction. Could the century have turned without his knowing?
When he got to the bottom of the pile, he leaned against the wall and stood there for a very long time. His mind fought to accept that he’d been running as a wolf for more than thirty years. Dear God, it hadn’t felt like that long. A wolf’s concept of time was limited. It was aware of the moon and the seasons—but it didn’t count them. His human side had paid no attention at all, preferring to give up all awareness in favor of the wolf. Finally James blew out a breath and straightened. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. One year or thirty or a hundred, he was damn well going to run as a wolf again, just as soon as he solved this particular puzzle.
He sat on the bed and studied the woman, noticed things that he hadn’t as a wolf. Her features combined to create a unique beauty—the wild cap of hair, the fine sharp angles of her face, the tiny frown between her brows. She looked like a bad-tempered faerie. And she smelled good, a little different through human nostrils, but the scent was still distinct, still tantalizing. He knew the scent because the wolf knew her scent—but her face, however appealing, told him nothing at all. His frustration mounted. Why couldn’t he remember her? Why did he know her name, her smell? She was completely human, but he had heard her thoughts in his mind as clearly as if she was a Changeling too.
James thought of the strange vision he’d had on the trail, the momentary sight of a much younger Jillian, injured and anticipating death. What had happened to her? She said the wolf saved her life but how? When? The questions beat at his brain as hopelessly as the moths against the bedroom window. James glanced over at it, noted the graying of the night sky along the eastern horizon. He almost sighed, although whether it was in relief or resignation, he’d be hard-pressed to say.
He fully intended to leave. Was going to get up and walk out the door. Instead his hand went to Jillian’s face, brushed the wisps of hair away with a tenderness he didn’t know he was capable of. Her fair skin was soft, so soft . . . and it hit him hard that he hadn’t felt a woman’s skin, hadn’t
wanted
to feel a woman’s skin, in fact, hadn’t so much as
thought
of it for a long, long time. He brushed his fingertips lightly over her cheek, felt something electric along his own skin. A connection pulsed between them. . . .
“Who are you, Jillian?” he whispered. As if in response, she sighed and turned a little toward him. It distracted him just long enough for a snake-quick hand to seize his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.
James found himself staring into furious green eyes. Mentally, he flailed for the appropriate words, realized there weren’t very damn many for a situation like this.
Shit.
He cursed himself for being a complete idiot even as he tried to paste on what he hoped was a friendly expression—he’d had no time to practice. “Don’t be afraid. It’s . . . it’s not what you think.”
Chapter Seven
J
illian had all kinds of things she intended to say to this nervy intruder, right before she pounded the creep into next week. At least that was her plan. The words stuck in her throat when she opened her eyes and saw an enormous Viking looming over her—or so her mind tried to tell her. The strong intelligent face, the warrior build, the white-blond hair, those blue, blue eyes . . .
On some level she couldn’t help noticing the stranger had a warrior’s voice too. Low and quiet, almost a growl with steel underneath it. And familiar somehow.
She didn’t indulge the odd thoughts, just continued to glare murderously at him while maintaining her grip on his wrist. Tried to ignore the fact that her fingers couldn’t even reach halfway around that powerful wrist. Tried to ignore the fear that clawed at her throat, the terror of a nightmarish past repeating itself. “What the hell am I
supposed
to think?”
“You were dreaming—” He caught the fist with his free hand, stopping it just under his chin, held it. He frowned and shook his head.
Jillian was certain that instead of stopping her attacker, she’d just made him mad. That furrowed brow brought a frightening ferocity to his features. And although he wasn’t exerting any pressure on her fist, it was effectively caged in his iron hand. Oh Jesus, what now? She tried to think. Could she bring a leg up, kick him in the head? Let go of his wrist with her free hand and arrow her fingers into his throat? All her martial arts training seemed to desert her as she looked up into that harsh yet handsome face.
“You should have done that first, you know,” he said, surprising her. “Should have decked me just as you opened your eyes, doc.” His words were slightly halting, as if unfamiliar with the language. “It would have been a hell of a lot more effective than grabbing my wrist, would have used the surprise to better advantage.” He continued to hold her fist, held it close enough to his chin that she could feel his close-cropped beard against her knuckles. Never taking those blue, blue eyes from hers, he quickly turned the wrist she held in her other hand, neatly freeing it and seizing
her
wrist instead. “See? Bad choice for you. Want to try it again?”
She goggled at him now. Was this some kind of a sick game? “Try what?”
In answer he released both her hands and sat back. Jillian didn’t hesitate. She snapped her body into a roll that took her out of the opposite side of the bed. She landed on her feet, sprinted for the corner of the small apartment that served as a kitchen. Dove behind the tiny island, ripped out one drawer after another in search of a knife. Found one at last—a pathetically blunt paring knife, not the long-bladed one she’d hoped for—and whirled to face her attacker.
Except she wasn’t being attacked. The stranger was gone. The door was closed. On shaky legs Jillian came out from behind the island, holding the knife in front of her, eyes flicking everywhere. Cautiously she sidled along the wall until she could slap on the light switch. There was no sign of the blond man anywhere. She checked the door handle, found it locked. She lowered the knife. Suddenly she sensed rather than heard something and whipped around. Gaped. The white wolf was sprawled on her couch. At least she thought her couch was under it—the massive white creature dwarfed it. The wolf let out a very puppy-like yip and wagged its great plume of a tail. Reality tilted crazily as the floor came up and hit her.
Jillian’s hair had a mind of its own and shoving her hand through it—as she did frequently—made it even more unruly. She didn’t notice, wouldn’t have given a damn if she had. It was the end of her second week in Dunvegan, her second week of work at the North Star Animal Hospital. And every night since her arrival, she had been awakened in the night by vivid dreams of the wolf. They were good dreams, pleasant dreams to be sure, but the constant interruptions to her sleep were sapping her energy.
And what was she to think about Monday night’s dream, the bizarre one about the big blond man? Waking up on the floor the next morning had weirded her out. She didn’t have a habit of sleepwalking, yet there were three kitchen drawers thrown on the floor, the contents scattered across the linoleum. Just how did she sleep through
that
? She’d had her hand on the phone to call the cops and report an intruder—then realized that the white wolf had been there too. Just as the creature had shown up in her dreams every other night.
Yes, officer, there was a man in my room but the wolf on my couch must have chased him away.
Nope, not a good plan. Maybe she’d run into a real wolf on the trail, but there was no way she was going to convince anyone, even herself, that a wolf had actually been in her apartment.
Come to think of it, how about the guy’s clothes? They were shredded as if he’d been in an explosion—there was barely anything left of that shirt. But his body looked completely fine. Way more than fine. She thought of his powerful chest, the smooth muscled abs, all plainly visible through the gaping holes in the material. She rubbed her hand over her face to rid herself of the goofy smile that popped up.
Okay, okay, so the guy’s built. Really, really built. But those clothes just aren’t normal.
In fact, she was reminded of that old Marvel comic book,
The Incredible Hulk
, that her cousin used to collect. Every time the big green guy turned back into his alter ego, Bruce Banner, his clothing hung in tatters. The comic had never mentioned how Banner managed to afford a new outfit every day.
She yanked at her hair with one hand as if to jerk herself back to reality. The whole thing was just silly, way too ridiculous for words. Obviously no one would deliberately dress like that unless they were on a movie set. She’d been having a stupid dream, no doubt brought on by eating chocolate ice cream before bed. Jillian supposed the dream should rightfully be classed as a nightmare, but it was tough to do when the blond man was just so damn sexy. Talk about something worth dreaming about. Did that signify some kind of progress, that she was now dreaming about good-looking guys as well as wolves? There hadn’t been much time for dating in the past few years, but she wasn’t dead. She wondered if she was lonely, if that was why her mind had conjured the man. She certainly had a much better imagination than she’d thought. It was annoying, however, to find herself hoping to dream of the big Viking again. So far, though, only the white wolf had appeared.
“I’ve got to get some real sleep. Now I’m missing a man who doesn’t exist.”
It was just past five when Jillian stripped off her gloves and gown and headed for the pot of coffee in the staff lunchroom. She hadn’t had breakfast, missed lunch, prayed that maybe she could get just a minute or two to eat something now. And rolled her eyes when her mouth automatically started to water. The Watson’s sublime food should carry warning labels, she decided.
Caution, tasting may lead to addiction
. She selected a plump little pie enticingly labeled “Rosemary Chicken” and popped it into the microwave. Stood there with her hands on the counter . . .
“That must be some daydream you’re having, hon.” Jillian blinked to see Birkie waggling her perfectly shaped eyebrows at her. The scent of rosemary filled the air, and the woman waved her over to the table where the pie was waiting.
“You’d better get some food into you. I imagine it’s been a long day in a long week for you.”
“Yes, yes it has, thanks.” Jillian bit into the pie gratefully. The exquisite flavor was heightened by her hunger, and when the pastry had disappeared completely, she closed her eyes in bliss and sighed deeply.
“You’ll be glad to know the “Closed” sign is on the door, and I’m about to take the really good coffee out of the vault to make a fresh pot.”
“That’s a good thing on both counts.” Jillian noticed the older woman’s clothes. She knew,
knew
, Birkie had just hosed blood off the concrete floor in the large animal wing. A lot of blood, due to a pair of steers being dehorned. Yet the older woman looked as fresh and put together as she had at the beginning of the day. The suit, a turquoise blue one today, was wrinkle-free, spot free. It even looked
hair
-free, a near impossibility in this business. Jillian had been forced to change her scrubs at noon, but even the fresh ones were now wrinkled, blood-spattered, covered with fur from three species, plus one knee was torn. She restrained a sigh, not the satisfied one of a few moments before but the sheer resignation of knowing she’d never be able to match Birkie’s level of tidiness. Instead, she settled for running both hands through her unruly hair.
“By the way, you’ll want to watch out for the dead parakeet over by the cups. The bossman ran out to a farm call, left the bird on the counter for Caroline to package up when she gets back from the feed store.”
“Dina Monroe’s bird? The fat blue one?” Jillian walked over to inspect the unfortunate creature in its clear plastic baggie. It looked like a cartoon, the way it was sprawled on its back with wings askew, legs in the air and feet curled tight. Classic heart attack pose for budgerigars.
“Yup. Dina insists on having it sent out to the lab. She’s certain the creature perished from some new and fascinating disease instead of from eating too much buttered toast from her husband’s fingers. If its poor heart had held out a few more months, they could have eaten that bird for Thanksgiving.”
Jillian couldn’t help smiling at that. “What do you stuff a parakeet with? A crouton? My God, it’s truly frightening how people manage to give their pets the same health conditions and bad habits they have. Both the Monroes are pretty economy-sized themselves.”
“Wait till you meet Ed Barnes’s donkey. He likes cigars.” Birkie finished filling the coffee machine and pressed the button before turning to the young vet. “Look, honey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, is something wrong? You look like you’ve been dragged through a keyhole backward. There’re shadows under your eyes, and I swear a zombie would have more color in its cheeks.”
Jillian blinked at the blunt description, then laughed. “That bad, huh? I’m just not sleeping well right now. It’s probably the time difference, or maybe sleeping in a different bed. Lots of changes, you know. I’m sure it’s just temporary.” To her surprise, her friend simply took her arm and nudged her into a chair. “What?”
“We need more than mere gourmet coffee here, if we’re going to have serious gal talk.” Birkie nimbly climbed a chair to reach an antique tin of horse liniment from a high shelf. The yellowed, peeling label claimed the contents “excellent for all ailments.” The fragrance was anything but medicinal as Birkie tugged off the lid and offered it to Jillian. The young woman’s eyes widened. A dozen bars of dark chocolate gleamed in gold foil wrappers. “My emergency stash,” explained Birkie. “Go ahead, pick one.”
Jillian didn’t hesitate. A moment later she was biting into an almond-filled delight. She rolled her eyes in ecstasy as it melted on her tongue. “Omigod, this is fantastic. You may have just saved my life.”
“My Gram was a healer, almost what you might call a naturopath today. She taught me everything she knew about herbs and such. But I find that chocolate is pretty damn fine first aid at times and it’s got nothing to do with
antioxidants
.” Birkie broke off a square from her own bar and nibbled it delicately. “Now, tell me what else is going on besides not getting enough sleep. You’re not just tired, you’re worried. I hope it’s not about your job, hon, because Connor and I both think you’re the best thing since sliced bread.”
Jillian paused. She’d known Birkie only a short time, but she instinctively counted her as a friend. Maybe it would be good to tell someone about her dreams. If she collapsed in the middle of a pet spay or something, at least someone would know what was the matter with her. “No, nothing about the job. I love my job. It’s just that I’ve been having these dreams . . .”
“Still? I know you said something about having an awful lot of dreams earlier this week. Bad dreams, strange dreams, nightmares?”
“I wouldn’t call them nightmares. They’re actually pretty good dreams except that I wake up every time I have one and can’t get back to sleep. And I’ve had one every night since I got here, after not having them for years and years.”
“You’ve had these particular dreams before then. My Gram was a great believer in dreams, and I have to say I pay attention to them as well. We can learn a lot from what goes on in our heads at night. How about you? Do
you
think the dreams mean anything?”
Jillian had told very few people about her experiences. Enough time had passed, however, that it wasn’t so much difficult as awkward. “Well, I’m not sure I can explain it without giving you some ancient history. Are you sure you have time for this?”
Birkie just crossed her legs and settled more firmly into the chair. “Honey, I have all the time in the world for you. You’ve reminded me of one of my own daughters since you got off that bus. And nothing you say is going to leave this room, so no worries about that. I talk about people all the time, but I never betray a confidence.”
“It started with something that happened a long time ago. When I was seventeen, they opened a trail system along the river valley that ran through our city. There were miles of different trails winding through the thick cottonwood trees, and I was trying to walk them all one day. By myself, but when you’re seventeen, you think you’re invincible.”