Luck of the Wolf (3 page)

He was her kind.

Shaking out his fur, Renier sat on his haunches and stared into her eyes. She thought she might be able to dodge around him; he was bigger than she was, but her smaller size might make her faster.

If she'd had the will. If she hadn't been paralyzed with wonder and a fearful, dangerous joy.

Renier wasn't paralyzed. He Changed again while she hesitated, turned his back to her and put on his clothes. When he was fully dressed, he returned to his chair.

“So,
chère,
” he said softly. “You didn't know I was
loup-garou.
”

Loup-garou.
That was a word she hadn't heard, but she could guess what it meant. She couldn't very well deny that she hadn't known that Cort was a werewolf.

He didn't wait for her to answer. “Now,” he said, stretching out his legs again, “there can be no secrets between us.”

No secrets. Franz had promised that she would learn important things when they got to America, things only the
wehrwölfe
in San Francisco could tell her. He had even hinted that he himself knew more than he had ever let on.

But he had never had the chance to explain. He had taken all those secrets with him in death, and his special documents with them.

Maybe Cortland Renier
could
help her. If he knew about werewolves in San Francisco, it seemed possible that he would know about the Carantians, too. And he had mentioned families. Was that what Franz had meant? Was it possible her family wasn't dead after all? Would she find cousins, uncles, brothers or sisters among those who waited for her?

She licked her lips. Franz had said the Carantian colonists in San Francisco were good people, honorable and steadfast. But he had said there were bad werewolves, too, just as there were bad humans. How was she to distinguish one from another, when she couldn't even be sure when a man was human or not?

You don't have to tell him everything,
she thought.
You can wait and see if he really means what he says.

Moving quickly, Aria grabbed the blanket in her jaws and raced to the door. She Changed, snatched up the blanket and wrapped it snugly around herself. Renier crossed his legs casually and smiled.

“Now that we understand each other,” he said, “you can have no further doubts that I wish to help.”

Aria pretended to relax. “Did you know what I was all the time?” she asked.

“Long enough. The fact that you could not recognize me, however, greatly complicates your situation.”

“Why? The people who took me…they weren't werewolves, were they?”

“It seems unlikely.”

“Then I could have escaped as soon as the poison went away.”

“Perhaps. But where would you have gone?” he asked. “If you have no memory…”

“How many others like us live in San Francisco?” she asked quickly.

“A dozen, perhaps.”

“You said there were families….”

“Two that I am aware of, and various lone wolves.”

Any of whom might know or even
be
the Carantians she was seeking. “Do they hide what they are from humans?” she asked.

He regarded her with new interest. “Why do you ask,
ma chère?
Surely you know that all
loups-garous
conceal what they are, even as they move in human society. Was it different with your people?”

“I don't remember.” But of course that was exactly what Franz had told her, that werewolves had to hide what they were, and she had seen what had happened
the one time she'd been careless in New York. “Does anyone know what
you
are? Humans, I mean?”

“One man only, in this city. But—”

“Is it the man in the other room?”

“Baron Yuri Chernikov. You will meet him later.”

Yuri. It was a Russian name. Aria could speak fluent Russian, but she had never met a man from that country. “He is your…friend?” she asked.

“You have no more to fear from him than you do from me.”

But what did that really mean, given that she had no real idea whether she could trust Cortland Renier or not? Why should she trust this Russian, when he was human like the men who had taken her?

She had much more to learn before she could decide.

“You asked me if I ran away,” she said, circling around the room. “Wouldn't someone be looking for me if I was lost?”

“One would presume so.” He watched her progress with keen yellow eyes. “I will make inquiries of the families I mentioned before.”

The Hemmings and the Phelans. She couldn't keep the hope and yearning out of her voice. “So you know them?”

“Not personally, but that is no object.” He stretched his arms, and joints popped. “You must strive to regain your memory, beginning with your name.”

Aria stopped. Should she tell him her name? There must be a reason why Franz had warned her never to tell anyone what it was, why he'd made her go by another even in Carantia.

“What kind of name is Renier?” she asked.

“It is of European derivation.”

“Where do you come from?”

“From another part of this country, to the east.” He raised a brow. “Why do you ask?”

“It's the way you talk. It's different from most of the people I've met here.”

“Your manner of speech is also a little different,
mademoiselle,
though I can't place the accent.”

Aria rubbed her arms, though the room wasn't cold and she seldom felt uncomfortable even in freezing temperatures. “Where are we?”

“In the rooms I share with Yuri. You are quite safe.” He rose. “You obviously need other clothing. I will buy a minimal wardrobe for you until we determine what course of action to take.”

In all their time in the mountains, Franz had bought everything they had needed. She'd almost never had money of her own. After Franz had been robbed of the papers and his money, then killed by the thieves, she'd had only what Franz had given her for herself. When she'd used it up getting to San Francisco, she'd quickly learned just how necessary money was to survival.

“I haven't any money to give you, Mr. Renier,” she said.

“I have sufficient funds to cover what you will need. And you may call me Cort.”

Cort. So much easier to say than Cortland Beauregard Renier.

“Will you give your word not to attempt to leave while I am absent?”

She would be foolish to do so. But Cort was still her only possible connection to the other
wehrwölfe
in San Francisco.

And she wanted so badly to trust him.

“I will stay,” she promised.

He nodded and strode toward her. She moved out of his way, and he went through the door to the other room. The Russian's voice, his speech heavily accented, rose in question. Aria could understand every word he and Cort spoke, and she knew Cort was perfectly aware of that.

“She's awake,” Cort said, “and well enough, but she doesn't remember her past.”

“
Chyort
. I don't believe it.”

“Believe as you choose. Whether or not she is telling the truth, we must help her.”

There was a long pause, and then the Russian said grudgingly, “I suppose you are right. But if she remembers nothing, how do you intend to find her people?”

Cort went on to tell Yuri the same things he had told Aria. When the discussion ended, the two men emerged from the adjoining room.

The human, Aria thought, was nothing special. He was a little round in the belly and plump in the face, but he carried himself like Cort, straight and proud. He walked into the room, paused and looked Aria up and down. His gaze came to rest on her face, and he stopped breathing. A moment later he seemed to remember that he could not live without air.

“So,” he said, and clicked his heels together. “Baron Yuri Chernikov, at your service.”

It was the same thing that Cort had said, but Aria didn't believe it this time. There was something about the Russian she didn't like, even if he was Cort's friend. He had doubted that she was telling the truth about losing her memory. He was right, of course, but every instinct told her not to trust him.

“I don't know my name,” she told him bluntly.

“So I have been told.” He glanced at Cort. “You are going to buy her clothes?”

“I was about to leave,” Cort said. He smiled at Aria. “She has given her word to remain. You will have a chance to get acquainted.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Yuri said. “And I will be certain that the young lady receives whatever she needs to make her comfortable.”

“There is bread and cheese in the cupboard,” Cort said. Aria's stomach rumbled again, too loudly for him to miss. “You must be hungry,” he said.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I'll bring more to eat when I return,” Cort said, exchanging a glance with Yuri—a glance Aria knew she was not supposed to understand—and retrieved a hat from a hook on the wall. He turned at the door. “Trust me,
chère,
” he said. “We will uncover your past, whatever it may be, and restore you to your people.”

He left, and Yuri went to a cupboard that stood against one of the otherwise bare walls. He removed a wooden platter with the bread and cheese, and set it down on the table in the corner.

“It is true that you remember nothing?” he asked, taking a seat on the couch.

Aria hesitated, sat in the chair at the table and sniffed at a piece of cheese. She remembered, with a pang of sadness, the fresh, pungent cheese she had eaten nearly every day in the mountains.

But there was no returning to that life, even if she had wished it. And instinct, even when it went against her desire to believe what Cort had said, told her to continue to withhold information about that life.

“It's true,” she said, biting into the cheese.

“So.” Yuri rubbed his knee. “You can be sure that Cort will learn the truth about you and your origins.”

It felt almost like a threat. “You have known Cort a long time?” she asked, as she swallowed a bite of stale bread.

“
Da.
A long time.” She caught him staring at her, and he quickly looked away. “I know more about him than anyone else in this world.”

“Did you always know he wasn't human?”

“Yes.”

His grimly amused expression made Aria shiver. After she had eaten all her shrunken stomach would accept, she struggled with a fresh wave of exhaustion. She might have risked sleeping with Cort present, but she could not feel comfortable doing so with Yuri in the room. She retreated to the couch, settled in one corner and wrapped the blanket tightly about her body.

She had given her word. And it was true that she had nowhere else to go, and no real understanding of this country and the people in it. But still she watched the door, half anticipating and half dreading Cort's return.

T
HE MAN WHO CALLED
himself Hugo Brecht stared unseeing at the curtains that separated the private dining room from the peasants outside and sipped his wine. It went down sour and bitter, though it was said to be of the finest French vintage.

He had lost her. After years of fruitless searching, she had escaped him again.

Hugo swallowed the last of the wine and set down the glass. He remembered every day, every hour, of those years of seeking the lost princess. He had gone through hell and crossed the world to find her. Alese di Reinardus—the sole surviving heir to the throne, daughter of Hugo's cousin twice removed, the King of Carantia—spirited away from her enemies in infancy and transformed by her protectors into Lucienne Renier of the New Orleans werewolf clan.

When at last he had found her in New Orleans and taken her captive, he had been patient, waiting for the day when she would be old enough to marry him. She would become his bride and give him the throne he had coveted long before he had engineered the coup against Carantia's king.

Alese's escape had altered all his meticulous plans. It was as if she had vanished from the face of the earth. All the rogues and investigators and lawmen he had
hired to find her had returned empty-handed. Even he had begun to lose hope.

Until he heard of the tournament and the beautiful girl—golden haired, with eyes the rare blue-green of the finest turquoise. Subtle inquiries had convinced him. It had to be Alese. He'd been sure of it once he'd seen her.

How she could have been overpowered by humans and become a prize in San Francisco's most notorious underground poker tournament he couldn't guess. What had she been doing since her escape? Why hadn't she returned to New Orleans? Had she been too ashamed? Afraid he would find her there?

The fact was that it made no real difference what had happened to Alese during the past four years since she had escaped his custody. He had her at last.

Or so he had believed.

Hugo's hands clenched and unclenched on the table-top. He had not dreamed it possible that Cochrane could fail to win the match. The man was said to be the best in the city, perhaps in all the West, and yet he had lost to a common gambler.

No. Cortland Beauregard Renier was very far from common. He was
werewolf,
and that was the one circumstance Hugo had failed to prepare for.

Cortland Renier. A man of great skill—or luck. By all accounts an inveterate gambler, one of that class of men who considered themselves gentlemen but haunted the Coast seeking the easy life they hoped to acquire by the most dubious of means.

But this one, they said, could be very dangerous if crossed. That was hardly a surprise, given his inhuman nature.

Still, it was not his nature that troubled Hugo at the
moment. The name Renier was not uncommon in parts of the United States. It was held not only by the most powerful werewolf clan in the country, but by lesser breeds scattered through the South and West.

The question was which clan and family claimed the man who had stolen Hugo's prize, and whether or not his being here at such a time was more than mere coincidence. Most of all, Hugo had to find out whether Renier knew he had just taken custody of his own missing relation.

Hugo rang for another bottle of wine and scowled at his empty glass. If the New Orleans Reniers had heard of the tournament and the girl who stood as one of the prizes, it was not so incredible that they would have sent a family member to see if she could be the missing Lucienne. Discreetly, of course. The New Orleans Reniers had not widely advertised Lucienne's kidnapping, and Hugo suspected that few in the family actually knew her true name and origins.

The name “Cortland” was not one Hugo recognized from his time in New Orleans. Even if the man was one of the Western Reniers, unconnected with the aristocratic lineage, he must quickly have realized that the girl was a werewolf.

Such females were not easily acquired in the West, especially not by lone wolves, and lust could be a powerful motive.

Lone wolf or New Orleans Renier, Cort was not likely to be an easy mark. Hugo's clear advantage was that Cortland Renier, whoever he was, would not be likely to recognize him.

Hugo allowed his thoughts to simmer as the waiter brought another bottle, held it for his inspection and poured the wine. When the human was gone, Hugo's
mind was a little clearer. Assuming Cortland Renier was a free agent and didn't recognize his prize as “Lucienne Renier,” she might be desperate and frightened enough to disclose her name.

How would Renier respond? Would he choose to help her? That would be only a little less problematic for Hugo than if he were a direct agent of the New Orleans Reniers.

Slapping a few coins down on the table, Hugo rose. It was only a question of getting the facts and making his plans accordingly. He would get Alese back. There was no question of that. He would set his men to watch the boardinghouse where Renier lived, and the gambling halls and dives he frequented. He would send a telegram to his contacts in New Orleans. By tomorrow or the next day, he would know if Cortland Renier had the backing of the clan.

If he did not, Hugo would approach Renier directly. He might simply take her by force, which would seem to be the easier path, but there was always a risk in using violence against a fellow werewolf. Alese might escape again.

No, Hugo thought as he walked toward the saloon door, he would take the somewhat lesser risk of offering Renier a substantial reward for the girl's return.

One way or another, Alese would become his bride, the bride of Duke Gunther di Reinardus. The weakling cousin who now held the Carantian throne, ruling at the whim of the noble houses, would be far more easily deposed than Alese's parents had been. And those who would change the ancient Carantian way of life, the human-lovers and rebel egalitarians who wished Carantia to become part of the corrupt modern world, would suffer the fate they deserved.

 

I
T COULDN'T BE
.

Cold logic told Yuri that the girl in the other room couldn't possibly be the one she so vividly resembled. It had, after all, been eight years since the duke had stolen her from New Orleans, and there was no guarantee that a woman grown would resemble the child of twelve she had been then. Especially a woman who had so clearly suffered since her abduction from a pampered, aristocratic life.

He paced the narrow boarding-house hallway, shaking his head with every step. What were the odds that she could have escaped Duke Gunther di Reinardus, the ruthless traitor, the very man responsible for the deaths of her parents, and ended up in San Francisco at the very same time he and Cort were here? And she
must
have escaped, because the Gunther he had known eight years ago would never have let her go.

Yuri sat down on the steps and fiddled nervously with the unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers. It must be the same woman. He had seen the birthmark below her shoulder blade when her blanket had slipped. As fantastic as the whole thing seemed, he had never been one to doubt his senses. That very pragmatism had originally allowed him to accept the existence of werewolves and join the duke in his scheme to claim the Carantian throne.

A scheme that, apparently, had failed at some point in the years since he had left the duke's service. Given the way di Reinardus had abandoned him in New Orleans once he'd taken the girl, Yuri couldn't help but take a great deal of satisfaction in that fact.

He pushed the cigarette between his lips and tried to strike a match. His fingers trembled too much to keep it steady.

Think.
If this girl had in fact lost her memory, it might explain why she hadn't gone straight back to New Orleans. Perhaps she'd been on the run ever since.

But
when
had she left Gunther? Weeks ago? Years? Gunther would have begun grooming her for the throne as soon as he took her, and that would not have been a difficult task, given her upbringing among the New Orleans Reniers. Raised to be accomplished and cultivated, accustomed to every luxury due a girl of breeding, she would have needed little refining.

Where had that refinement gone? The way this girl had eaten, spoken, behaved…none of that suggested an aristocratic background. What had Alese di Reinardus, also known as Lucienne Renier, become?

And where in God's name was Gunther?

Casting an uneasy glance toward the door, Yuri finally managed to light the match and nearly burned his fingers. He threw the blackened stick to the floor. Unless Gunther's death or complete incapacitation had set Alese free—and Yuri didn't believe anything short of the wrath of God himself could kill the bastard—the duke must be looking for her. Perhaps the girl's amnesia was merely an embellishment to a desperate masquerade.

Gunther would certainly never rest until he found her. But if he had tracked her here to San Francisco, Yuri would soon know. The duke would quickly have learned the name of the man who had taken possession of his missing prize.

He would be on this doorstep momentarily, if he were not here already.

Sucking in a deep lungful of smoke, Yuri closed his eyes. Perhaps, for once, the duke had failed. Perhaps Alese had well and truly eluded him. And that left a
whole wealth of opportunities for Yuri and Cort. Dangerous ones, perhaps, but if they acted quickly…

Without even knowing who she was, Cort was fully prepared to find her people and restore her to them for a price. Once he knew the girl was Lucienne Renier, he would see the beauty of Yuri's scheme. There was little the New Orleans Reniers wouldn't pay to get their lost “cousin” back.

And if or when Gunther discovered what had become of her, Yuri and Cort would be long gone.

Yuri dropped the cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his boot. Timing was everything. They needed to get the girl out of the city, just in case Gunther tracked her to San Francisco. And there were other things that would have to be done. It wouldn't be necessary for Cort to know all the details to play his part in the plan.

Especially now that they had a princess on their hands.

Knees creaking, Yuri got to his feet, painfully reminded that he was no longer young. Soon he would need the money he had as yet failed to acquire and keep. This might be his final chance, and he was determined to take it. And if he got his revenge on Duke Gunther di Reinardus in the meantime, so much the better.

 

C
ORT WAS JUST APPROACHING
the door to the rooms he and Yuri shared, precariously balancing several boxes in his arms, when the Russian walked into the hallway.

A jolt of alarm shuddered through Cort like an unexpected earthquake. “Where is she?” he demanded.

“Inside, asleep.”

Cort relaxed. “She's well?” he asked.

“The
devochka
has many questions, but she shows no signs of distress.” He grabbed Cort's arm and pulled
him back along the narrow hall. His eyes were bright and calculating.

“What are you up to, Yuri?” Cort asked, recognizing that look all too well.

The Russian lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you not recognize her?”

Cort set the boxes down. “What are you talking about?”

“The girl!” Yuri shook his head impatiently. “She resembles Lucienne Renier in every detail, even given the difference in age from the time she was abducted.”

Lucienne Renier. The name startled Cort, and it took another moment before he remembered the story. He hadn't known the child stolen away from the grand manor of the New Orleans Reniers eight years ago. He had courted Madeleine in secret and had never visited her openly at Belle Lune until the last time he had seen her. If he had ever glimpsed Lucienne Renier, it had been briefly and at a distance.

Yuri, however, had been for a time a guest at the Renier plantation just outside New Orleans—an exotic but impoverished nobleman who, despite his human nature, was of interest to the Reniers because of his aristocratic bloodline. Though the Reniers had not widely advertised the abduction, Yuri would likely have heard about it firsthand.

It was his connection to the Reniers that had brought the two of them together at a French Quarter tavern shortly after Cort had won enough money to leave Louisiana. The Russian had taken Cort's side in an after-game brawl, and once Cort learned that Yuri had recently parted ways with the Reniers himself, they had fallen into earnest conversation.

That, in turn, had led to a mutually beneficial
agreement: Yuri would teach Cort to be a gentleman equal in every way to the Reniers of New Orleans, and Cort would support them both with his gambling skills. But if Yuri had spoken of the abduction when they'd met, Cort hadn't been listening. He'd had far more personal things on his mind at the time.

“They never learned who took her?” he asked.

The Russian snorted. “Obviously they did not.” He rubbed his hands like the disciple of Midas he was. “Eight years. It is a long time. But I swear it is the same girl. No other could have such eyes.”

Cort sat heavily on the stairs that faced the building entrance. It seemed too incredible to be believed, and the implications were staggering.

Lucienne Renier. A girl who bore the same surname he did, but only the most distant connection by blood. Like Madeleine.

Yet this girl was nothing like Madeleine. She had none of Madeleine's refinement or manner of speech, and for all her radiant beauty, her behavior was as rough as an uncut diamond. Could the offspring of such a family forget everything she had been taught before her abduction, all the graces, mannerisms and expectations of her station?

She had pride enough, true, but it wasn't the sort the Reniers displayed. There was no arrogance, no pompous expectation of fealty from lesser beings, human or
loup-garou.

How could she have lost so much? Where could she have been all this time?

She doesn't remember.
If she had been alone on the streets for any length of time, she would have had to fight for survival. It could have changed her beyond all recognition.