Читать книгу The Unforgettable Wolf - Jane Godman - Страница 9

Chapter 2

Using the photograph and information Cal had given him, Nate tracked down the young guy to a house in the town. He followed him as he left his home, and watched as he glanced furtively all around before making his way up to the woods. Nate observed in dismay as darkness fell and the fresh-faced young man shifted by the light of the full moon. The memories came flooding back. He saw the fear and confusion on this guy’s face just before his body altered. His heart ached for the other man. Nate knew exactly what he was thinking. I’m going out of my mind. It was what Nate himself had believed six years ago.

Now, of course, he knew exactly what had been happening to him. Back then, he had been twenty-two-year-old Nathan Jones. Zilar was his mother’s maiden name, and he’d been pushed into using it by his band’s manager, who wanted to go sexier and catchier. A promising music student, months away from graduation, he’d had his life turned upside-down. He’d been scared, lonely and unable to talk to anyone about what was going on inside his head and, even more frighteningly, within his body.

He clearly remembered the werewolf bite that brought about his transformation. It was after a night out with friends. He didn’t have the money for a cab, so he had walked home. Something or someone—he thought at the time it was a wild dog—had jumped out on him from a narrow side street in a quiet part of town. It went for his throat. He thought he was dead for sure, but a group of passersby disturbed the animal and it ran away.

Unconscious, Nate had been rushed to the hospital. He had bite marks to his throat and scratches on his chest and face. The police insisted they were looking for the same attacker who had brutally murdered a number of young men in the same area. He was lucky to be alive, they told him. It was only when the next full moon came around that Nate had known there was something very wrong. Lucky to be alive? He had lived with the irony of those words ever since.

Nate watched now as the werewolf crouched low, stealthily approaching the house through the trees. The backyard bordered the forest, and the businessman who lived here had chosen the location well. Privacy and country living combined to make this the perfect home for a werewolf blending into human society. He could hear the sounds of the party. The young werewolf sniffed the air, and Nate felt a fresh wave of pity wash over him. Acceptance and belonging were part of a wolf’s makeup. Pack instincts. The parts that had been stripped away from this youngster by whoever bit him. This youth was an outcast. No longer human or wolf. He belonged in neither world and would be destined to walk on the darkest edges of both. When the moon was full, his lust for human blood would be out of control, and, out of his mind and out of control, he would satisfy that lust with wild attacks on people, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Until Nate put an end to his torment. The way I begged Cal to do for me.

And Cal had obliged. Because there was only one thing you could do for a feral werewolf. The final kindness you could do the poor, tormented scrap of humanity left behind after a werewolf attack was to kill it. But there would be no one to step in and rescue this guy the way Nate had been saved. No one was going to start his heart up again once the silver bullet had stopped it beating. Lucky bastard.

All werewolves, whether in the mystical realm of Otherworld, or here in the mortal realm, came under the rule of a single leader. The recent overthrow, and death, of the longstanding Wolf Leader, Anwyl, by his rival, Nevan, didn’t change that. A different face at the top didn’t alter tradition. Nevan was in charge. Just the mention of that name made Nate’s blood run cold, but he forced himself to focus.

The problem for the Wolf Leader was that these feral werewolves—the true werewolves of ancient human legend—were not members of any pack. No group would accept a feral werewolf into its fold. They didn’t obey the rules. They had no idea there were rules. The hierarchy that applied to wolves in the wild was equally important to werewolves. The social structure of an alpha male whose rule was absolute was unchanged. Anyone who was unwilling to accept that dynamic was cast out. Feral werewolves were not welcome in such a well-regulated society. They were the dirty secret of which werewolves didn’t care to speak.

When in the grip of their wolf selves, feral werewolves were governed by uncontrollable rage and hunger for blood. They were driven to kill everyone they encountered, regardless of their human part. Once they returned to their human form, they remembered nothing or very little of what they had done. The condition was transferred through a bite, assuming the bitten person survived the attack the way Nate had done.

Over time, werewolves had mutated, achieving a remarkable feat. They were able to gain control over their bloodlust, although their other lupine instincts remained intact. Gradually, the werewolf world had split into two packs. One dwelt in Otherworld, while the other chose to reside in the mortal realm. With strong leadership, they could have been an imposing force. As it was, they warred among themselves and more closely resembled a pack of rabid dogs.

Although they were becoming rarer, feral werewolves remained a problem. Six years ago, when Nate had been feral, he had been cruelly used as a weapon by Nevan in his attempt to destroy Stella. When Nevan had gotten inside Nate’s head he had urged him to rip out Stella’s heart. That sort of mind control over feral wolves wasn’t used often, but it wasn’t unknown. Often, they ended up in prison cells and mental institutions in the mortal realm, unaware of the terrible deeds they had committed when the moon was full.

That was where Cal, in his role as Otherworld peacekeeper, stepped in. He and Stella couldn’t save all feral werewolves the way they had helped Nate. That would have been an impossible task. The best Cal could hope for was to find a werewolf hunter who would destroy feral werewolves in a way that was as painless and humane as possible.

That was why Nate was here now, lining up this young wolf in his sights, preparing to fire a silver bullet into his heart before finishing him off by decapitating him with a samurai sword.

His finger tightened on the trigger. This part was never easy. There was always a temptation to walk away, to tell himself he’d done his share of these kills. To let someone else take over now. Except, as he’d pointed out to Cal in the early hours of this morning, there was no one else. And he couldn’t stop, even if he wanted to. He owed it to the poor bastards locked in this torment.

Just before Nate could pull the trigger, the werewolf’s lips drew back in a snarl and he crouched low, his eyes fixed on something a few feet away. Nate breathed a soft curse and turned to look at whatever it was that had caught the werewolf’s attention. A dog? Maybe a deer? There was enough light from the full moon through the tree canopy to illuminate the scene. Even so, he thought he must be imagining things. There, standing stock-still like a marble statue, her long, dark hair hanging loose about her shoulders, was the most beautiful young woman he had ever seen. He did a double take. The most beautiful naked woman he had ever seen.

The werewolf sprang, closing the distance between himself and the woman. His eyes glowed toxic yellow, and his huge fangs were bared. Frozen out of her immobility at the sight, the woman stumbled back. With not a second to lose, Nate fired while the werewolf was in midlunge.

The huge beast shuddered as the bullet caught him in the chest. At the same time, the woman lost her balance completely and began to fall backward, her arms flailing wildly as she tried to find something—anything—on to which she could grab hold and save herself. She was unsuccessful. Even across a distance of several feet, Nate heard the sharp crack of her head hitting a rock before the werewolf came crashing down on top of her. Her slender body disappeared under the pelt of the huge, feral animal pressing her into the forest floor.

* * *

She opened her eyes slowly. The black of the night sky was splattered with bright stars, and the full moon hung huge and low in the center of her vision. It was blurred, and she blinked in an attempt to clear it. Nothing happened, so she sighed and closed her eyes again. Her head hurt and there was a horrible smell, like rotten meat and unwashed bodies. She had no idea where she was or how she came to be here. A warm, drowsy feeling swept over her.

“Don’t go to sleep.” It was a man’s voice. Unfamiliar and authoritative.

She frowned and opened one eye, seeking the source of those warm, well-modulated tones. A face loomed above her. The moon was behind him so she couldn’t make out much of his features. She got the impression of strength and determination. As he leaned closer, she caught a whiff of his clean, masculine scent. Soap and cologne. Something woodsy, musky and warming. He wasn’t the source of that gut-churning smell. Although the scent probably wasn’t the most important of her problems right now.

The feeling of cold earth and damp leaves against her bare flesh brought another realization crashing over her. She struggled to move, but the pain in her head was too intense. “Why am I naked?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

He asked the question in a slightly incredulous manner that could have been intended to convey almost anything. She gazed up at him in horror. She couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember why she was naked, why she was in these woods, why her head hurt, who he was. Who she was.

“What did you do to me?” The words trembled on her lips.

“Apart from saving your life, I haven’t done anything to you.” The words were harsh, clearly intended to put a swift end to any possible allegations.

She shrank back farther into the dirt. “I don’t believe you.”

He pointed to something just to one side of her. “Believe.”

With an effort, she turned her head. Inches away from her lay the body of an enormous wolf. Its jaws hung open to reveal lethal fangs, gleaming white in the moonlight. At least she had finally discovered the source of the smell.

“He was about to rip your throat out—among other things—when I shot him.”

Among other things? Even through the pain and fear, she picked up on something in the man’s tone. Sadness and sympathy. Regret. He referred to the wolf as “him,” not “it,” almost as if he was deliberately giving it an identity. That was how it felt, but maybe the shock or the bump on the head was making her overimaginative.

“I don’t know why I’m here.” The tears threatened to spill over, and she fought them. She might not know who she was, but she knew she didn’t do crying.

“There’s a big party going on at a house on the edge of the woods. Could you have come from there?” He turned slightly, presumably in the direction of the house he was talking about, and she caught a glimpse of his strong profile.

“I suppose it’s possible.” She risked sitting up, hugging her knees up to her chin. Her head hurt like hell, but at least she felt less exposed in this position than lying flat on her back. “It doesn’t explain why I’m not wearing any clothes.”

Her rescuer tugged his hooded sweatshirt over his head and handed it to her. “Put this on.”

She accepted it gratefully, pulling it over her head and sliding her arms into the sleeves. The residual warmth from his body and that delicious smell were comforting. She drew the garment around herself, trying desperately to remember something—anything—about what had happened before she had opened her eyes and seen this man leaning over her. It was no use. Her memory remained stubbornly blank.

“Can you stand?” He leaned down, offering his hand.

Taking it, she allowed him to pull her to her feet. Once she was upright, the world swam out of focus and she staggered. Strong arms caught and held her, and she leaned her forehead gratefully against a chest that was hard and muscular.

“Who are you?” It seemed a little late for introductions. His hands maintained a firm grip on her hips and, even through her giddiness and discomfort, she was glad the sweatshirt was long enough to reach the top of her thighs.

“My name is Nate.” He looked over her head toward where she guessed the house party must be taking place. “Maybe we should go down there and see if someone recognizes you. Even if they don’t, we can call for help from there. I don’t have a phone with me and I’m not from ’round here. I have no idea where the nearest hospital is, but I think you should get that head injury of yours checked out.”

She lifted her chin so she could scan his face. In the circumstances, it probably wasn’t the wisest move. Her head was spinning and nothing made sense. She didn’t know this man, but she sensed there was a lot he wasn’t telling her. Panic threatened to overwhelm her. Somehow, she had lost control of her life and now she had no idea how to get it back on track. She was so far from the track, she had lost sight of where it might be. The thought set her heart pounding and her breath coming in short pants.

As she fought to regain control, a series of questions swirled around in her head. She had no idea why she was in the woods—let’s not get into the whole naked thing right now—but why was he here? How had he conveniently managed to kill that wolf just as it was about to attack her? What did he mean by “among other things”? And how was it that she could sense, beyond any shadow of a doubt, his overwhelming reluctance to go toward that house where the party was being held?

As the questions chased each other around inside her fragile head, the moonlight illuminated a glimpse of Nate’s rueful grin.

“Before I do anything, I have to take care of our friend over there.” He indicated the wolf’s body. “This isn’t going to be pleasant, and, when I’m finished, you probably won’t want to come anywhere near me ever again.”

With those cryptic words, he released his grip on her hips and shifted her weight so that she could lean against the trunk of a tree. Moving stealthily in the darkness, he walked a few feet away and rummaged among some items that were in a large bag on the ground. When he returned, he was carrying a curved, gleaming sword and a shovel.

* * *

The woman recoiled violently as Nate walked toward her. She eyed the sword and shovel with a look of horror. “What are you going to do with those?”

It was not an easy thing to explain. He had to decapitate this werewolf while the moon was still full, or his job was only half-done. The silver bullet had stopped his heart, but Nate had to be sure he couldn’t rise again. Legend was divided on this issue. Some believed that decapitation was the only way to finally lay the tortured soul to rest. Others felt it was overkill. There were no examples that he could find for what happened if someone left the werewolf’s body intact. Preferring to leave nothing to chance, Nate went for decapitation. And, since he had to be on a flight to London in a few hours, he had to do it here and now.

What sort of bad luck was this? Okay, the circumstances of their meeting weren’t ideal, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, Nate felt a tug of attraction toward a woman. More than a tug, if he was honest. What he was about to do next would kill any reciprocal feelings stone dead.

The woman, who was gazing at him with huge, troubled eyes, was about to get a live demonstration of the messy side of werewolf hunting. He ran a hand through his hair, wondering if there was any way to make what he was about to do sound acceptable to her. He was never going to see her again after tonight, but the idea of figuring in her nightmares for the rest of her life didn’t fit comfortably with him.

He tried for a soothing opening sentence. “This is not an ordinary wolf.”

“It is very big.” Her voice was wary. Clearly she was wondering where this was going. And whether she was humoring a madman.

“He’s a werewolf.” There. He’d said it. She hadn’t run away screaming. But that might have more to do with her head injury than her acceptance of his sanity.

In the moonlight, he couldn’t see the color of her eyes. He saw only the sweep of her long, dark lashes as they came down and rested on her pale cheeks before lifting slowly. “What do you have to do to him?”

“I have to cut off his head.”

The gulping sound she made as she swallowed echoed in the silent forest. “I can’t watch that.”

Nate nodded grimly. “I’ll tell you when I’m done.”

She kept her eyes closed, leaning back against the tree. Nate worked swiftly. Although he’d lost track of how many times he’d done this over the years, he had developed a routine. It might not suit the purists who first devised these ancient rites, but it worked for him. Kneeling beside the body of the werewolf, he bent his head. Prayer wasn’t appropriate. He didn’t know this young man. Didn’t know his background, his beliefs or his culture. It didn’t matter. A werewolf was a creature of darkness. If this man had worshipped a deity before his transformation, his allegiances would have changed once he became feral. But something was needed. Some acknowledgment of who he had been, a recognition that he would die alone, that his family would never know what had become of him.

Nate owed this unknown man something. It was a duty. Just as Stella, when she laid her hands on Nate six years ago, had felt a different sort of obligation to him. Nate wasn’t a necromancer. He couldn’t bring this guy back to life the way Stella had with him. Even if he had that choice, he wasn’t sure, knowing what he did, that he would exert it. No, his ritual was simple. He murmured a few words, lines from a poem he’d once heard, to ease the dead on their way.

The samurai sword, with its curved blade, worked best. He’d tried others, but always returned to this. Raising it high above his head, ignoring the awful silver stench, he brought it down in a single, swift stroke. The sound of the blade slicing through flesh and bone never failed to sicken him. Usually one blow was all it took. This time, clouds had obscured the moon at the crucial moment, and his aim was not true. Cursing his bad luck, he aimed the sword at the werewolf’s neck a second time and finished the job.

And, just like that, the wolf was gone. In his place, the body of a slender young man lay curled on his side.

“At peace now.” Nate said the words quietly. Sadly. Although whether the sadness was for the werewolf or for himself, he was never quite sure. Because Nate himself sure as hell wasn’t at peace.

His voice must have attracted the woman’s attention. Her gasp shattered the stillness of the forest before her hand flew to cover her mouth. Those huge eyes met Nate’s across the few feet separating them.

He experienced an overwhelming impulse to go to her and draw her into his arms. After so many years of believing he wasn’t capable of feeling attraction, it was as if the floodgates to his emotions had been opened in spectacular style.

He tried telling himself it was the strange circumstances that had him enthralled, but it didn’t seem to be working. He was fascinated by this woman he had only just met, drawn to her in a way he didn’t understand. He got a grip on the impulse to go to her, telling himself she had been through enough without the uninvited embrace of a stranger.

“It was true. He was a werewolf. When you said ‘among other things,’ you meant he was going to rape me before he killed me, didn’t you?” There was still a trace of incredulity in her voice, but there was no longer any fear.

“The poor bastard will have had the urges of both man and wolf, with no way of controlling either.” He became brisk again. “And now I have to bury him.”

The ground was damp, and Nate was able to dig a grave quickly. He was worried about the woman. Although she was a complication he could have done without, she had become his responsibility as soon as he had rescued her. Leaving her standing around injured and half-naked while he completed this task didn’t seem like the behavior of a hero. He almost laughed out loud at the idea of himself in that role.

Of the five band members, Nate was the one labeled by the press as “the shy one” or “the quiet one.” He was the one who didn’t do relationships. He was the one most likely to be tucked up in bed with a good book while the others were out raising hell. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even talked to a woman. Heroic? He wouldn’t know where to start.

When he’d finished burying the body, he came back to the woman, wiping his hands on his jeans. His thoughts were focused on the problem of how to get her to safety. If that house on the edge of the forest was the scene of a werewolf get-together, the last thing he wanted to do was walk in there. But if it was where she had come from, he needed to return her to her friends. Was she a werewolf? If she had come from that party, it seemed likely she was. None of my business. He’d pledged to get her to safety, not judge her.

What if she’s not a werewolf? What if you walk into that house with her and they have no idea who she is? A darker scenario presented itself. What if they say they know her, but it’s a lie? He had no reason to suppose the werewolves at that party were not law-abiding citizens. Most werewolves in the mortal realm were. But this woman was alone, vulnerable and...well, she was fucking gorgeous. What if they welcomed her with open arms because they had plans for her that were similar to the feral werewolf’s intentions?

No, there was no alternative. Nate Zilar, celebrity by day, werewolf hunter by night, was going to have to walk into a house full of werewolves. He had cast himself in the role of hero, and now he had to live up to it. He was going to make damn sure this woman was safe before he left her anywhere.