Читать книгу Luck of the Wolf - Susan Krinard - Страница 9

HIS LUCK HAD most definitely changed. Cort laid out his winning hand, and the other players accepted in silence, grimaced or threw down their cards in disgust.

Two thousand dollars. It wasn’t much, but, added to his winnings during the past few days, it would be enough to make a serious start on Aria’s “education.”

Nodding to the other players, he gathered up his chips and went to cash them in. This was a decent establishment, aboveboard and free of the dangers that lurked in the worst of the gambling dens on the Coast. But after his recent run of luck, his reputation was beginning to make him less than welcome at the better places. If he intended to keep earning what he and Yuri needed, he would have to return to the less savory locations.

As he collected his money and secured it under his coat, he heard someone coming up behind him.

“Monsieur Renier?”

The voice held the cadences of a foreign tongue. Cort had never heard it before.

He turned and sized the man up quickly. Expensive clothes, a taut, proud bearing, a lean face punctuated with icy blue eyes, graying hair under a spotless top hat. Cort judged him to be in his fifties, and of an educated background.

He was also loup-garou.

“How may I assist you?” Cort asked.

Removing his gloves, the man bowed. “I have a business proposition for you, Monsieur Renier. One I think you will find interesting.”

Cort smiled, but he wasn’t amused. San Francisco was full of “businessmen” of every sort, many far from legitimate. “What sort of proposition?” he asked, leaning back against the bar. “Are you a gambling man?”

“Forgive me.” The man bowed again. “I am Hugo Brecht. What I propose would be no gamble for you, monsieur. It would be, as they say, a ‘sure thing.’“

“You intrigue me, sir,” Cort said, “but I am content with my winnings.” He tipped his hat. “Au revoir.”

He got no farther than a few steps before Brecht laid a hand on his arm to stop him. Cort didn’t so much as give him a glance.

“I will kindly ask you to remove your hand,” he said in a pleasant voice.

Brecht declined to cooperate. “Monsieur, you must listen. It is in regard to the girl you won during the tournament.”

All thoughts of dismissing the man drained out of Cort’s mind. He swung around, tense and ready to fight. “What about her?” he asked softly.

“Please join me in my private booth and I will explain.”

Damned right he would explain. The primitive part of Cort was tempted to drag Brecht into the alley behind the building and beat the answer out of him.

But he hadn’t yet fallen so far, and Brecht was already moving away. Cort strode after him, his heart beating fast. Brecht didn’t look like an errand boy or a hatchet man, and few loups-garous would consent to being a human’s agent. Still, it was possible that Cochrane had sent him without knowing what he was.

Possible, but not likely.

Cochrane almost certainly didn’t know that werewolves existed, or he would have behaved very differently with Cort.

Brecht’s private booth was one among several others located down a short hall. Brecht swept back the curtains and ushered Cort inside. He took a seat. When Cort didn’t follow suit, he poured himself a glass of the wine that sat on the small table in the center of the booth. Cort’s nose told him that the wine was of excellent vintage and had probably cost a small fortune.

“Since this is to be a gentlemen’s conversation,” Brecht said in a clipped voice, “I would prefer that you make yourself comfortable.”

Cort leaned over the table. “I would prefer that we get to the point,” he said.

“As you wish.” Brecht sipped his wine with a casual air, but there was nothing casual about the way he watched Cort. “I presume you still have the girl?” he asked.

“She is safe and well.”

“Excellent.” Brecht studied the contents of his glass. “You have done me a great service, monsieur, and I intend to reward you for it.”

“Indeed?” Cort settled into the vacant chair at last and pretended interest in the label on the wine bottle. “Perhaps you ought to explain your interest in the girl.”

“It is very simple, Monsieur Renier. She was lost to her family some time ago, and I have been seeking her ever since. When I learned of the tournament and the prize for the second-tier match, I planned to enter the contest. Alas, I was too late.” He met Cort’s eyes. “It is essential that I restore her to her family.”

A sharp chill of shock raced up Cort’s spine, and he bought time by making a show of considering what Brecht had said. His first thought was to wonder if Yuri had been wrong all along and Aria belonged to some local werewolf clan.

His second thought was more lucid. Lost some time ago, Brecht had said. But how long? Eight years, perhaps?

Cort picked up the second glass that stood empty on the table and filled it. “Strange,” he said. “She has said nothing about being ‘lost.’“

The other man raised a brow. “Indeed? What has she said?”

Cort had no intention of providing more information than he had to. He certainly wouldn’t tell Brecht about Aria’s loss of memory.

“She has said very little,” he said. “She has not even revealed her name. What is it?”

A tic jumped in Brecht’s cheek. “I am not surprised she failed to tell you. After what has occurred, she is doubtless afraid and ashamed to go home.”

He’d deliberately dodged Cort’s question. Brecht, too, was bent on revealing as little as possible. If he was an agent of the New Orleans Reniers …

Did they know who had won the girl? It seemed unlikely, or they wouldn’t have hesitated to approach Cort directly and demand her return. Brecht was either employed by the Reniers and was bargaining in more-or-less good faith, or he was simply a mercenary, like Cort himself, who believed he had recognized Lucienne Renier and saw a chance to claim a reward from the loup-garou clan.

Yet if he was not working for the Reniers, how could he be certain that Cort himself was not?

“The family’s name?” Cort repeated.

“You have no idea, monsieur?”

Cort gave him a taste of the truth. “I have heard nothing of any local family missing a daughter.”

“The family wishes to remain anonymous.”

“What makes you certain that she is the one you seek?”

“I was able to obtain a good description.”

“Descriptions can deceive.”

“Nevertheless, I am sure.” Brecht took another sip from his glass. “I must ask … have you touched her in any way?”

Cort began to rise. “I am a gentleman, monsieur. Your insinuations …”

“Forgive me,” Brecht said, waving his hand. “Naturally I take you at your word. I presume your intention in winning her was to help an innocent girl escape a terrible fate. The family in question has authorized me to be very generous. You may ask any price for her return.”

Any price. Cort was almost torn between asking more than Brecht could ever expect to receive from the New Orleans Reniers or rising to his feet in great offense and claiming to be a member of that very clan.

But that was too great a risk when he knew so little of Brecht or his true purpose. He settled for mild reproach. “I think you mistake me, sir,” he said.

Brecht reached inside his coat. “I am sure that we can reach some sort of agreement.”

“Are you not interested in learning if she has been used by those who put her up for auction?” Cort asked.

“That would be most unfortunate.” Brecht’s mask slipped, and Cort could see the wolf in him struggling to emerge.

Cort finished his wine and rose. “I am afraid that you have provided too little information for me to accept your offer. The girl is an innocent, and I do not intend to cast her out into the world until I am certain she will be protected.”

“Very admirable,” Brecht said, barely showing his teeth, “but your concern is unnecessary. Since you have no personal interest in the child …”

She is no child, Cort thought. But he only shook his head. “Pity has been my sole motive. Nevertheless.” He moved toward the curtains. “I must in good conscience decline until you are able to provide evidence of your honorable intentions.”

“Perhaps this will ease your doubts.” Brecht pulled out a fat leather wallet, withdrew a large number of bills and laid them on the table. The amount was staggering.

“This will surely recompense you for your time and sacrifice,” Brecht said, smugly certain of victory.

He had some reason to be. Such a sum would recompense Cort a hundred times over. He would never have guessed that he would ever turn down such an offer.

“Monsieur,” he said, “you are generous indeed, but again, I must decline.” He bowed. “Good day.” He bowed again and pushed his way out through the curtains.

Brecht released a harsh breath, and Cort fully expected the man to come after him. But by the time he reached the street, he knew he was not being followed.

That didn’t set his mind at ease. It was remotely conceivable that Brecht was telling the truth. Aria might be lying about everything, from her name to her amnesia. If Brecht was in fact honorable and Cort refused to cooperate, the man could simply tell the Reniers that Cort had her.

Yet if Aria hadn’t lost her memory, why wouldn’t she tell Cort right away that she had been kidnapped and ask to be returned to her family? Could it be that she didn’t want to go back to them? But why, then, would she appear to be so eager to find someone, anyone, to whom she belonged?

If he had to choose which one was the liar, Aria or Brecht, Cort wouldn’t hesitate. Brecht stank of deception. Cort had felt the simmering emotion beneath that cultured speech, and it was not merely concern for the girl or relief at the prospect of restoring a wayward daughter to the bosom of her family. There was something too personal in his interest.

Cort reached the boardinghouse in ten minutes. He stopped in front of the porch steps, his mind working furiously. He had made his position clear enough, but it was evident that Brecht wouldn’t give up easily. If he wasn’t able to bribe Cort, Brecht might very well take the kind of action Cort had expected from Cochrane.

The danger to Aria hadn’t diminished. If Cort wanted answers, he would have to speak to her and gauge her responses carefully. He had expected her to trust him. If he couldn’t trust her …

His body strangely heavy, Cort went into the house. He wasn’t ready to talk to Aria yet, and he didn’t believe that Brecht would send anyone to the house in daylight or so soon after their conversation. He would tell Yuri what had happened, but not now. The next few hours would be devoted to questioning the locals about Hugo Brecht.

He spoke briefly to Yuri, warning him to be vigilant, and slipped away before Aria could claim his attention. He couldn’t afford to have anything on his mind but his newest enemy.

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND what you must do?”

The men—two werewolf, two human—nodded without quite meeting his eyes. They were rough fellows, but they had been in his employ long enough to understand the consequences of failing Duke Gunther di Reinardus.

He sent them on their way and strolled out of the saloon, nodding and smiling to the proprietor, who had good reason to appreciate his taste in fine wines. The smile was a mask, of course. He felt nothing but contempt as he walked out into the street, stepping over sewage and horse droppings and the bodies of men too drunk to sit up, let alone stand.

All humans were scum, hardly worthy of treading the same earth as any werewolf. But even among his own kind there were those no better than the most loathsome dregs of this city. Cort Renier was a perfect example.

Gunther’s lip twitched as he made his way through the mud and filth. He brushed off a whining, dirty child begging for pennies and recalled the conversation. The risk had been considerable, but he had learned much of what he needed to know. He had little doubt now, even before he received the expected reply from New Orleans, that Cort Renier was an independent agent, not a member of the New Orleans clan. His trace of an accent and perfect French told Gunther that his origins were almost certainly in Louisiana, but everything else about the man pointed to inferior blood and breeding.

If Alese had told Renier her assumed name and the location of her relatives, or if he had already guessed who she was, he would now be doubly on his guard. That was only to be expected. Renier had certainly done an excellent job of pretending disinterest in the money Gunther had offered.

But pretense it was. Gunther did not for a moment believe that the man was honorable, nobly and unselfishly committed to guarding an abused girl’s innocence. One of his kind would never act simply out of altruism. It had been far too much money for such a rogue to turn down—unless he believed he could obtain more directly from the girl’s family.

The dirty human whelp stumbled and fell as Gunther pushed him away a second time. His thoughts returned immediately to Renier. Either the man was playing a deeper game than even Gunther could imagine, or he was simply stupid.

That, too, Gunther did not believe. Underestimating the man would almost certainly be a mistake.

Gunther turned the corner into an even more fetid street, attempting to close his nostrils against the stench. Perhaps Renier would think over their conversation and decide to accept the money after all, but Gunther wasn’t taking any chances. His men would dog the rogue’s footsteps and watch his boardinghouse every hour of the day and night. They were under strict orders not to act unless there was a certainty of success. Once a decisive move was made, there might very well never be another opportunity.

Pondering the obstacles that still lay ahead, Gunther slowed his pace. Renier’s boardinghouse was another block along the street, squeezed amidst a row of equally decrepit houses, saloons and bordellos. He cut into a back alley, turned and continued parallel to the street, then turned back again toward the main thoroughfare when he was across from the boardinghouse.

The porch sagged, the colorless paint was peeling from all the walls, and the roof looked on the verge of collapse. A pitiful domicile for any werewolf, especially one who fancied himself a gentleman.

There was no reason why Gunther himself should keep watch; his men would be along soon enough. Still he lingered in the shadows, leaning against the pitted brick wall beside him, and waited to see if anything interesting might happen.

Nothing did. The girl remained hidden, and there was no sign of Renier. Dusk was settling over the Coast and Gunther was preparing to leave when a man emerged from the boardinghouse, plumpish but unmistakably arrogant in his bearing. He looked right and left as he stood on the porch, pulled out his pocket watch and straightened his overcoat.

Even in the gloom of evening, Gunther’s keen wolf eyes picked out the details of the man’s face. He stiffened.

Yuri Chernikov.

Gunther watched the Russian stride away from the house in an obvious hurry. There was something furtive in Chernikov’s movements, in spite of his fast pace. But then, he had always been more rat than man, scurrying from one foul nest of schemes to another.

The wolf in Gunther urged him to pursue, relishing the image of Chernikov cowering at his feet. But he knew better than to give in to instinct without the balancing influence of intellect.

Intellect told him that the seemingly bizarre coincidence of finding the Russian in San Francisco, leaving the very boardinghouse occupied by Cortland Renier, was no coincidence at all. Yuri had been in New Orleans with Gunther eight years ago. Cortland Renier almost certainly came from Louisiana. The two of them might have known each other for years; Gunther had never bothered to vet all of Yuri’s connections once he had found those useful to him.

Gunther chuckled grimly. It was almost amusing. Had Yuri urged Cort to enter the game because he had guessed the girl’s identity, or had he recognized her afterward? He would certainly have known her as soon as he’d seen the birthmark on her back.

He would have realized that she must have escaped his former employer, but he obviously hadn’t suspected that Gunther was also in San Francisco. He would have seen an unprecedented opportunity in her fortuitous appearance.

But had he told Cortland Renier the full truth?

Smiling coldly, Gunther walked back to his hotel. Perhaps it would not be necessary to use violence after all.

YURI WAS GONE.

Aria pushed away from the window and circled the room, counting her steps for the hundredth time. It seemed years since the Russian had told her about her real family, and ever since then she had been able to think of nothing but talking to Cort.

But he hadn’t given her the chance. He’d come home briefly to speak with Yuri—a conversation she hadn’t quite been able to make out—then had left again immediately, as if he wanted to avoid her. She could guess his reason for running away. He didn’t want to explain why he’d kept something so important a secret.

Yuri had claimed they’d just found out who she was, but that didn’t make any sense. Didn’t she and Cort have the same surname? Why, she’d asked, hadn’t he known her identity right away?

Because, Yuri had explained, she and Cort were related in only the broadest sense of the word. The first Reniers had come from Europe centuries ago, but the various clans spread across the United States shared little more than the name itself.

She had wanted to ask more about those clans, but Yuri had shaken his head and changed the subject. He’d told her that she’d been “taken away” from her cousins in New Orleans many years ago, and that they had been looking for her for a very long time. With a terrible hope, she had begged to know if her parents were still alive.

He had told her what Franz had always claimed: that her parents were dead. After that he’d refused to answer any more of her questions.

Aria hugged herself as if she might burst into pieces if she so much as breathed too deeply. She had a surname now, a real identity. She was finally beginning to find out who she was. Who she truly was.

She stopped in the middle of the room and tried to quiet her soaring thoughts. There was still so much she didn’t understand. Franz had told her she had come to him when she was a baby. In her earliest recollections she had been too small to reach the pretty carvings Franz always kept on the highest shelf of the big glass case in the cottage parlor. She could see herself reaching and reaching, tears running down her cheeks when the exquisite figurines remained beyond the grasp of her chubby hands.

So clearly someone had taken her away from her family—her cousins—when she was only an infant, sometime after her parents had died. When she and Franz had left for America, Franz had said she would meet the men who had first brought her to him. He had said they wanted to keep her safe. But New Orleans was very far from Carantia, and Franz had told her that there were many in Carantia who would want to hurt her.

So why would anyone have taken her from her family in America and sent her all the way across the ocean?

And why would Franz have kept her past a secret? Why had he kept her isolated in the mountains? Why had he waited so long to tell her about her own kind and bring her to America? Why had she and Franz headed for San Francisco instead of the city called New Orleans, where her family had been looking for her?

None of it made any sense, but there must be some explanation. Franz must have had very good reasons for doing what he had. He was no longer here to explain, but soon she would know. Soon she would know everything.

Torn between sadness and exultation, Aria tried not to let her wild suppositions overwhelm her. But when night fell, tugging at her senses like the sweet smell of fat deer grazing on the thick summer grass, she could no longer bear it. She had to speak to Cort.

You must wait, she told herself. It was what Cort wanted. It was the safe thing to do.

But she didn’t want to be safe anymore. She wasn’t stupid enough to let another stranger on the street fool her with promises, and fill her with poison that made her blind and deaf and dumb. Even in this ugly city with its stench of rot and machines and thousands of conflicting odors, she could track a familiar scent.

Twisting her hair into a knot on top of her head, Aria secured it with one of the pretty, fragile ribbons Cort had brought and planted her cap on her head. She found the stuff Cort used to polish his boots and shoes, and smeared it over her face so it looked like smudges of dirt.

With only a twinge of guilt, she slipped into the hallway, paused to listen and then crept out the front door.

No one was paying any attention to the house, or to her. People came and went on their own business, heads down, dragging their scents behind them. She was just another boy to them, and that was the way she wanted it.

There were no lights on this street like the ones she’d seen in other parts of San Francisco, but she didn’t need them. There was still a trace of Cort’s scent, very faint, lingering just outside, as if it had been trapped in a bubble that burst only as she walked through it.

Concentrating with all her might, Aria followed the scent as she would follow a days-old deer track in the mountains. It wove in and out of a thousand other distracting smells, most unpleasant, but she grasped it tightly and moved deeper into the noxious maze of the Barbary Coast.

She was so focused on Cort that she only smelled the men when they were almost upon her. Metal caught the light from an open doorway, flashing down in an arc near Aria’s shoulder. Rough hands snatched at her shirt, and a rope slapped against her face. She broke free and ran into a small street squeezed between two ugly brick buildings. All she needed was a minute to get out of her clothes.

But her attackers didn’t want to give her any time at all. While one of the men swung the rope, the other came at her again, too fast and strong to be human.