The Lonely Wolf (7 page)

His eyes suddenly dry and focused on Ludwig, Lupo sat straight. “I’ve been carrying around that stupid pin since I was eight years old. It brought me nothing but pain.”

“But why did you have it?” Ravenna softly asked.

“Because I wanted that bastard to be my father.”

There was something about Lupo’s curt answer that worried Ludwig.

Then Lupo said, “Too bad now that I know he is my father, I don’t want to have anything to do with him.”

And the whole room fell into astonished silence, while all the pieces of a puzzle Ludwig had been staring at all along finally composed a complete picture.

Another busy day in the office for Quintilius, who would have done without Ludwig calling him when he was about to take his lunch break. Only powered by espresso, he spent the afternoon thinking about the angel while trying to review the contracts Iris had sent to him earlier in the morning.

“Why are you so agitated?” Camelia asked during dinner, while Quintilius served her a small portion of lasagna.

They were eating in the kitchen. Quintilius wasn’t in the mood for the formality of the dining room. After giving the staff the night off, he had asked Camelia if she wanted to keep him company as he cooked.

Lowering his fork to the porcelain plate with the wolf head and laurels circling its edge, he answered, “He called, earlier today—”

“I thought you explained to Ludwig you didn’t want to hear from him any longer.” She placed her hands on her lap and gave him an unblinking gaze, her head slightly tilted to the side exposing her long neck.

As often happened when Quintilius was in her presence, he couldn’t help but think about the love mark that should have graced her flawless skin. The result was always the same, overwhelming guilt gnawing at Quintilius’s guts. Especially when he talked about his doomed love life with her, which lately happened on a daily basis.

“I was adamant about it, but he said that we need to meet as soon as possible.” Quintilius played with the food in his plate. Making the lasagna with the béchamel and the artichokes had taken several hours, but now the delicacy lay cold and untouched on his plate.

“Did he say why?”

“No, he didn’t. Apparently, it’s not something we can discuss over the phone.”

“Are you worried?”

“You know I’m putty in his hands.” He pushed his plate away and folded his arms over the table. “I’m not strong enough yet. I need time.”

“A love that lasted for so long can’t be erased in a day.”

“I suppose not, but I need to feel in control. He must understand it’s over.”

“Is it, my alpha?”

Shaking his head, Quintilius chuckled. “There are days when I feel it will never be over, but life must go on. My priority is my clan. I never moped and I won’t start now.”

“Sometimes, crying is the best cure there is.” Camelia wheeled around the table, until she was by his side and took his hands in hers. “You must mourn before you heal.”

“I can’t. I don’t have that kind of freedom.” He brought her hands to his heart, looking for solace.

“Then unleash your sorrow now, with me.” She pressed her hands over his chest. “Let your wolf out.”

“You know I never would around you—” Shocked by her request, he leaned away and studied her face. “Why would you even propose something like that?”

Her wolf had been severely damaged when she poisoned herself, and as a result she couldn’t fully shift.

Despite Camelia always proclaiming she knew what she was doing when she took the curare, at the time she had barely understood the ramifications of her gesture. She wanted out of their arranged marriage and accepted help from Alberto Giudici, also known as the Apothecary. One of Iris’s friends and an immortal, Giudici procured the pricey poison for Camelia and instructed her on how to brew a tea she would drink before the bonding ceremony.

When Quintilius confronted the Apothecary regarding Camelia’s tragedy, he told him Camelia must have miscalculated the amount of curare she needed and caused both her paralysis and her wolf’s. Giudici regretted having sold her the poison, but he claimed her sister had insisted he helped Camelia. Quintilius had never trusted the man after that and when it turned out Giudici was an assassin with delusion of grandeur, he was saddened but not surprised.

The aftermath of a series of poor decisions was that Camelia would never be considered a shifter again, and yet she would go through changing pains once a month when the moon was full. During those nights, to minimize her suffering, Quintilius would sedate her, so that she would wake the next morning sore but without remembering anything.

For the same reason, Quintilius had never shifted before her and had ordered everyone in the house to take their monthly run at Reserve. He would never subject her to the sight of a wolf, when she could never unleash hers ever again.

Camelia smiled at him. “It’s about time you let me help you. You’ve always been here for me and never asked anything in return—”

“None of what you just said is true.” He couldn’t help but point at her thin legs resting at an angle.

“Not again. Please.” She squeezed his hands.

“Then stop talking nonsense.”

“Let your wolf out,” she repeated.

“Please…”

“I can guide you through a cleansing.” Camelia’s clan was famous for their healers. Camelia herself was one of the strongest healers ever born in Spain. Before her accident, people camped outside her house in Salamanca, hoping she would see them. One of the reasons she had been chosen for Quintilius was because of her talent. As an alpha, she used her special bond to her wolf to read other people’s energies. Aura-reader was her official title. Only a handful in the whole world were left and she had been the strongest of them all.

“It will hurt you and I can’t have that, not even if you had the power to mend my broken heart.” Quintilius softly bumped his forehead against hers.

“It’s my choice.”

He felt her smile. “And I am your alpha.”

“And I don’t care.”

“My sweet Camelia, always so stubborn.”

“My handsome Quintilius, always so noble.”

His wolf howled without restraint, taking Quintilius by surprise.

“Let him,” Camelia whispered, her fingers grazing his wrists in circular patterns, pressing on his vital points the way she had shown him so long ago.

At the beginning of their mandated courtship, Quintilius had come to visit her the night before a full moon with a huge headache—he never told her but he had seen Ludwig a few hours earlier and they had fought over Quintilius’s impending nuptials. Without a word, Camelia took his hands and explained to him how her power worked. When she drained herself before his eyes to alleviate his suffering, he realized how special she was.

A sense of déjà vu possessed Quintilius at the sight of her trembling as she became colder and he grew warmer and stronger instead. “Please, don’t—” His wolf didn’t let him finish, but called forth Camelia’s wolf before Quintilius could stop him. “No!”

At the same time, Camelia’s wolf answered with a low whine, but she didn’t sound in pain. In Quintilius’s mind, the elegant animal lay on her side, among a field of white flowers, her beautiful eyes vigilant, her paws resting over crushed blossoms. His wolf trotted with a joyful gait and reached her, then nuzzled her flank. When he saw she wouldn’t move, the wolf lowered himself beside her and licked her fur with low soothing strokes.

Love, sister.

Love, brother.

Feel?

See you. Better.

Too long. Miss you.

Miss you too.

Run soon, together?

Wish.

Wish too.

Heartache?

Yes.

Help you.

Please.

Quintilius’s wolf rested his head against her fur and let Camelia’s wolf lick him as he had done to her a moment ago. When she did it though, soft white light poured out from her muzzle and slowly covered him like a blanket of warm energy. As it had happened that first time, his wolf relaxed and Quintilius experienced the healing effects of Camelia’s powers and his anguish receded.

The black void that had taken his heart hostage for the entire day lightened, and the weight over his chest was lifted. Positive thoughts entered his mind, and he saw his wolf rolling in the grass, showing his belly to the she-wolf who kept licking him. The healing light engulfed him, intensifying in radiance and warmth, until his wolf couldn’t see and feel anything else but her aura, lulled into a pleasant stupor by her essence.

Pure-hearted and selfless, the she-wolf cured Quintilius and his wolf until her aura was drained and she couldn’t keep her head up any longer. With a contented whine, she laid her head down and looked at him from the ground.

All better, brother.

Love you, sister.

The she-wolf closed her eyes then, and Quintilius opened his to find Camelia slumped against her chair, her hands still holding his. Knowing what to do next didn’t lessen his worry for her, and when he cradled her frail body in his arms he whispered, “My little warrior, what am I going to do with you?”

Light as a feather, her long hair cascading over his arms, she didn’t give any sign of consciousness as he took her to her apartments.

Her rooms were adjacent to his, as befitted to a she-wolf of her rank—an alpha
domus
, a chief werewolf’s domain, always had his and her quarters. The practice originated in the Roman ages, when marriages among alphas were dictated by politics and were instrumental to clan survival. Love had nothing to do in the union of two strong-willed werewolves, and those married couples usually sought affection outside of their legal bonding. Henceforth, the need for privacy and separate spaces at home.

Among public scandal, not only had Quintilius kept Camelia by his side, but he treated her as if she were the rightful she-alpha of
Casolare del Lupo
. Soon after he instated her in the house, a few alphas from neighboring clans challenged him, claiming that he perverted all the sacred laws by allowing a crippled werewolf to act like an alpha.

Behind the uproar there were scheming fathers with eligible daughters and great ambitions. The result of those challenges was that Quintilius’s clan acquired the best part of the Umbro and Neapolitan territories. After one alpha too many lost his life, the rest of the lesser clans decided that Quintilius could do what he wanted with the crippled bitch. No one ever had the courage to utter the words to Quintilius’s face, but he knew of the rumors and didn’t care. As long as no one openly disrespected Camelia, he was fine with that.

Looking down at her still form, he was reminded once again how much she was worth protecting. He walked the whole length of the hall, pushed open the door to her apartments, and entered a small vestibule lit by soft illumination coming from terracotta sconces. The perfume of fresh cut freesias reached him and he couldn’t help a smile. Vases with floral arrangements dotted every surface in the room. Camelia loved her garden, and it wasn’t a coincidence she stirred in his arms a few seconds later. Her flowers re-energized her. She had explained to him that her powers were connected to trees and plants, because she drew strength from the natural realm.

He seldom entered her rooms, and couldn’t remember the last time he had, but he was sure the amount of potted plants and vases must have tripled, if not quadrupled. One eye on the surroundings that became more and more like a greenhouse the further he ventured inside, he wondered why Camelia had filled the place with greenery when she still worked outside most of the time.

Along the hallway leading to her bedroom, shelves had been built to house rows of potted orchids, and succulents hung from the ceiling in wicker baskets. Quintilius paused before a planting table made of solid oak and containing in its bed glass ampoules filled with seedlings. At the end of the narrow space lit by several windows opening into Camelia’s private garden, Quintilius pushed the bedroom’s door open and walked to her bed.

Besides the white-washed bed, matching armoire, and a few other pieces of furniture, the large room contained an extraordinaire amount of pots and vases. Plants and flowers were everywhere, even trees. Lemon and orange trees housed in glazed ceramic pots atop wheeled carts stood as sentinels by the bed.

Perplexed, but with an inkling of what all of that might mean, he deposited Camelia over the white silk coverlet. Then he waited for her to wake up.

****

Lupo looked around the big industrial kitchen. He couldn’t believe he had been invited to spend a few days at the Drako’s residence.

“Are you hungry?” Ravenna asked.

The Enforcer had suggested that Lupo call her by her name, but it sounded too weird to him. Soon after the most bewildering conversation Lupo had ever had in his life, she and the demon had escorted him from the archangel’s house to the enforcer’s villa in one of the poshest neighborhoods in Rome, Quartiere Coppedè.

Still unable to understand what was going on, he took in the surroundings and the people populating them. Besides the Enforcer, the demon was there, Mr. Drako, his majordomo, a woman in her fifties who wore an apron and flour dust all over her attire, three little kids who seemed the true owners of the house, and finally two teenagers his age, both his acquaintances.

At the sight of Raphael and Luisa, Lupo had wondered if he was hallucinating. The whole situation was getting stranger and stranger.

Instead of sending him to confinement in the closest enforcers’ station, the archangel had told the demon and the Enforcer to keep him out of trouble for a few days. The Enforcer volunteered to take Lupo under her wing and spirited him away and to her house.

Drako’s residence was opulent, but, to Lupo’s great surprise, the house was also warm and cozy, more like a nursery filled with laughter than the museum he had expected.

“Would you like a croissant?” The woman wearing the apron showed Lupo a tray filled with warm pastries.

“Try Marta’s apricot ones. She’s a genius in the kitchen.” Raphael winked at the woman, grabbed two flaky croissants from the tray and offered one to his girlfriend.

Lupo knew the werewolf had deserted the Reds and found refuge among a rich family, but he would have never thought he would meet Raphael or Luisa again. Lupo had seen the girl once or twice back at the Reds’ compound before she disappeared into thin air. Rumors spread about Raphael’s involvement in her escape, but none were ever corroborated and soon everyone forgot about her. To most, she was nothing but a lowly harem girl after all.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, even though his stomach was rumbling, because he didn’t want to give them the impression he could be bought so easily. Not understanding these people’s hidden agenda, he resolved to be careful around them and not to lower his guard.