The Passion (54 page)

"But they have failed." Cautiously Nicholas al owed himself to accept this. This time, they had failed.

"The hybrid they sought is dead, and there is no proof she ever existed. There wil be no war. It's over."

Alexander looked at Nicholas, and Nicholas saw hesitancy in his eyes, a kind of confusion and a debate he did not understand. "You're wrong," he said.

Alexander glanced away, toward the stand of trees again.

"I'm old and I'm tired," he said, "and I've carried the burden of this secret too long. It wasn't Brianna they wanted."

Nicholas looked at him sharply. "What do you mean? What have you not told me?"

Alexander reached inside his coat and withdrew a smal fat volume with a battered red leather cover.

He studied it for a long time, measuring the import of what he was about to do. And then he held the book out to Nicholas. "It's in here. The evidence of al our crimes. What I have told you, and what I have not."

Nicholas stared at the smal volume in horror. "You
wrote it down
!"

The faintest of smiles touched Alexander's lips. "I did not. But it has been written nonetheless."

Nicholas took the little book careful y, as though it were an explosive that could detonate with the slightest mishandling—which, in a way, was precisely what it was.

"This should be destroyed." His voice was hoarse.

"Perhaps it should. But you wil read it first. Al your answers are there, my son. And when you have them—you wil have some decisions to make."

Nicholas looked at the book in his hands, and then at his father. "I'll read it," he said.

They sat in silence for a time, father and son, ruler and heir. There was more that needed to be said, much more. But Alexander could speak no more, and Nicholas could not listen.

In their enclosures at the zoo the animals began to stir and chatter. On Fifth Avenue, far away, came the sounds of taxicabs and the smel of baking bread sweetened with sugar, a woman's perfume, sharp tangy soap, stale cigarette smoke. And deeper stil , faint and fading, werewolf blood and cold decay.

Nicholas tucked the book inside his coat, then braced his hands on his knees and got to his feet.

He was not the same werewolf who had entered this park only hours ago. He hoped he was wiser. He knew he was older.

He stood for a moment, gazing down at his father.

He said, though it cost him some effort, "She should not have died. Even though she was half human, even though al our lives may now be easier for it—

she shouldn't have died. It was wrong. We are not kil ers."

Alexander closed his eyes and inclined his head, slowly and slightly in assent.

"But it's over," Nicholas said. He added quietly in a moment, "I am sorry for your loss."

Alexander replied heavily, "As I am for yours."

Nicholas walked away, the sound of his footsteps echoing flatly on the cold damp pavement.

Alexander listened to the fading sound until his werewolf ears could not fol ow it anymore, but he made no move to rise. He thought of home, of soft yel ow lamplight and time-faded carpets, of burnished leather and down bedding; he thought of Elise, who waited for him there, her anxiety and need cal ing him even now, her strength ready to enfold him. He thought of the responsibilities that awaited him outside this place, of the complexity of the day that was poised to unfold, and he did not move. He kept hearing his son's voice saying, "It's over."

It's over.

And now he answered in a voice so low Nicholas could not have heard it even if he had not already left the park, whispering the words in a voice that was old and broken and weighed down by grief:

"No, my son. It has only begun."

EPILOGUE

And so there it is: the story of how we came to be at the point we are today, or at least that story's latest chapter. What do you think, human? Are you amazed, incredulous, outraged or afraid? I don't blame you a bit. Perhaps you are simply angered, disgusted or repulsed. That is fine, too. Some among you wil natural y refuse to believe any of it, or even admit that we exist, and this perhaps is the safest course. For wil it surprise you, human, to learn that in the far reaches of Antarctica or the deep mountain caves of Mongolia there are those of my kind who do not believe in
you
?

So greet my tale with skepticism, denial, derision or amusement; it matters little to me. But it should matter a great deal to you.

And why, O fine human, should you care about any of it? What difference in your smal , mean lives could my legends of werewolf lovers and human heroes possibly make? What do you care for secrets and superstitions, myths and miracles? Oh, I could give you answers. I could read you sermons.

I could tel you parables of synergy and life circles, of species great and smal who have come and gone before us because they failed to heed the lessons encompassed therein. I could tel you tales of civilizations won and Civilization lost and punctuate those tales with pleas that we al look always to the nobler side of our natures, for the consequences if we do not are dire indeed.

But let me, instead, put the matter in terms you can more easily understand. We may be few upon this earth, but our resources are great. At this moment, for example, we possess the technology to rid the earth of its human parasite in at least seven different ways. A virus here, a species-specific toxin there… Oh, it could be done. Easily. There are those, as you've seen, who argue that it should have been done long ago. But there are even more of us who maintain that only by working together, human and werewolf—only by looking to the past for our commonalities—can we hope to share a future, and thus we keep the chaos at bay. So we restrain ourselves, in the name of Civilization.

You are the best of us. We are the best of you.

What becomes of us wil , inevitably, become of you.

That is why you should care. That is why I write.

I end this chapter, then, with broken silence, broken vows, broken trust. Our secrets are yours now; I pray you use them wel .

I wil write again, if I am able. In the meantime, look for me on the city streets, in the first-class section of your next transcontinental flight, at opening night of the newest Broadway musical. Think about what I've said, and watch for me.

You may be sure I'll be watching you.

Enter the world of the werewolves … again.

Donna Boyd's second, uniquely compel ing novel takes us deeper into the breathtaking history of these remarkable, intensely passionate beings—

with a hypnotic tale of feverish romance, riveting suspense, and love whose repercussions could rock the contemporary world of humans.

The Promise

Available from Avon Books October 1999

Born to run and born to prey we live and die in Nature's way:

Kil ers al until we say,

"I snail not kil today, my friend…

I shal not kil today."

FROM A CHILD'S JUMPING SONG

TRADITIONAL WEREWOLF

13:43 Green wick Mean Time

November 23, 1998

In London, the Westminster chimes began to tol out of synch and out of tune for the first time in the 140

year history of the most famous clock in the world. A computer failure was blamed for the unexpected shut down of the Underground and the BBC was off the air for an entire four minutes. No explanation for the missing time was ever offered.

In Beirut, electrical power flickered and went out, and in Iran thirty six oil pumps suddenly ceased production. In Moscow, three windows in St. Basil's Cathedral exploded outward, and a crack appeared in a 300 year old mirror. In Paris, in Rome, in Tokyo and Hong Kong traffic jams of monumental proportions resulted when traffic lights ceased to function. In Geneva and Lucerne mil ions of dol ars in transfers were lost when banking computers shut down. St. Mark's Square was deserted in the middle of the day. Ships at sea cut their engines. Planes in flight bowed their wings.

Around the world humans turned away from meals uneaten, fighting a sudden wave of nausea; they awoke from their beds, shuddering in a cold sweat; they broke off in the midst of a sentence and stared, helplessly, into a pit of despair they could not understand. They would later recal a cold chil , a stabbing pain behind their eyes, an electrical prickling at the base of their necks as around the world the howl went up, too loud and too high for their ears to hear yet releasing with it al the depths of agony a soul can know:
He is dead, he is dead
…

In the Park Avenue apartment Nicholas Devoncroix turned from the window and back into the room where the bodies of his parents lay lifeless on the bed. After the accident their remains had been brought here, away from the prying eyes and probing questions of human officials, so that their children might have a few moments to say their goodbyes before the preparations for cremation began. Nicholas had not been in time to say goodbye, of course. Alexander Devoncroix had died instantly beneath the wheels of a fast-moving vehicle in the dark depths of Central Park, as had the body guard who had flung himself before the automobile in an attempt to save his leader. Elise Devoncroix, Alexander's mate for over one hundred years, had not been involved in the accident, but had died of separation shock and grief only moments after her spouse.

The driver of the vehicle, presumably human, had not been found.

Nicholas went over to the two wolf-formed bodies on the bed. His hand shook as he touched the silver gray fur of his father's neck, cold now, lifeless and dul . He was a magnificent figure, even now, devoid of breath, robbed of power. His body was over six feet long, his head massive, his muscles lean, and for the viewing he had been arranged so that his injuries were not visible, and his demeanor retained its dignity. But Nicholas knew that if he lifted his father into an embrace the corpse would sag limply in his arms, loose bones and organs sloshing beneath their fragile capsule of skin; fur would deteriorate beneath his touch, and his hand would slide into a cold open wound on the back side of his father's neck. Their bodies deteriorated very quickly after death. In only another hour or two they would begin to rot.

Anguish clenched Nicholas's throat and burned his eyes. "Father, why?" he whispered hoarsely. "Who has done this to you?"

And he could almost hear the wal s of the room echoing back,
You have, my son… You have
.

Alexander and Elise had been on their way to see Nicholas when the death vehicle burst out of the night, and the reason they crossed Central Park so urgently in the middle of the night in wolf form was to try to stop their son and heir from making a mistake… what they believed was a mistake, and what he insisted was their only salvation. The last twenty four hours between Nicholas and his parents had been fil ed with threats and recriminations, chal enges and anger.

And he had been too late to say goodbye.

He looked at his mother, near the same height as his father but lighter, her pale fur longer and silkier, a portrait of delicate strength and regal bearing even in death. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to fling himself upon her and bury his face in her fur and inhale the sweet soft fragrance of pine resin and mother's milk, of silk and pearls and hearthfire and power… but those scents were gone now and the fur was cold.

Alexander and Elise Devoncroix, leaders of the pack for over a century, were no more.

It was a blow. But the pack would survive. He, Nicholas Antonov Devoncroix, would make certain that it did.

Slowly Nicholas straightened up, letting his hand linger for just another moment in the air above his mother's head, and then he dropped it to his side. "I am sorry," he said softly, thickly, "for al I have done.

For al I must do."

Nicholas Devoncroix was thirty-eight years old; young for a species whose elderly were stil sound at one hundred fifty years. He was the youngest son of the family that had ruled the pack undisputed for almost a thousand years, and as such he had been groomed from, the moment of his birth for the position he held today. Born into a world of virtual y unlimited privilege and wealth, he had nonetheless spent the first year after his weaning fighting his eleven brothers and sisters for his meals, defending his sleeping space and his running space and his playthings and even the attention of his teachers and parents with his wits, his teeth and his claws. If he was not fast enough or strong enough, he went hungry and he slept on the floor; if he was not clever enough or aggressive enough or inventive enough he was humiliated, scorned by his peers, and that was a punishment far worse than hunger, or even banishment from the fire.

Most cubs learn to control their ability to change forms by age three; Nicholas had mastered it by his second birthday. He brought home his first kil ed deer at age five and he received the accolades of the pack. But he earned the thunderous approval of the pack and was named Champion of the Hunt when, on that same occasion, he added the trophies of his six older brothers, which they were not clever enough or fast enough to protect, to his own bounty.

By the time he was ten it was general y agreed that the future of the pack was safe in the hands of Nicholas Devoncroix.