To Catch a Wolf (5 page)

you came from, I think there is some honor in you, or you would already be gone. That's

why you are going to help us.”

He met her gaze, and she took one step back. "You play a dangerous game.”

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"You don't frighten me. I've seen too much.”

She was a little afraid, but she hid it well. He felt the first stirrings of grudging respect, as

he had felt fear of bonds that had nothing to do with prison walls.

"I have nothing to give you," he said harshly.

"But you do. You have something very valuable. We make our living by showing people

things they've never seen before. And you are something very few people have seen.”

"You want me to

go on display?" The idea was so absurd that it erased both doubt

and fear. He turned to go.

Her hand caught at him. His first impulse was to remove it by the swiftest means

possible, regardless of the damage to her. He held himself rigid instead, and growled.

"I can't let you go. Not until you promise to meet the people who helped you.”

Morgan recognized the trap, and that he must pay a price to escape it. He gave the girl

a terse nod. The language of her body told him that she had not been sure he would

agree and knew full well that she could not stop him. She ducked into the tent and

reemerged with his blanket.

"Put this on," she said, "and come with me.”

He took the blanket and draped it over his shoulders. Caitlin marched across the camp

toward the nearest tent. People called out greetings in the twilight, voices warm with

friendship. Morgan hunched into his blanket and deafened himself to Caitlin's cheery

responses. They were not his friends, and neither was she.

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They reached a tent as shabby and patched as the others, and Caitlin lifted the flap.

"Go on inside," she said.

He hesitated. Three distinct and familiar human scents permeated the air. This was yet

another trap, another way to hold him.

"Don't worry," Caitlin said. "You could break Ulysses in two if you wanted, and Florizel is

harmless. As for Tamar—" She shrugged.

Morgan tried to lay back ears that remained stubbornly fixed in place and entered the

tent.

Two men sat at a pair of folding chairs on either side of a small table, intent on a game

of cards. One of them was of average size, but his skin was pale as the moon, and his

hair the same ghostly hue.

The other was the height of a child, legs dangling well above the ground. He was

dressed impeccably in proportioned trousers, vest, and coat, all made of what Morgan

guessed to be expensive cloth. His boots shone with recent polishing. His features were

handsome, his thick yellow hair the sort that any dandy might envy. But nature had

shaped his body into a parody of a normal man's.

Behind them stood a woman of overwhelming sensuality, lushly curved and with skin

that shimmered as if imbedded with a hundred tiny gemstones. Her thick black hair fell

almost to her waist. A pair of snakes wound about her shoulders and upper arms,

tongues darting.

The serpent woman stared at Morgan with dark, glittering eyes. At the table, the albino

threw down his hand of cards with a breath of disgust.

"Don't even attempt to deny it, Wakefield. You let me win again.”

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The little man lifted his brows. "You need not play if you find it unpleasant," he said in a

smooth Southern drawl. "I do apologize if I have offended.”

The albino snorted and looked toward Morgan. Wakefield followed his glance.

"Ah," he said. "I see that our patient has recovered." He slid down from his chair. Caitlin

went to his side, her slight form towering above him.

"Ulysses, this is Morgan Holt. Morgan Holt, this is Ulysses Marcus Aurelius Wakefield.”

The dwarf executed a surprisingly graceful bow. "I am at your service, sir.”

Caitlin shook her head. "Your Southern courtesy is wasted on this one, Professor.”

"Indeed. And you, of course, have not in any way provoked him, Firefly.”

Caitlin snorted. She glanced at the dark woman. "This is Tamar, the snake charmer.

And Florizel"—she indicated the pale man with a nod—"is our chief Joey. That's 'clown'

in towny talk.”

Florizel regarded Morgan with mournful wariness. "This is your Wolf-Man?" he said.

"This is our final hope, our savior?”

"Florizel, you talk too much," Caitlin said.

"I do not believe that this is the time for familial squabbles," Ulysses said. He looked up

at Morgan with the same fearlessness as Caitlin's, but his came from a deeper, quieter

place. He was as removed from passion as Morgan sought to be.

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"It is unfortunate that we were unable to consult your wishes, Mr. Holt," he said, "but you

were insensible at the time. Caitlin is prone to strong feelings—premonitions, if you

will—that move her to rash action. She often fails to apply logic when it would be most

useful. She sees your particular talent as a possible solution to our quandary—which

you may have observed.”

"She wants me to work for you," Morgan said. "To be one of your

freaks.”

"To be one of us," Ulysses corrected. "You were alone and on the verge of death when

you arrived. Have you somewhere else to go?”

"I prefer to be alone." Even as he spoke, Morgan did not understand why he had

admitted that much to a stranger. He lifted his lip. "I am alone.”

"It is a rare man who truly prefers solitude," Ulysses said. "As for Caitlin's hopes—many

of the troupers have no home other than this. It is their family. Harry took in the first

outcast ten years ago, and he has never turned away anyone in need. But our troupe

has faced one misfortune after another in recent months—theft of our capital, the illness

of our horses, and grave mishaps of weather. We have insufficient resources to feed

ourselves and nothing saved for winter quarters. We are now in a precarious position

that may require us to disband if we wish to survive. You, with your unique gift, appear

to have arrived at a most propitious moment.”

Morgan thought of his adopted pack, all dead, and what it had been like to be part of a

greater whole. Yet he had always been separate, even then. Always.

"I can't save you," he said. "Let me go.”

Ulysses studied Morgan for a long stretch of silence. "You are what they call a hard

man, Morgan Holt, one who has lived apart from civilization for some time. You are

accustomed to caring for yourself. You are exceptionally skilled in survival. You do not

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care for the entanglements of emotion, and that is why you resent any debt placed upon

you. Yet you still suffer the pull of obligation. Why?”

Morgan felt as if he were being taken apart piece by piece like the inner workings of a

clock. "You are smart, little man," he said softly. "But you don't know everything.”

"I believe you are a man of honor, Mr. Holt, though the world may not recognize that

quality." His broad brow creased. "You have faced some great trial that has tested your

faith in mankind and driven you into the wilderness. But now you find yourself among

those who might begin to understand.”

Words. Accurate words, razor sharp, that wove themselves into a wire made for a single

purpose. The noose was tightening inch by inch. Morgan backed away, prepared to toss

the blanket and run. Caitlin held out her hand as if to stay him again, and for once she

appeared as vulnerable as any other girl of her age.

Morgan took another step and struck a warm, firm surface. Hands caught at him to

steady him. He spun about to face Harry French, who held a bottle of whiskey in one

broad, chapped hand. The old man blinked in surprise.

"You should not be on your feet," he said. He looked beyond Morgan to the others.

"Caitlin, why did you let him get up? You are pale, my boy, much too pale.”

"Mr. Holt is leaving us, Harry," Caitlin said.

Harry's face fell, and it was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. "Oh, I see. I see.”

The disappointment on this old man's face pierced Morgan's dormant heart more surely

than any of Caitlin's reproaches or Ulysses's recital of disaster. For a moment he saw

his father's face, and the dying of dreams. The end of all hope.

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"Well, well," Harry said, trying to smile, "we must at least share a drink before you

depart. I did, as you see, manage to find one bottle.”

"The only one left," Caitlin said. "Don't waste it, Harry.”

"We place no price on kindness, Caitlin." He set the bottle down on the small table and

drew a pair of glasses from his coat. "Let us drink to your recovery, Mr. Holt—and to

your continuing good health." He poured and offered Morgan the first glass.

Morgan stared down at it. Had he been able to stomach the stuff, he could not have

swallowed it down past the lump in his throat. "I don't drink.”

"Ah. Very admirable." Harry lifted his own glass, gazed at it wistfully, and set it back

down. "There is no escaping our troubles in the bottle, no, indeed.”

Morgan turned his face away. Harry patted his shoulder.

"Think nothing of it, my boy. We asked too much of a stranger. But you must not go until

morning, after you have had a good meal—”

Morgan shook him off and strode out of the tent. He walked blindly across the lot,

shivering though he did not feel the evening chill. He stopped at the edge of the camp,

let the blanket fall, and willed the Change. His body protested, but it obeyed. He began

to run to the hills.

The low woodland of pinon, juniper, and oak closed in about him, and the voices of the

circus folk became the distant cries of birds. Thick fur rippled and flowed about his body.

Small game fled before him. His broad paws devoured the miles. The sky lit his path

with a thousand stars. The clean air sang to him. Human voices, human thoughts were

left in the dust of his passing. Far, far to the north, the wolves called him to the old life of

forgetfulness.

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He had made it over the first range of pine-clad hills and into the adjoining valley before

the tether snapped him to a stop. He raged and fought it, but it pulled him southward,

back across the mountains step by reluctant step.

He had never taken charity, nor become dependent upon anyone. He was whole, but

only because they had made him so. His body was free, but not his heart. Not so long

as the debt remained unpaid.

Obligation was not belonging. It did not mean friendship, or love, or any of the worthless

words men used so freely. It did not bind him forever.

He would make his pact, serve out his time, and leave without regret.

Sunset was driving shadows down into the valley when he reached the woods above

the camp. He sensed the wrongness at once, and the alien scents of strangers. Cries

came faintly from the cluster of wagons and tents. Morgan set off at a fast run down the

hillside.

The handful of men who were causing the trouble might have been rowdies from the

nearest town, grubstakers who had lost their claims, or even desperados from over the

New Mexico border. They, like wolves, would attack where they saw weakness, but they

took joy in the tormenting.

One brawny fellow staggered under Caitlin's insignificant weight while she pummeled

his head and shoulders; Harry was wringing his hands and shouting warnings from the

sidelines, and the oversized trouper, Tor, had two of the other townies by their collars.

The fourth invader held Ulysses Wakefield suspended in his arms.

"Sir," Ulysses said with impeccable dignity, "You are mistaken if you believe that we

have anything worth stealing. I have no wish for violence.”

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"Violence!" the ruffian spat. "Why, you li'l speck—”

Morgan plunged among them and seized Ulysses's tormenter around the ankle. Teeth

pierced wool and flesh. The man yelped and dropped the dwarf. Ulysses curled into a

tumble and jumped to his feet, brushing off his clothing. His eyes met Morgan's. He

nodded, slowly, unsmiling.

Morgan wheeled about on his hind feet and went for Caitlin's opponent.

"Wolf!" the first man cried. "It's a wolf!" Like the coward he was, he took off as fast as his

limp would allow. Caitlin leaped from her adversary's back, and he dashed after his

fellow. Tor's two captives picked themselves off the ground and followed suit. Morgan