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Bernard gazed down at her, and a powerful
protectiveness rose inside him. He may not like her much, but she
was his wife. His mate. He was responsible for her, and if she
died, it'd be his fault. He wanted to tend her burn, to find her
food, to cuddle up beside her and put his arms around her, to offer
as much comfort as he could.

But the coldness of their relationship stood
between them like a wall.

Gently he nosed her burn and began licking
it. She flinched away from him. "Stop that."

"It'll help it to heal."

She shot him a disdainful look. "You're a
werewolf. You'll make it worse. Thank you for saving me, now leave
me alone." She shifted and lay down with her back to him.

She might as well have hurled ice water in
his face. Pain bled through him like ink through water. Slowly,
quietly, he turned and padded out of the cave. They needed meat,
and he had to hunt for it.

Chapter 5: Empathy

Charlotte's wound smoldered with pain, waking
her with every throb. How long had Bernard been gone? Five minutes?
An hour? What if the mages had killed him?

She twisted around and licked her burn. The
touch sent ripples of anguish through her flesh, but it was better
than doing nothing. Beneath the pain was a deep, echoing hunger.
Perhaps this body needed food to heal. Weren't werewolves
exceptional healers? She'd heard talk of the difficulties in
disposing of a sick or injured one. Perhaps she wouldn't die, if
she could only eat something.

With a whimper she rose to all fours and
limped to the cave mouth. It was late afternoon, and the overcast
sky promised rain. Her delicate nose caught a whiff of Bernard, but
she had no idea how to interpret location by scent.

He'd saved her.

Charlotte hadn't allowed herself to think
about this, but now the concept burst upon her, as shocking as a
fireball. He'd rescued her and chased away the mages. He'd found
her a dry cave for shelter. Did the man have a heart after all? Or
was it bare survival instinct?

She licked her wound, her tongue pulling the
burned fur from flesh and cleaning away ash. As she worked, she
pondered the problem of Bernard. He'd said nothing to her, yet his
actions had been as chivalrous as any other Grayton lord's. Yet she
craved talk. No relationship functioned without communication, and
how could she ever understand her husband without talking?

Rain spattered the rocks outside the cave,
and a gray film fell over the world. Claws scrabbled on rock, and
Bernard appeared out of the rain, fur plastered to his back,
carrying a mass of dead rabbits in his jaws. He bounded into the
cave, dropped the rabbits and shook himself. Charlotte turned
quickly to protect her wound from the shower.

"Sorry!" Bernard said. "I didn't—you've been
cleaning it." He sniffed her burn. "It's much better."

Charlotte gathered her resolve. She must talk
to him, and not just lecture, but listen to his replies. She must
penetrate this wall between them. "Yes, I can't help it. It hurts
so badly. Bernard, do werewolves heal quickly?"

"Yes." He tore a rabbit open with his claws
and placed it in front of her. "Faster than a human, but not as
swiftly as if a healer attended them. Here. Eat."

Charlotte gazed at the mutilated carcass. One
part of her wanted to raise a handkerchief to her face and faint
away. But a stronger part smelled the warm meat and saliva trickled
into her mouth. She bent and sniffed it, then licked it—and within
a few minutes, most of the rabbit vanished in a delicious blur of
warmth, meat and crunchy bones.

Bernard nosed her a second one. "Here. You
need it."

After the second rabbit, Charlotte's head
cleared and the pain became easier to bear. She sat on her
haunches, squared her shoulders, and wiped her jaws. "Thank you,
Bernard."

Bernard's rabbits had disappeared entirely,
except for a few scraps of fur on the floor. He licked his jaws and
tried to wipe away the gore, but the werewolf body was not designed
for delicate operations like cleaning. He gave her his best smile,
like a snarl with relaxed lips. "You're welcome, my lady."

If she wanted this relationship, she'd have
to make the first gesture. Charlotte cringed and wavered inside,
but mustered her courage. "Would you like me to … clean your
face?"

He stared at her, face going completely blank
and animal. Then his ears flattened a little and his eyebrows
crinkled, like an apologetic dog. "If you want to. I'll clean you,
too."

Licking Bernard's face seemed horribly
intimate at first, and Charlotte's face flamed under her fur. But
she fell into the rhythm of it, and it wasn't so different from
licking her burn. Her tongue functioned like a hairbrush, smoothing
away grime and leaving the fur soft and clean. He closed his eyes
in enjoyment.

Once his face was free of gore, Bernard
licked her face clean, too. Charlotte closed her eyes under his
ministrations and avoided looking at him. Yellow though his eyes
were, Bernard's human personality gazed at her through them, and it
sent tremors through her.

Afterward he remained beside her, his
shoulder and flank warm against her own. They watched the rain pour
down as darkness cloaked the world. Exhaustion rolled over
Charlotte, and she lay on her belly. Bernard did the same, and they
lay side by side like a pair of enormous dogs.

"Bernard," she said softly, "can you work
magic?"

"No." His voice was regretful. "My only
talent has ever been alchemy. What about you? I know you're
considerably talented."

Charlotte sighed. "No. I had the talent, but
I never saw the need to apply myself. I was more interested in …
visiting my friends and--and gossip." It seemed so small and mean
now, out in the wild, under the werewolf curse, having lost
everything. What of Grayton City? What of her friends? What of
Halfmoon Manor? Dread rose in her like a flood and burst into
words. "Bernard, what must be happening back home?"

"I shudder to think, my lady." His voice was
low and melancholy. "The mages continue to hunt wolves, so not all
have fallen to the curse. Perhaps the wolves have been driven out
of the city. Who can say?"

Charlotte bowed her head and a tear ran down
her muzzle. "Oh Bernard … so many people died at my ball. Lady
Godfrey, and Miss Rose and her daughters, and the mayor and his
family ..."

Bernard's warm tongue washed away her tear.
"Hush, now, my lady. It wasn't your fault."

"It was my ball!" Charlotte's voice rose in a
wail. "I was responsible for security! How did the wolves break in?
Why did they come to our manor first?" She leaned her head against
Bernard's shoulder and heaved a deep moaning cry. The wolf body
could not sob like a human, but the grief within her manifested in
long groans and whimpers. Wolves could cry, too.

One of Bernard's long, heavy arms encircled
her shoulders and held her close against him. "Why, indeed," he
whispered. "Why, indeed."

"What does that mean?" she groaned. "You
always speak to me in riddles."

He was silent a long moment, and Charlotte's
anguish exhausted itself. She lay against him, cuddled in his
embrace. Why had it taken so long for her to seek his protection?
Lying here with him made her feel loved, in a small way. Of course
he was being infuriating as always, but at least he had not
withdrawn his sheltering arm. Maybe it was only brute instinct, a
way to keep warm.

He surprised her by saying, "Charlotte, I
know you care little about my alchemical work. But perhaps the
answer lies there."

She raised her head. Her animal eyes saw
through the darkness. His eyes were downcast, ears flattened. The
irritation died in her heart. She must try to understand him, to
grasp the things he considered important. He had accepted her
guilty outcry without accusation—she must do the same. With fresh
guilt she recalled all the times he had spoken of his alchemy and
she'd talked him into silence. She whispered, "I apologize, my
lord."

He stiffened and stared at her, ears alert.
"What did you say?"

"I apologize—I've been the utmost in rude
about your pursuits."

"You called me lord."

"Is that not your title?"

Bernard was silent a long moment. "You've
never used my title before."

"Perhaps I never respected you before."

He licked her ear, gently and tenderly. The
gesture sent a wave of warmth through Charlotte's whole body.

After another moment, Bernard said, "I was
working on a cure for the werewolf curse. The entire Mage Society
was."

"A cure! You mean the elixir we drank?"

"Yes. I've attempted for months to reverse
the physical and mental effects of the curse, without success. But
several weeks ago, I focused my study on preserving the mind only.
My theory is that if the mind can be restored, perhaps the body
will follow."

Charlotte extended one clawed hand and
grasped his free paw. His fingers felt tough and coarse under her
own, and closed on her paw with shocking strength. "You succeeded,
my lord! Here we are!"

"Yes." His tone was brooding. "Isn't it odd
that the very day I distill my first successful draught, our manor
is destroyed by escaped werewolves?"

Charlotte caught her breath. Additional
darkness fell over the ball in her memory—the darkness of evil
purpose. "You think it was planned?"

"Only one man can control the werewolves, my
lady."

"But Archmage Allard is highly respectable
and--" Charlotte bit back the words. Allard was also lavishly rich,
and in her old world, money covered a host of wrongs. But here in
the woods it meant nothing. Her entire world had collapsed, and
through its cracks, she glimpsed the world as it truly was:
horrifying and ugly. "Do you think he freed the werewolves to
destroy you and your cure?"

"I cannot say. But I wonder. I've wondered
since the first howl that night."

She shuddered and pressed herself against
him. But beneath the horror of revelation, something new had
awakened in her heart. A small amount of understanding. Whether
short, portly man or hulking monster, Bernard was exceptionally
intelligent and caring. He'd been fighting this very thing for so
long, and she'd ignored it.

What was a hero, if not an ordinary man
working in a small way against the forces of evil?

"My lord, what do we do?"

He nuzzled her face. "You are injured. We
wait until you are well—and then we'll return to Halfmoon."

She nestled a little closer to him and closed
her eyes. Man or beast, he was her husband, and for the first time
in her life, she'd begun to trust him.

Chapter 6: Bluff

A week passed. Charlotte slept, ate, slept
again as her burn healed. Bernard hunted rabbits and squirrels in
the surrounding countryside. Sometimes he ventured to the coast,
where he stalked gulls and longed for fish.

Hours upon hours of solitude gave him time to
think. If Archmage Allard had meant to eliminate Bernard's work
with the werewolves, what must he have done to the other mages?
Bernard had sent a message to Kryn the night of the outbreak. Had
Kryn been bitten, too? Or had someone else managed to brew the
elixir, as Bernard had?

If they returned to Halfmoon Manor, what
might become of them? They might be killed by humans defending
themselves, or by mages—or by Allard himself. Allard owned the
staff that controlled all wolves, and what if he used it to force
Bernard to attack people? Or Charlotte?

Charlotte muddled his plans. Since becoming a
wolf, she'd mellowed toward him, becoming affectionate and even
kind. He looked forward to carrying her food, simply to receive her
thanks and a lick on the cheek. Behind the haughty mask lay a
lonely, frightened young woman—a woman who drew him like a pin to a
magnet.

The thought of seeing her again in a few
hours sent tremors through him. Nervous, eager tremors. Would she
greet him kindly, or revert to her old ways? Would she appreciate
the food he'd worked so hard to catch?

Was this how all men felt about their
wives?

It filled him with a fear greater than any
he'd ever known. Returning to Halfmoon meant risking Charlotte's
life. Yet remaining here meant condemning her to a life in the
wild, with no chance of regaining her human body. Bernard must
finish the elixir—he must contact the other mages and give them the
formula—because Charlotte needed it.

He caught a fat partridge, and pleased with
himself, carried it back to their den. Charlotte sat in the
entrance, looking for him. Her ears pricked up when she saw him,
and she smiled prettily, in wolf-fashion.

Bernard dropped the bird in front of her. She
nudge it back. "Take half of it, my lord. I know you must be
hungry."

They shared the partridge. While not enough
meat to fill Bernard's belly, it kept starvation at bay. Afterward
he stretched out on the floor beside Charlotte and let her cuddle
against him. His heart skipped several beats. If only he was human
again! He didn't want to court her in a wolf's body, with its fur
and claws and stink.