Fateful

  “Mikhail’s too great a danger to you. He won’t come after me.” This is a good point, and I nod, acknowledging it. Mr. Marlowe’s gaze becomes even more penetrating. “I worked hard to build a business. A place for myself in society. A good life. I want that good life for my son. The best.”

  A life that doesn’t include a romance with a serving girl, no doubt. Anger blazes up inside me, though I know he’s saying nothing any rich man wouldn’t say. Only years of service in the Lisle household keep me silent.

  And I’m glad they do, because the next thing Mr. Marlowe says is, “Never in my wildest dreams did I think my son might meet a woman who could accept what he’s become.”

  “Mr. Marlowe. Sir. I—I don’t know what to say.”

  “You needn’t say anything. I just thought you should know. The two of you have enough obstacles; I won’t be one of them.”

  I feel like I might cry. Quickly I drop Mr. Marlowe a curtsy and hurry away, back to third class.

  At the doorway into the third-class section of F deck, I bump into one of the only other people with a key to go between classes: Ned, who’s dressed in his valet’s uniform and clearly headed back to the Lisles’. “Lucky you. Poor Miss Irene’s taken to her bed, and you get a holiday at sea.”

  “Don’t be nasty. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and tomorrow Layton will be seasick.”

  Ned snorts with laughter. “He’d deserve it. But like as not he’ll be too busy dallying around with his new Russian friend. Loathsome, if you ask me. A real bounder.”

  “I don’t like the looks of—of that Russian either. You be careful, Ned.”

  “Careful?” His freckled face looks puzzled. “What d’ya mean, careful? I was going to look in on Miss Irene—do you mean I shouldn’t catch cold?”

  “Never mind. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  My evening free is spent eating an enormous amount at tea to make up for the food I didn’t get earlier in the voyage, and a bedtime so early even the old Norwegian ladies look at me like I’m pathetic. See if I care. I finally feel safe on this ship, and I could use a solid night’s rest. Besides, I’ll dream about Alec all night long.

  After I’ve napped a couple of hours, I’m awakened by the muffled sound of voices outside the door—one woman’s, one man’s. Although the words are indistinct, the tone is not; these people are very, very happy. When the door opens, I see Myriam, a giddy smile on her face, twirling one long lock of black hair between her fingers.

  Which means the man’s voice on the other side of the door can only have been George’s.

  “Well, well.” I sit up in my bunk and prop myself on the pillow. “It’s the middle of the night. Did you get home with your underwear?”

  “George is a very decent and respectable man.”

  “That’s not a yes.”

  Myriam sticks her tongue out at me, but we’re both near laughter. Beneath me, I hear one of the old ladies murmuring happily to the other. Maybe they’re reminiscing about when they were young and in love.

  “You had a good evening, then?” I lie back down as Myriam changes into her nightgown.

  “Wonderful. He told me all about his travels, and what I should expect in New York and—oh, everything.” She bounds up to her mattress and flops on it, almost like a little girl eager to jump on the bed. Myriam’s face is even more beautiful when she’s this happy; there’s a kind of glow about her, even in the dark of our cabin. “Tess, he promised me tonight—for his next job, he’s signing onto a ship that will travel along the East Coast of the United States. So we will be able to see each other again soon, and often.”

  “Myriam, that’s wonderful! You’ve both become so serious about each other, and so quickly.”

  “Romance at sea has its power.” She folds her hands beneath her head. “As you should know.”

  I remember the way Alec and I kissed tonight. “I know.”

  George and Myriam have a future. What about me and Alec? Before today, I thought it was impossible, and for more reasons than I could count. But those reasons are falling like trees beneath the woodsman’s ax. The Brotherhood may lose any chance of having power over him, now that he has the Initiation Blade. If Alec can find someone else who knows the initiation magic, then he will be free from the need to change every single night. His life will become almost normal, save for once every twenty-eight days. And his father—the wealthy, powerful man who might have stood between us—all but gave us his blessing tonight.

  Or am I fooling myself? I know that Alec cares for me as I do for him. But what will love matter when we’re back on land? Social boundaries aren’t as strict in America, or so I hear, but there’s no place on earth where millionaires marry servant girls. It’s just not done. And surely the Brotherhood won’t let him go so easily.

  I want to be with Alec. But I can’t let myself believe in the impossible.

  Tightly I close my eyes, trying to blot out my knowledge of the future, my dreams for something I can’t have.

  That’s when I hear the screams.

  Chapter 17

  I BOLT UPRIGHT IN BED AS MYRIAM CRIES, “WHAT’S happening?”

  The screams in the corridor multiply as something thuds heavily against the wall. Then there’s another sound—deep and low.

  Growling.

  “Oh, God.” I jump from my bunk and go to the door. Even as Myriam shouts for me to stop, I open it and look into the hallway. There are half a dozen people in their nightclothes sprawled on the floor or flattening themselves against the wall, all of them shrieking and scrambling in an effort to get away from the wolf. Even before I see the red fur, I know it’s Alec.

  Then he’s there—enormous as I remembered, equally as feral. This is the first time I’ve seen his wolf self in full light, and it’s shocking both how terrifying and how beautiful he is. His fangs are the size of knives, brilliant white; his fur gleams chestnut as it bristles along his long back. The four paws on the ground are as broad as dinner plates and tipped with curving claws.

  The red wolf is half-mad, turning and twisting in the corridor, powerful jaws snapping. But I see what no one else can see—that the Alec within is fighting every animal instinct in an effort to harm no one. He’s biting at himself, drawing droplets of blood and tufts of fur, torn between the ravenous hunger of the wolf and his human desire to keep everybody safe.

  “Let him be!” I shout, but nobody pays me any attention, if anybody out here even understands English. When I hurry into the hallway, Myriam grabs my arm in an effort to hold me back, but I shake her off and run toward Alec.

  If he sees me, he’ll remember himself better. Maybe I can coax him into a quiet area somewhere, someplace no other passengers will be so that nobody will be endangered, and he’ll face less temptation. It’s worth a shot, anyway.

  But someone else reaches him before I can—George, with three stewards behind him.

  “No, don’t!” I reach out one hand, futilely attempting to stop this from happening.

  George doesn’t hear, or doesn’t listen. Why should he? He’s a good officer, trying to protect the people aboard this ship from a threat he never imagined. George throws himself at the red wolf in an attempt to tackle him.

  The red wolf doesn’t bite George. But he does claw him, viciously, tearing ragged lines in his uniform and making George cry out in pain.

  Oh, God, will he be a werewolf now? No, that’s only a bite. But the clawing is bad enough to wound, and once the red wolf smells blood—

  “George!” Myriam’s behind me in the hallway now, drawn there by her desire to protect either me or George. I try to push her back—the more people out here, the worse it is for everyone—but everything’s happening too fast.

  The stewards are after the red wolf now, pushing at him with chairs and some bit of wood—an oar or something, I can’t see, I can’t tell. As the wolf snarls, he steps back into a crouch, like he could leap forward at any moment. Every muscle is poised to pounce. Some of the people in th
e hallway take their chance to run, but others seem paralyzed by fear.

  What happens if they catch him? What if they have him in a pen at dawn when he changes back into my Alec? His secret will be revealed, and I can’t even imagine how terrible that would be.

  But then I realize how much worse it might get when another steward rushes forward clutching something he must have grabbed from an emergency case: a large red ax.

  “No!” I throw off Myriam’s hands and run forward, leaping over one of the terrified people lying in the hall to hurl myself between the red wolf and the ax. With outstretched arms, I shout, “Don’t hurt him! Leave him alone!”

  “Crazy girl! Get out of the way!” The steward slams the ax handle into my side to push me clear. It knocks the breath out of me and sends me tumbling to my hands and knees.

  The red wolf snarls ferociously, and I realize why: He thinks the steward is attacking me.

  Alec remembers himself enough to protect me no matter what.

  Even as I scream a warning, the red wolf leaps over me, taking the steward down to the ground. The ax clatters uselessly to the floor.

  “Let me through!” a man’s voice cries. I twist my head to see Howard Marlowe running toward us, his suit askew and his bald head gleaming with sweat. In his hand is something small and silver; as he gets closer, I recognize it as a physician’s hypodermic.

  Next to me, the steward screams as the red wolf sinks his jaws into the man’s throat. Blood spurts out, so hot it steams, and the steward’s cry twists into a grotesque gargling noise. Worse still is when he stops screaming.

  “No!” But I’m speaking to Alec now, the Alec inside who can hear me. I try to steady my voice, though I am shaking so hard I can’t rise to my feet. “Come on, now. It’s all right. Nobody has to get hurt.”

  The red wolf lifts his head from his prey and stares at me. Blood drips from his jaws. His green-gold gaze is that of an animal’s—hard, reflecting light like a mirror.

  If I could call him by name, it would help. But I can’t. If there’s any chance of keeping Alec’s secret after this, I have to try to hold on to it.

  Still on my knees, I crawl closer to him. The red wolf is barely inches from me now. He stands completely still, his massive body shaking from pent-up energy and hunger. I can feel his hot breath on my neck.

  Behind me, I hear Mr. Marlowe edging closer. I keep my eyes focused on the wolf’s, willing him to look only at me.

  “Remember,” I whisper. “Remember.”

  For one brief moment, the wolf’s eyes appear human, and it is Alec looking back at me—

  Mr. Marlowe stabs down with the hypodermic, plunging the needle into the wolf’s flesh. It howls, an eerie, terrible sound, as it slumps against the wall and collapses. I lean against Mr. Marlowe’s leg, weak with relief.

  “A tranquilizer,” Mr. Marlowe says. He’s breathing hard. “That will knock him out until well past sunrise. I keep it on hand for emergencies.”

  “What’s the meaning of this?” demands George, who has picked himself up. Although he winces when he moves his scratched arm, he straightens his uniform and is again serving as an officer of the ship.

  Mr. Marlowe attempts to smile, though that doesn’t quite work. “It’s all taken care of now, officer. You should look to the injured man. Leave the animal to me.”

  “Is this your dog, then?” George points at the sleeping form of the wolf. “You brought a dangerous dog onboard and didn’t keep it in the kennel? That’s against regulations, sir.”

  “I sincerely apologize,” Mr. Marlowe says. “I will of course make restitution to anyone harmed. . . .” His voice trails off as he sees the other stewards around their fallen comrade. They’re making no move to assist him—are they fools? That man needs to get to a doctor right away. Good God, Alec bit him, and that means he’ll be a werewolf now, unless—

  One of the stewards takes off his jacket and drapes it over the fallen man’s face. He’s dead.

  Alec would rather have died than have done this to someone else, but it’s too late now. This man has died because Alec tried to protect me. There’s no restitution for that. He has become the killer he always feared he was.

  Mr. Marlowe fumbles for words. “I—I realize the dog is my responsibility. I take full blame for this. I will of course pay any fine or civil judgment—”

  “Are you trying to bribe me, sir?” George draws himself upright. “I may only be seventh officer aboard this ship, but I hope I’m honest.”

  “By no means! I only meant to put things right.”

  “This can never be put right, sir,” George says. “Which is why we’re throwing this vicious dog off the starboard stern.”

  “No!” I cry out. George stares at me, bewildered by my reaction. A few yards distant down the hallway, I see that Myriam is equally confused. “You can’t. You—you just can’t.”

  Mr. Marlowe says, “Why don’t we take this up with the captain?” He stands taller, adjusts his suit until he looks more like the wealthy and powerful man he is. “The dog is mine and I wish to keep it.”

  Maybe George recognizes him then, but he doesn’t back down. “Good God, do you care more about what’s to become of your dog than the man who died here tonight?”

  If they throw “the dog” overboard, two men will die tonight. The horror of the murder I witnessed doesn’t take away from the fact that Alec has to be saved.

  “I’m truly sorry.” Mr. Marlowe’s voice breaks on the word, and my heart hurts as I feel how much this pains him. He’s a good man, one who would never fight George on this if the stakes were any less than his son’s life. “But—I must insist on speaking to a higher authority before you do anything rash.”

  “Rash!” George looks furious, as well he might. “I’m not waking up Captain Smith; he’ll have the lot of us thrown overboard. But there are other authorities aboard this ship. And we’ll let them decide what’s to become of the animal.”

  I look down again at the red wolf, deep in drugged sleep on the floor. He might be drowned before he wakes.

  Chapter 18

  THEY TIE THE RED WOLF AS IF HE WERE A HOG FOR slaughter and throw him in a wooden crate.

  “You won’t touch him,” Mr. Marlowe declares. “Not if you want your job on this liner in the morning.”

  George’s temper is no better. “I follow the rules aboard this ship, unlike some. When we’ve heard from Mr. Andrews what to do, it’ll be done. If he wants to give you your damned dog back, he can. But if he’s sensible and wants it drowned before it can do any more harm, then that’s the way it has to be, and all your money and influence won’t change it.”

  I wince as the stewards roughly hoist the crate and take it—I don’t know where. As badly as I want to follow him, to protect Alec, I know it’s impossible. Shivering with cold and the aftermath of shock, I can only hold out one hand in useless protest as they take the crate through a passageway and the door swings shut behind them.

  Mr. Marlowe removes his jacket and drapes it across my shoulders. Only then do I realize that I’m still in my nightgown, with my curls hanging loose past my shoulders. “You did your best,” he murmurs.

  I turn to him and see, for the first time, that there is a dark red shadow across his eye, which is beginning to swell. “Mikhail?” I whisper. He nods once.

  Mikhail overpowered Mr. Marlowe at the door of the squash court and released Alec, in the hopes that he would kill someone. Alec had warned me that Mikhail’s silence might mean a new plan, but I didn’t suspect this.

  “Come along then,” George says stiffly. He bears his own wound without a flinch, even as he uses his injured arm to open the door. When I follow Mr. Marlowe, he stares at me. “Tess—I mean, Miss Davies, what has this to do with you? Shouldn’t you go back to your cabin? It’s been a devil of a night.”

  I stop short, uncertain how to answer.

  Mr. Marlowe rescues me. “She has been considering taking employment with our family. I’m pleased to
see such initiative in looking after our interests, Miss Davies. Please accompany us.”

  It’s as good a lie as any. George frowns a bit, but he raises no further objection. I glance over at Mr. Marlowe, who gives me a nod. Really I ought to go back to my cabin, but there’s no chance of my sleeping more now. When I do return, the first thing I’m going to have to contend with is an interrogation by Myriam, who is obviously aware that something’s up. Facing the captain or first officer or whoever “Mr. Andrews” is seems easy by comparison.

  Besides—I have to know, as soon as possible, what’s going to become of Alec. If Mr. Marlowe can talk or bribe his way out of this, we can get the crate back, let him wake up in a bed for once, and look toward the future.

  If Mr. Marlowe’s fortune and influence fail him, Alec will either be drowned in his sleep or transform in the crate to be revealed as a monster before the whole world.

  We walk out onto the deck in first class, headed somewhere I don’t recognize. Is it just the strangeness of this night playing tricks on me, or is the air much colder than it was before? The rest of our trip has been pleasant and temperate, but suddenly the air has a bite. Maybe it’s just fear playing tricks on me. Making me imagine what poor Alec would feel if they drop him off the ship, into the bitter chill of the north Atlantic, to die.

  Our footsteps seem so loud in the hush of the night. On the dark, endless ocean before us, I glimpse a spur of white—a little ice, nothing more.

  Mr. Marlowe isn’t at all well, I realize. His gait is unsteady, his stare unfocused. I take his arm. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “I’ve failed him.” Mr. Marlowe closes his eyes for a moment, as if trying to block out the horrible truth, and I have to guide him along our way. I’m not sure whether the blows from Mikhail now blackening his eye have dazed him, or if he’s simply numb with shock. The situation is dire enough on its own, but he may be hurt. We should ask for a doctor, but not now. We have to face the gravity of what has happened tonight, but not now. Now we have to fight for Alec’s life.