PRINCE OF WOLVES By Susan Krinard

“Bonjour,” a familiar baritone called out. Joey turned to see Philippe emerging from the kitchen, buttoning up one of Luke’s spare shirts, the borrowed clothing loose on his lanky frame. His gray-green eyes were smiling as he moved around behind her to look down at the sketchpad in her lap. “Tres bien, Joelle. It looks very much like him.”

Flushing a little at the compliment and at having her rough sketch on display, Joey smiled up at Luke’s cousin. “I just do it for fun. But I’ll bet there are any number of wildlife artists who would kill for a chance like this.”

Philippe was silent, absorbing and undoubtedly translating her words, as Joey resumed her work. Luke suddenly shook his head, bristled the fur along the nape of his neck and gave a low, melodious growl, Philippe laughed softly.

Joey’s pencil skidded on the paper. “Did I miss something? Hold still, Luke!” She frowned back and forth at the cousins. “Why do I always get the feeling that most of the conversation is going right over my head?”

With a stretch and a sigh, Philippe sat down on the edge of the sofa. “It—loses something in the translation,” he said, hesitating slightly over the English words.

Luke made a sound that could only be described as a “whuff,” and Philippe sat up a little straighter. “Luc reminds me that you could learn to understand it, if you wish to do so.”

The line Joey was drawing wobbled off in the wrong direction. It was not only the words but the tone that caught her attention; Philippe was clearly uneasy, though the emotion did not reach his face. His eyes tracked from Luke to Joey and back again, as if he were trying to read some significant and unspoken message.

“I could learn—what? Luke’s been teaching me some French, but that’s not what you mean, is it?” She turned to stare at Luke, who had stretched out sphinx-fashion, his big forepaws extended before him. “You can understand each other when you’re wolves, or even when only one of you is, right?”

Philippe nodded, almost reluctantly. His eyes were now wanly fixed on Luke, as hers were.

“Luke never discussed it with me before.” Frowning, she put the sketchpad aside. “How do I learn this mysterious language of yours?”

This time there was no mistaking Philippe’s discomfort. “We are born to the understanding of it. It would be possible for you to learn, but it would take a certain… ” He trailed off, Luke abruptly sat up and fixed his ominous challenge-stare on his cousin. Philippe cleared his throat. “It would be necessary for you to become as we are. If you were to go through the change, understanding would come to you.” He stopped abruptly, his eyes, as they met Joey’s, both relieved and anxious.

It took several moments for Joey to absorb his meaning. “You mean change into a wolf?”

Her voice came out as a squeak. Rubbing her palms on her thighs, she licked suddenly dry lips. The thought was at once so ridiculous and yet so strangely compelling that she could hardly find the words to respond.

“But I’m not—I’m not—” She swallowed hard “Why do you think I could do what you do?”

Philippe’s unease was as manifest as her own as he shifted on the sofa, looking everywhere but at her, or Luke. His voice was very soft. “You carry our blood, cousine Joelle. You have the gift within you.”

Joey stared at Luke, eyes widening. “You’re not saying that there is some truth to those old legends—you bite me, and I turn into a werewolf, too?” The words earned a faint edge of hysteria barely shaped into humor, she struggled to keep her breathing steady and her mind clear. Luke growled deeply. He shook his head in a gesture clearly intended to mimic the human one.

“No, it is not like that,” Philippe put in hurriedly. “The gift cannot be given. It is born into the blood. You have this within you ever since you came to us.” His expression was earnest, asking her understanding; Joelle wondered dazedly why he spoke with such urgency. Why Luke merely watched her with those cold lupine eyes

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