SECRET OF THE WOLF By Susan Krinard

Fenris had said she wanted Quentin. She did. Only Quentin. And he alone could save her now.

“Quentin,” she said, searching his face. “I know you’re there. It’s time to wake up.”

“It won’t do you any good,” Fenris said. “He’s cowering in his little corner, and he won’t return until it’s too late.”

“Quentin was the one who created you, and he can banish you as well.” She lifted her chin and gave Fenris stare for stare. “It’s not your time, or your place. Go.”

Fenris flinched, as if her command had actually affected him. He shook himself and took another step toward her. One more and he’d be on top of her.

“Quentin,” Johanna repeated. She reached out and pressed her palm to Fenris’s cheek. “You have nothing to fear. Come back to me.”

The unshaven skin under her hand twitched and jumped. Fenris opened his mouth on a scream.

“You lied,” he roared. “I’ll make you—”

He didn’t complete his threat. It faded to a whisper, and the ferocious glint in his eyes went out like a snuffed candle. The transformation she’d witnessed so recently began to reverse itself as he surrendered his body to its original and rightful owner.

Quentin’s eyes fixed on her in bewilderment, as warm as they had ever been. “What did you say?”

She knew instantly that he remembered nothing of Fenris’s appearance, or what had been said since his other self had seized his body. He had spoken of “shadows” that haunted him, but those shadows had no name or personality he could grasp with his conscious mind. For him, it must seem as if he’d simply lost track of the conversation.

Fenris hadn’t lied. Quentin was unaware that he lived a double life. He didn’t know that he had attacked May’s father.

Johanna’s first impulse was to tell him everything. He deserved to know, and curing such a profound illness could not begin until he confronted the dark half of himself. She understood with a deep, unwavering insight that any cure must come from the deliberate reunion of Quentin’s divided selves.

But how was such a thing to be accomplished? She had no experience to draw on, nothing but a few scattered cases to use as precedents. Fenris had been “born” in a time of great suffering, created by Quentin’s own mind to bear the unbearable. She guessed that he had also emerged during the battle in India, the “massacre” that Quentin didn’t consciously remember. And any number of times since.

Even so, she could not believe that Fenris was a killer. He must remain alive because he still served a purpose—a purpose that Quentin could not acknowledge.

If she told Quentin of Fenris now, she might be taking a terrible risk. He knew something had happened with May’s father, but Fenris hid the true facts from his conscious mind. In his own way, Fenris was protecting Quentin from a more deadly madness—one that could destroy both of them.

Only by exposing Quentin’s hidden rage, and the suffering in his past, could she eliminate the menace of Fenris’s insidious presence. Only with Fenris’s cooperation could she cure Quentin without shattering his sanity forever.

“What was your last question, Johanna?” Quentin said with a ragged smile. “I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She let her hand fall. “Our session is over, for now.”

“Did you find out what you wanted?”

“Enough, for the time being.”

He dropped his head into his hands, as if the dim light in the room hurt his eyes. “Did I… do anything? In town?”

“No, Quentin. You did not.”

“You aren’t lying to me.”

She felt slightly ill. “No.”

“And May—she’s safe? You won’t let anything happen to her.”

“I promise you, Quentin. She will be safe.”

“Then I think… I’ll go and rest.” He walked unsteadily to the door and turned. “I thought I might finally be over it—the drinking, and what comes after. I was wrong.” He stared at the floor between his feet. “You were right, Johanna. There’s nothing you can do to help me.”

Her visceral protest stuck in her throat. He walked out of the room as if he didn’t expect one.

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