America offered no sanctuary. The Other was always with him. But he blocked the awareness that would have led him to recognize what he was becoming.
“You know, don’t you?” Boroskov said. “You see that I speak the truth.”
Quentin heard the voice as if he were under water, on the verge of drowning. It was seductive, commanding, and the coward within wanted nothing more than to give himself up to its master.
He disregarded the coward’s whimpers and sought the one who would fight, no matter what the odds.
Fenris. Fenris, who was Boroskov’s ideal killer, except that he would never obey any master. Who would turn on the one who tried to control him?
Fenris would save them both.
But something snapped inside. It was as if the restoration of Quentin’s memories sapped Fenris’s strength—as if their absence alone had been the foundation of Fenris’s very existence. He stirred, roared, writhed in impotent fury.
And vanished.
“Quentin!”
Johanna. He pushed his way toward the lightless surface high above him, let go of Boroskov’s hand, and grasped the other that plunged so fearlessly into the seething waters.
He opened his eyes and looked into hers. She smiled, warm and brave.
“How touching,” Boroskov said.
Quentin realized that he’d made a crucial mistake. One glance at Boroskov’s face told him that the Russian knew he’d won his internal straggle.
Quentin’s only secret advantage, however dangerous, was Fenris. And Fenris was gone.
“I thought, for a moment, that you had come to your senses,” Boroskov said. “But I see you will need further persuasion.”
“Boroskov,” Johanna said. “You said that you had been intended by your father to become one of these assassins, like Quentin.”
He glanced at her through half-lidded eyes. “What of it?”
“You were tortured, as he was.”
Quentin followed her line of thinking and despaired at her hopeful ignorance. Stefan Boroskov was not one to be reasoned with, drawn from past suffering to recognize the source of his own evil.
Boroskov laughed. “Ah, Johanna. Let me guess… you wish to persuade me that I, too, can be relieved of my sorrowful burdens. What will you do, place me under hypnosis and assure me that I can be cured of my madness?”
“You didn’t choose who you were to be, did you, Stefan?” she said, her gaze locked on his. “Your father chose for you. He betrayed his own son.”
“And he paid for this so-called betrayal,” Boroskov said. “I killed him when I came of age, and took his title and all he owned. But he taught me much, and his goals were worthy. They are now mine.”
“And so you have become what he was.”
“I have become more than he ever was. And I will succeed where he did not.”
Johanna shook her head. “No, Stefan. There can be no peace in such a victory. If you’d only let me help you—”
“Enough!” He swept out his hand, and Quentin barely had time to intercept the blow. It sent him stumbling, but he caught his balance and placed himself between Boroskov and Johanna.
“Never touch her again,” he said.
“That is your choice.” Boroskov smiled at Johanna. “My dear doctor, you have proven yourself a failure in rehabilitating your patient, and I suspect you know it. But you can save him yet.” He negligently twirled his pistol. “I have the power to force Quentin to bend to my will. It is one of the superior skills the greatest among loups-garous possess, and I’ll use it if I must. But I would prefer his cooperation, to spare myself a waste of time and resources.
“Convince him, Johanna. Convince him to do as I command, and you will be allowed to leave with the girl. I have no further interest in your affairs. But if you do not succeed—” He shrugged. “I don’t think I need elaborate.” He pushed past Quentin and seized May’s arm before either Quentin or Johanna could react.
“Now,” he said, gesturing toward a doorway at the rear of the room, “if you will kindly go through that door.” He aimed the gun at Johanna until Quentin obeyed, and she followed, casting anxious glances at May.