SECRET OF THE WOLF By Susan Krinard

He knew the boy was with her—but now that the whelp was safe, he was of no further interest. The woman was. He could not have said why, for she wasn’t the kind of female he sought when sexual hunger came upon him. She wasn’t beautiful, though her figure, full of hip and breast, was enough to rouse him.

Maybe it was because she’d stood there, so calm, when the bully attacked her. Remained calm when he appeared. He wasn’t used to such composure when he was around. He preferred to provoke different emotions.

Maybe he was curious. She was a doctor. A female doctor. Because of her, the bastard would live… at least for today. She’d robbed him of his vengeance. She owed him for that.

But it wasn’t his way to ponder what could not be explained. He existed by instinct, and emotion, and whim. Now his whim said that he wanted this woman, in a way no weak human soul could understand.

He could go after her, of course. He moved like the fog itself, all but invisible to human senses. He could steal her from that room with no one the wiser. Satisfy himself with her, and be done with it.

No one would stop him, least of all the Other—the one he wouldn’t name. To name the Other gave him power. And he wasn’t ready to surrender himself.

Someday, he would keep what was his, and damn the Other to darkness and silence forever.

He dug his bare toes into the earth of the street, indifferent to the loss of his shoes. He didn’t need them. He shifted from foot to foot, staring at the darkened window.

A bellow of raucous laughter burst from the nearest saloon, distracting him. The smell of liquor and beer drowned out the woman’s scent. His mouth felt dry, ready for another drink. That took far less effort than climbing into the woman’s room. It was the swiftest escape from the memories, the burden the Other had given him.

And in the saloon there were men who would cross him. Ruffians who would see only a lean, oddly dressed tenderfoot with too much money, ripe for the plucking.

He loped to the entrance of the saloon, whose doors spilled light like pale blood into the street, and went in. The room was full of carousers, with a couple of whores for good measure. He sat at the bar, pulled a handful of coins from his pocket, and ordered a whiskey straight. Ten drinks later, even the bartender was staring in amazement. Still it wasn’t enough. Not enough to drown the memories.

Someone kicked at his bare foot. He ignored the first blow. The second came harder, accompanied by a loud guffaw.

“Hey, boy. Someone steal yer shoes?”

Still he waited, taking another sip of his whiskey.

“You hear me, you scrawny li’l pissant? I’m talkin’ to you.” A blunt, dirty hand snatched at the coins. “Where’d ja get all that chickenfeed, eh? You gotta share it with the rest of us. Right, boys?”

He ordered another drink and downed it in one swallow.

“Wha’ ‘r’ you… some kind o’ freak? Or is that water y’er drinkin’?” The glass was plucked from his hand.

He turned slowly to the man leaning on the nicked wooden bar beside him. Another drunk, of the belligerent variety. A brute, no longer young but massive from hard physical labor, the kind who found a little extra incentive for a quarrel in the contents of a bottle. Just like the one who’d been beating on the boy.

Just what he’d been waiting for.

He smiled with deliberate mockery. “What’s it to you, you ugly son of a bitch?”

The drunk let fly after a moment’s disbelieving pause. It was pathetically easy to dodge the blow and slip around behind.

He kicked the drunk’s feet out from under him. The audience laughed and snickered as the brute went sprawling… until the man pulled a pistol from his trousers. His shot went wild and crashed into the stained mirror behind the bar.

Several onlookers jumped the shooter, disarmed him, and tossed him into the street. The bartender cursed over his shattered mirror, and the rest returned to their drinking and whoring.

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