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Fateful

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Год написания книги
2018
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A wolf, I think. Another wolf, as enormous as the first, but iron black. And this, I know, is the very wolf that chased me last night in Southampton. For the first time I realize that Mikhail is a monster, a thing out of stories told to frighten children, but it’s real. He’s real, and he’s growling, and he began hunting me before this voyage ever started, and now—now he’s coming to kill me.

The black wolf charges toward my stall, and I cry out in fear as I push back against the door, expecting him to burst through at any second. But then I hear another growl, and the impact of beast against beast.

I look back over the stall to see the red wolf lunge at the black wolf’s throat.

They’re like dogs fighting now—tearing at each other’s flesh, snapping and snarling. The steam is so thick that I can’t make out precisely what’s happening, but the black wolf is larger, and so I feel sure it will win. Yet the red wolf stands its ground, sinking its fangs into the black wolf’s shoulder and hanging on.

For one moment I think the red wolf must be defending me. But how stupid of me. It’s just trying to claim prey for itself.

“Help!” I scream. “Somebody, help!” My voice echoes off the green and white tiles, and I know nobody is close enough to hear. The vapor catches in my throat again, and I pull off my white cotton cap—damp from the steam—and hold it across my face.

The fight lasts for what feels like eternity, though probably it’s only a few minutes. I have no sense of time anymore; there’s nothing in the world but my fast, hard pulse and the trembling in my limbs. Exhaustion has weighed me down since this day began, and now, weakened by fear, I feel as if it’s all I can do to remain standing. But I keep myself braced against that door.

Eventually the black wolf retreats, walking backward from the red wolf, which is panting hard. I hear that sickening sound again, and the wolf twists violently, jerking up onto its hind legs; the iron-black fur begins to vanish, disappearing beneath restored skin. Although I know it’s Mikhail—that this has been Mikhail the entire time—it’s still a shock to see his cruel face once more. His shoulder is bleeding from bite marks, but it’s as though I can see him healing where he stands.

Then his eyes flick up toward mine, and I see that he still has the flat, animal gaze of a wolf.

Mikhail laughs as he grabs his abandoned clothing and begins putting it back on. “Look at you,” he says. “Too stupid to know what you’ve seen. To appreciate the miracle you’ve beheld. And all your pretty golden curls down in your face. Beautiful and foolish—very appetizing.”

“You’re nothing more than a freak from the circus,” I say, with more bravado than I feel.

It outrages him. Mikhail snarls as savagely as he did while a wolf. “You don’t know your betters. You don’t know a god when you see one.”

“You’re no god!”

“My compatriot has worked up an appetite now,” Mikhail says as he buttons his shirt. “And I think he wants you to himself.” He opens the door, letting in a brief shaft of light. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in the morning to gnaw your bones.”

The door slams shut again, and I hear a key turn in the lock. I’m as trapped as I was before, but now I’m alone with only the red wolf.

The wolf doesn’t come after me right away. Perhaps he’s as hungry as Mikhail said, but as he paces I see him limping, clearly in pain. There are droplets of blood on the floor from the fight between the wolves, and not all of that blood could be Mikhail’s. He’s injured. Badly?

Badly enough for me to escape?

Tentatively, I step to the floor, then slowly open the door of the booth. Just as I open it enough to step through, the wolf turns to stare at me. Its green-gold eyes are bright amid the steam. The wolf’s head droops low, like that of any hurt creature, and I remember everything the groundskeeper at Moorcliffe told me about wounded animals being the most dangerous.

I dare not risk it. Instead I dash back into the booth and shut the door again. The wolf steps closer, pacing in front of my door again, and then stopping there—close enough for me to hear its panting once more.

My whole body is shaking from weariness and fear, but I force myself to think rationally. The beast is wounded. Weak. Probably the wolf no longer has the strength to get through the door of the booth, and it’s too enormous to get underneath. No doubt it will recover—and be very hungry when it does—but that will take time. And time is on my side.

Gentlemen from first class will want to use the Turkish bath tomorrow. Probably the bath opens not long after the breakfast service. That means the attendant will come to make this area ready around breakfast time, if not earlier. Help is coming. All I have to do is wait.

The heat is unbearable. Sweat and condensed water have slicked my skin, and it feels as though I can’t catch my breath. I hesitate, because the thought of undressing makes me feel less safe—but the thought of wearing wet, heavy clothes in this suffocating heat is even worse. So I peel off my damp, sodden uniform so that I’m wearing only my thin vest and slip. That’s a little better.

I pull my knees up so that I can lie down on the small bench inside this booth, and crumple my uniform into a ball beneath my head. The wooden slats are hard against my side, but I don’t care.

Outside, the wolf lies down outside my door. I can see nothing except his red fur. He’s waiting for me. He doesn’t mean to let me get away, even when he sleeps.

The thought is horrifying, and it keeps me awake for hours as I tremble and cough. But eventually sleep wins, and I drift into dreamless oblivion.

April 11, 1912

I awake knowing only that I am stiff and uncomfortable, and that I want more sleep. Then I open my eyes, and my strange surroundings—and the unbelievable memories that explain them—jolt me to alertness. I sit upright and push my hands against the door almost before I remember that I’m doing it to keep the wolf back.

There’s light now—thin and gray. Dawn, then. There must be portholes to let the sunlight in. I look down, but the wolf isn’t lying in front of the door any longer. I can’t hear him panting, either, nor any claws against the tile. Might it have left? Died in the night? Or is it at least far enough away that I could run to the door and pound against it? Someone might be closer now.

With a shaking hand, I pull the door open, so slowly that it seems to take forever. No movement. No sound. So I dart out, thinking to run for the door that leads to the hallway and do whatever I can for myself—

—and I jerk to a halt within two steps.

Lying on the floor, entirely naked, perfectly formed, and dazed nearly to the point of unconsciousness, is Alec Marlowe.

The red wolf.

Chapter 7 (#u8c0857c3-555f-5905-b0d4-05fecd7554af)

FOR A MOMENT I CAN’T MOVE; I CAN ONLY STARE. Last night, as I drifted between waking and sleep, I had realized the red wolf must be another version of Mikhail—another transformed human being. But with all his talk about his “friend” and his “compatriot,” I believed it had to be one of the men he’d been walking with that night in Southampton. Never did I suspect Alec Marlowe.

Alec comes to enough to recognize me standing over him, and he rolls onto his side, slightly away from me—maybe to show me that he doesn’t want to hurt me, maybe just because he’s embarrassed to be naked in front of a girl he hardly knows.

Maybe I should run. But seeing how he moves—slowly, still confused—it seems too cruel to leave him like this.

He says, “What are you doing here?”

“You—you don’t remember?”

“It’s all a blur.” Alec tries to push himself up, but he can’t. His muscled arms shake too much to bear his weight yet. “What happened?”

“Your friend, Mikhail—he dragged me in here. He . . . ” How do I say this? “He changed. The two of you fought, and I couldn’t get out until—until you changed back.”

Now that it’s light, and the steam has finally run out, I take a good look around the Turkish bath. There’s a cabinet I’d bet anything is for linens, and sure enough, when I open the door, there are towels and plush robes folded inside. I take a robe to Alec and kneel by his side. The tiles are cool against my bare knees. “Here,” I say gently. “Are you all right?”

He snatches it from me, though he’s apparently still too weak to put it on. He just drapes it over his lap. “There’s no need to worry, Tess. Nothing’s happened here. Just leave me. And tell no one.”

I almost want to laugh. “Are you really going to pretend I don’t know?”

Alec turns his head toward the corner; his firm jaw clenches, as he struggles against some deeper emotion: shame, I realize. He’s ashamed to be seen as what he is.

“Most people . . . prefer to forget, instead of admit what they’ve seen,” he says roughly. His voice sounds terrible—as though he had been screaming for hours. I remember how he growled and snarled. “You should go.”

“I can’t.”

“Because you want to stare at the monster?” Alec’s green eyes blaze, but with a wholly human fire now. “Or because you pity me?” I couldn’t guess which possibility he loathes more.

I fold my arms. “I can’t leave because the door’s locked. Believe me, I would’ve gone hours ago if I could have.”

“Oh. Of course.” Then he looks so abashed—so boyish, and so handsome—that I almost want to laugh.

But the strangeness of the situation keeps me quiet. I am still frightened of Alec, knowing what he truly is. And yet this morning he is weary, bruised, naked, and exposed on the floor of the Turkish bath. Vulnerable.
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