Soulmate Page 2

  You are not a killer. You don’t kill. You have never killed, no matter what happened to you. You do not kill.

  I don’t kill, Hannah thought slowly, in agreement.

  Then you’re going to die, the cool wind voice said brutally, much louder than the crystal voice. Because this animal won’t stop until either it’s dead or you are. There’s no other way to deal with these creatures.

  Then it happened. The wolf’s mouth opened. In a lightning-fast move, it darted for her throat.

  Hannah didn’t think. She brought the picture frame up . . . and slammed it into the side of the wolf’s head.

  Not into the eye. Into the ear.

  She felt the impact—hard metal against sensitive flesh. The wolf gave a yelping squeal and staggered sideways, shaking its head and hitting at its face with a forepaw. Its weight was off her for an instant and an instant was all Hannah needed.

  Her body moved without her conscious direction, sliding out from under the wolf, twisting and jumping to her feet.

  She kept her grasp on the picture frame.

  Now. Look around! The bookcase—no, you can’t move it. The window! Go for the window.

  But the wolf had stopped shaking its head. Even as Hannah started across the room, it turned and saw her. In one flowing, bushy leap it put itself between her and the window. Then it stood looking at her, every hair on its body bristling. Its teeth were bared, its ears upright, and its eyes glared with pure hatred and menace.

  It’s going to spring, Hannah realized.

  I am not a killer. I can’t kill.

  You don’t have any choice—

  The wolf sprang.

  But it never reached her. Something else came soaring through the window and knocked it off course.

  This time, Hannah’s eyes and brain identified the creature at once. Another wolf. My God, what is going on?

  The new animal was gray-brown, smaller than the black wolf and not as striking. Its legs were amazingly delicate, twined with veins and sinews like a racehorse’s.

  A female, something faraway in Hannah’s mind said with dreamlike certainty.

  Both wolves had recovered their balance now. They were on their feet bristling. The room smelled like a zoo.

  And now I’m really going to die, Hannah thought. I’m going to be torn to pieces by two wolves. She was still clutching the picture frame, but she knew there was no chance of fighting them both off at once. They were going to rip her to bits, quarreling over who got more of her.

  Her heart was pounding so hard that it shook her body, and her ears were ringing. The female wolf was staring at her with eyes more amber than yellow, and Hannah stared back, mesmerized, waiting for it to make its move.

  The wolf held the gaze for another moment, as if studying Hannah’s face—in particular the left side of her face. Her cheek. Then she turned her back to Hannah and faced the black wolf.

  And snarled.

  Protecting me, Hannah thought, stunned. It was unbelievable—but she was beyond disbelief at this point. She had stepped out of her ordinary life and into a fairy tale full of almost-human wolves. The entire world had gone crazy and all she could do was try to deal with each moment as it came.

  They’re going to fight, the cool wind voice in her mind told her. As soon as they’re into it, run for the window.

  At that moment everything erupted into bedlam. The gray wolf had launched herself at the black. The room echoed with the sound of snarling—and of teeth clicking together as both wolves snapped again and again.

  Hannah couldn’t make out what was going on in the fight. It was just a blurred chaos as the wolves circled and darted and leaped and ducked. But it was by far the most terrifying thing she had ever witnessed. Like the worst dog fight imaginable, like the feeding frenzy of sharks. Both animals seemed to have gone berserk.

  Suddenly there was a yelp of pain. Blood welled up on the gray female’s flank.

  She’s too small, Hannah thought. Too light. She doesn’t have a chance.

  Help her, the crystal voice whispered.

  It was an insane suggestion. Hannah couldn’t even imagine trying to get in the middle of that snarling whirlwind. But somehow she found herself moving anyway. Placing herself behind the gray wolf. It didn’t matter that she didn’t believe she was doing it, or that she had no idea how to team up with a wolf in fighting another wolf. She was there and she was holding her silver picture frame high.

  The black wolf pulled away from the fight to stare at her.

  And there they stood, all three of them panting, Hannah with fear and the wolves with exertion. They were frozen like a tableau in the middle of the wrecked office, all looking at each other tensely. The black wolf on one side, his eyes shining with single-minded menace. The gray wolf on the other, blood matting her coat, bits of fur floating away from her. And Hannah right behind her, holding up the picture frame in a shaking hand.

  Hannah’s ears were filled with the deep reverberating sound of growling.

  And then a deafening report that cut through the room like a knife.

  A gunshot.

  The black wolf yelped and staggered.

  Hannah’s senses had been focused on what was going on inside the room for so long that it was a shock to realize there was anything outside it. She was dimly aware that Paul’s yells had stopped some time ago, but she hadn’t stopped to consider what that meant.

  Now, with adrenaline washing over her, she heard his voice.

  “Hannah! Get out of the way!”

  The shout was tense, edged with fear and anger—and determination. It came from the opposite side of the room, from the darkness outside the window.

  Paul was there at the broken window with a gun. His face was pale and his hand was shaking. He was aiming in the general direction of the wolves. If he fired again he might hit either of them.

  “Get into a corner!” The gun bobbed nervously.

  Hannah heard herself say, “Don’t shoot!”

  Her voice came out hoarse and unused-sounding. She moved to get in between the gun and the wolves.

  “Don’t shoot,” she said again. “Don’t hit the gray one.”

  “Hit the gray one?” Paul’s voice rose in something like hysterical laughter. “I don’t even know if I can hit the wall! This is the first time I’ve ever shot a gun. So just—just try to get out of the way!”

  “No!” Hannah moved toward him, holding out her hand. “I can shoot. Just give it to me—”

  “Just move out of the way—”

  The gun went off.

  For an instant Hannah couldn’t see where the bullet had gone and she wondered wildly if she had been shot. Then she saw that the black wolf was lurching backward. Blood dripped from its neck.

  Steel won’t kill it, the wind voice hissed. You’re only making it more angry. . . .

  But the black wolf was swinging its head to look with blazing eyes from Hannah with her picture frame to Paul with his gun, to the gray wolf with her teeth. The gray wolf snarled just then and Hannah had never seen an animal look closer to being smug.

  “One more shot . . .” Paul breathed. “While it’s cornered . . .”

  Ears flat, the black wolf turned toward the only other window in the room. It launched into a vaulting leap straight toward the unbroken glass. There was a shattering crash as it went through. Glass fragments flew everywhere, tinkling.

  Hannah stared dizzily at the curtains swirling first outside, then inside the room, and then her head snapped around to look at the gray wolf.

  Amber eyes met hers directly. It was such a human stare . . . and definitely the look of an equal. Almost the look of a friend.

  Then the gray wolf twisted and loped for the newly broken window. Two steps and a leap—she was through.

  From somewhere outside there came a long drawn-out howl of anger and defiance. It was fading, as if the wolf was moving away.

  Then silence.

  Hannah shut her eyes.

  H
er knees literally felt as if they wanted to buckle. But she made herself move to the window, glass grating under her boots as she stared into the night.

  The moon was bright, one day past full. She thought she could just see a dark shape loping toward the open prairie, but it might have been her imagination.

  She let out her breath and sagged against the window. The silver picture frame fell to the floor.

  “Are you hurt? Are you okay?” Paul was climbing through the other window. He tripped on a wastebasket getting across the room, then he was beside her, grabbing for her shoulders, trying to look her over.

  “I think I’m all right.” She was numb, was what she was. She felt dazed and fragmented.

  He blinked at her. “Um . . . you have some particular fondness for gray wolves or something?”

  Hannah shook her head. How could she ever explain?

  They stared at each other for a moment, and then, simultaneously, they both sank to the floor, squatting among the shards of glass, breathing hard.

  Paul’s face was white, his red hair disheveled, his eyes large and stunned. He ran a shaky hand over his forehead, then put the gun down and patted it. He twisted his neck to stare at the wreck of his office, the overturned bookcase, the scattered books and knickknacks, the two broken windows, the glass fragments, the bullet hole, the flecks of blood, and the tufts of wolf hair that still drifted across the pine floorboards.

  Hannah said faintly, “So who was at the door?”

  Paul blinked twice. “Nobody. Nobody was at the door.” He added almost dreamily, “I wonder if wolves can ring doorbells?”

  “What?”

  Paul turned to look straight at her.

  “Has it ever occurred to you,” he blurted, “that you may not be paranoid after all? I mean, that something weird and uncanny really is out to get you?”

  “Very funny,” Hannah whispered.

  “I mean—” Paul gestured around the room, half-laughing. He looked punch-drunk. “I mean, you said something was going to happen—and something did.” He stopped laughing and looked at her with wondering speculation. “You really did know, didn’t you?”

  Hannah glared at the man who was supposed to guide her back to sanity. “Are you crazy ?”

  Paul blinked. He looked shocked and embarrassed, then he glanced away and shook his head. “God, I don’t know. Sorry; that wasn’t very professional, was it? But . . .” He stared out the window. “Well, for a moment it just seemed possible that you’ve got some kind of secret locked up there in your brain. Something . . . extraordinary.”

  Hannah said nothing. She was trying to forget about too many things at once: the new part of her that whispered strategies, the wolves with human eyes, the silver picture frame. She had no idea what all these things added up to, and she didn’t want to know. She wanted to force them away from her and go back to the safe, ordinary world of Sacajawea High School.

  Paul cleared his throat, still looking out the window. His voice was uncertain and almost apologetic. “It can’t be true, of course. There’s got to be a rational explanation. But—well, if it were true, it occurs to me that somebody had better unlock that secret. Before something worse happens.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The sleek white limousine raced through the night like a dolphin underwater, carrying Thierry Descouedres away from the airport. It was taking him to his Las Vegas mansion, white walls and palm trees, limpid blue fountains and tiled terraces. Rooms full of artwork and museum-quality furniture. Everything anyone could ask for.

  He shut his eyes and leaned back against the crimson cushions, wishing he were somewhere else.

  “How was Hawaii, sir?” The driver’s voice came from the front seat.

  Thierry opened his eyes. Nilsson was a good driver. He seemed to be about Thierry’s own age, around nineteen, with a neat ponytail, dark glasses despite the fact that it was nighttime, and a discreet expression.

  “Wet, Nilsson,” Thierry said softly. He stared out the window. “Hawaii was very . . . wet.”

  “But you didn’t find what you were looking for.”

  “No. I didn’t find what I was looking for . . . again.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Thank you, Nilsson.” Thierry tried to look past his own reflection in the window. It was disturbing, seeing that young man with the white-blond hair and the old, old eyes looking back at him. He had such a pensive expression . . . so lost and so sad.

  Like somebody always looking for something he can’t find, Thierry thought.

  He turned away from the window in determination.

  “Everything been going all right while I’ve been gone?” he asked, picking up his cellular phone. Work. Work always helped. Kept you busy, kept your mind off things, kept you away from yourself, basically.

  “Fine, I think, sir. Mr. James and Miss Poppy are back.”

  “That’s good. They’ll make the next Circle Daybreak meeting.” Thierry’s finger hovered over a button on the phone, considering whom to call. Whose need might be the most urgent.

  But before he could touch it, the phone buzzed.

  Thierry pressed send and held it to his ear. “Thierry.”

  “Sir? It’s me, Lupe. Can you hear me?” The voice was faint and broken by static, but distant as it was, Thierry could hear that the caller sounded weak.

  “Lupe? Are you all right?”

  “I got in a fight, sir. I’m a little torn up.” She gave a gasping chuckle. “But you should see the other wolf.”

  Thierry reached for a leather-bound address book and a gold Mont Blanc pen. “That’s not funny, Lupe. You shouldn’t be fighting.”

  “I know, sir, but—”

  “You’ve really got to restrain yourself.”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Tell me where you are, and I’ll have somebody pick you up. Get you to a doctor.” Thierry made a practice mark with the pen. No ink came out. He stared at the nib of it in mild disbelief. “You buy an eight-hundred-dollar pen and then it doesn’t write,” he murmured.

  “Sir, you’re not listening to me. You don’t understand. I’ve found her.”

  Thierry stopped trying to make the pen write. He stared at it, at his own long fingers holding the chunky, textured gold barrel, knowing that this sight would be impressed on his memory as if burned in with a torch.

  “Did you hear me, sir? I’ve found her.”

  When his voice came out at last, it was strangely distant. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Yes, sir, I’m sure. She’s got the mark and everything. Her name is Hannah Snow.”

  Thierry reached over the front seat and grabbed the astonished Nilsson with a hand like iron. He said very quietly in the driver’s ear, “Do you have a pencil?”

  “A pencil?”

  “Something that writes, Nilsson. An instrument to make marks on paper. Do you have one? Quick, because if I lose this connection, you’re fired.”

  “I’ve got a pen, sir.” One-handed, Nilsson fished in his pocket and produced a Bic.

  “Your salary just doubled.” Thierry took the pen and sat back. “Where are you, Lupe?”

  “The Badlands of Montana, sir. Near a town called Medicine Rock. But there’s something else, sir.” Lupe’s voice seemed less steady all of a sudden. “The other wolf that fought me—he saw her, too. And he got away.”

  Thierry’s breath caught. “I see.”

  “I’m sorry.” Lupe was suddenly talking quickly, in a burst of emotion. “Oh, Thierry, I’m sorry. I tried to stop him. But he got away—and now I’m afraid he’s off telling . . . her.”

  “You couldn’t help it, Lupe. And I’ll be there myself, soon. I’ll be there to take care of— everything.” Thierry looked at the driver. “We’ve got to make some stops, Nilsson. First, the Harman store.”

  “The witch place?”

  “Exactly. You can triple your salary if you get there fast.”

  • • •

  When Hannah got to
Paul Winfield’s house the next afternoon, the sheriff was there. Chris Grady was an honest-to-goodness Western sheriff, complete with boots, broad-brimmed hat, and vest. The only thing missing, Hannah thought as she walked around to the back of the house where Paul was hammering boards across the broken windows, was a horse.

  “Hi, Chris,” she said.

  The sheriff nodded, sun-weathered skin crinkling at the corners of her eyes. She took off her hat and ran a hand through shoulder-length auburn hair. “I see you found yourself a couple of giant timber wolves, Hannah. You’re not hurt, are you?”

  Hannah shook her head no. She tried to summon up a smile but failed. “I think they were maybe wolf-dogs or something. Pure-bred wolves aren’t so aggressive.”

  “That print wasn’t made by any wolf-dog,” Chris said. On the concrete flagstones outside the window there was a paw print made in blood. It was similar to a dog’s footprint, with four pads plus claw marks showing. But it was more than six inches long by just over five inches wide.

  “Judging from that, it’s the biggest wolf ever heard of around here, bigger than the White Wolf of the Judith.” The sheriff’s eyes drifted to the empty rectangles of the broken windows. “Big and mean. You people be careful. Something’s going on here that I don’t like. I’ll let you know if we catch your wolves.”

  She nodded to Paul, who was sucking his finger after banging it with the hammer. Then she set her hat back on her head and strode off to her car.

  Hannah stared at the paw print silently. Everyone else thought there was something going on. Everyone but her.

  Because there can’t be, she thought. Because it has to all be in my head. It has to be something I can figure out and fix quick . . . something I can control.

  “Thanks for seeing me again so soon,” she said to Paul.

  “Oh . . .” He gestured, tucking the hammer under his arm. “It’s no trouble. I want to get to the bottom of what’s upsetting you as much as you do. And,” he admitted under his breath as he let them in the house, “I don’t actually have any other patients.”

  Hannah followed him down a hallway and into his office. It was dim inside, the boards across the windows reducing the late afternoon sunlight to separate oddly-angled shafts.