Luck of the Wolf. Susan KrinardЧитать онлайн книгу.
might very well take the kind of action Cort had expected from Cochrane.
The danger to Aria hadn’t diminished. If Cort wanted answers, he would have to speak to her and gauge her responses carefully. He had expected her to trust him. If he couldn’t trust her …
His body strangely heavy, Cort went into the house. He wasn’t ready to talk to Aria yet, and he didn’t believe that Brecht would send anyone to the house in daylight or so soon after their conversation. He would tell Yuri what had happened, but not now. The next few hours would be devoted to questioning the locals about Hugo Brecht.
He spoke briefly to Yuri, warning him to be vigilant, and slipped away before Aria could claim his attention. He couldn’t afford to have anything on his mind but his newest enemy.
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND what you must do?”
The men—two werewolf, two human—nodded without quite meeting his eyes. They were rough fellows, but they had been in his employ long enough to understand the consequences of failing Duke Gunther di Reinardus.
He sent them on their way and strolled out of the saloon, nodding and smiling to the proprietor, who had good reason to appreciate his taste in fine wines. The smile was a mask, of course. He felt nothing but contempt as he walked out into the street, stepping over sewage and horse droppings and the bodies of men too drunk to sit up, let alone stand.
All humans were scum, hardly worthy of treading the same earth as any werewolf. But even among his own kind there were those no better than the most loathsome dregs of this city. Cort Renier was a perfect example.
Gunther’s lip twitched as he made his way through the mud and filth. He brushed off a whining, dirty child begging for pennies and recalled the conversation. The risk had been considerable, but he had learned much of what he needed to know. He had little doubt now, even before he received the expected reply from New Orleans, that Cort Renier was an independent agent, not a member of the New Orleans clan. His trace of an accent and perfect French told Gunther that his origins were almost certainly in Louisiana, but everything else about the man pointed to inferior blood and breeding.
If Alese had told Renier her assumed name and the location of her relatives, or if he had already guessed who she was, he would now be doubly on his guard. That was only to be expected. Renier had certainly done an excellent job of pretending disinterest in the money Gunther had offered.
But pretense it was. Gunther did not for a moment believe that the man was honorable, nobly and unselfishly committed to guarding an abused girl’s innocence. One of his kind would never act simply out of altruism. It had been far too much money for such a rogue to turn down—unless he believed he could obtain more directly from the girl’s family.
The dirty human whelp stumbled and fell as Gunther pushed him away a second time. His thoughts returned immediately to Renier. Either the man was playing a deeper game than even Gunther could imagine, or he was simply stupid.
That, too, Gunther did not believe. Underestimating the man would almost certainly be a mistake.
Gunther turned the corner into an even more fetid street, attempting to close his nostrils against the stench. Perhaps Renier would think over their conversation and decide to accept the money after all, but Gunther wasn’t taking any chances. His men would dog the rogue’s footsteps and watch his boardinghouse every hour of the day and night. They were under strict orders not to act unless there was a certainty of success. Once a decisive move was made, there might very well never be another opportunity.
Pondering the obstacles that still lay ahead, Gunther slowed his pace. Renier’s boardinghouse was another block along the street, squeezed amidst a row of equally decrepit houses, saloons and bordellos. He cut into a back alley, turned and continued parallel to the street, then turned back again toward the main thoroughfare when he was across from the boardinghouse.
The porch sagged, the colorless paint was peeling from all the walls, and the roof looked on the verge of collapse. A pitiful domicile for any werewolf, especially one who fancied himself a gentleman.
There was no reason why Gunther himself should keep watch; his men would be along soon enough. Still he lingered in the shadows, leaning against the pitted brick wall beside him, and waited to see if anything interesting might happen.
Nothing did. The girl remained hidden, and there was no sign of Renier. Dusk was settling over the Coast and Gunther was preparing to leave when a man emerged from the boardinghouse, plumpish but unmistakably arrogant in his bearing. He looked right and left as he stood on the porch, pulled out his pocket watch and straightened his overcoat.
Even in the gloom of evening, Gunther’s keen wolf eyes picked out the details of the man’s face. He stiffened.
Yuri Chernikov.
Gunther watched the Russian stride away from the house in an obvious hurry. There was something furtive in Chernikov’s movements, in spite of his fast pace. But then, he had always been more rat than man, scurrying from one foul nest of schemes to another.
The wolf in Gunther urged him to pursue, relishing the image of Chernikov cowering at his feet. But he knew better than to give in to instinct without the balancing influence of intellect.
Intellect told him that the seemingly bizarre coincidence of finding the Russian in San Francisco, leaving the very boardinghouse occupied by Cortland Renier, was no coincidence at all. Yuri had been in New Orleans with Gunther eight years ago. Cortland Renier almost certainly came from Louisiana. The two of them might have known each other for years; Gunther had never bothered to vet all of Yuri’s connections once he had found those useful to him.
Gunther chuckled grimly. It was almost amusing. Had Yuri urged Cort to enter the game because he had guessed the girl’s identity, or had he recognized her afterward? He would certainly have known her as soon as he’d seen the birthmark on her back.
He would have realized that she must have escaped his former employer, but he obviously hadn’t suspected that Gunther was also in San Francisco. He would have seen an unprecedented opportunity in her fortuitous appearance.
But had he told Cortland Renier the full truth?
Smiling coldly, Gunther walked back to his hotel. Perhaps it would not be necessary to use violence after all.
YURI WAS GONE.
Aria pushed away from the window and circled the room, counting her steps for the hundredth time. It seemed years since the Russian had told her about her real family, and ever since then she had been able to think of nothing but talking to Cort.
But he hadn’t given her the chance. He’d come home briefly to speak with Yuri—a conversation she hadn’t quite been able to make out—then had left again immediately, as if he wanted to avoid her. She could guess his reason for running away. He didn’t want to explain why he’d kept something so important a secret.
Yuri had claimed they’d just found out who she was, but that didn’t make any sense. Didn’t she and Cort have the same surname? Why, she’d asked, hadn’t he known her identity right away?
Because, Yuri had explained, she and Cort were related in only the broadest sense of the word. The first Reniers had come from Europe centuries ago, but the various clans spread across the United States shared little more than the name itself.
She had wanted to ask more about those clans, but Yuri had shaken his head and changed the subject. He’d told her that she’d been “taken away” from her cousins in New Orleans many years ago, and that they had been looking for her for a very long time. With a terrible hope, she had begged to know if her parents were still alive.
He had told her what Franz had always claimed: that her parents were dead. After that he’d refused to answer any more of her questions.
Aria hugged herself as if she might burst into pieces if she so much as breathed too deeply. She had a surname now, a real identity. She was finally beginning to find out who she was. Who she truly was.
She stopped in the middle of the room