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  Dolnaraq noticed a change in Tresset’s temperament. His thinking became muddled, his mood continually foul. Though his true need of essence came perhaps every three to four weeks, the attacks were now a nightly occurrence.

  This could not continue indefinitely. Tresset now hunted closer to their home. Soon the authorities would sweep in on him, perhaps, in the process, ensnaring Dolnaraq as well. Though Dolnaraq loved the city, it was clear Tresset could no longer live in such a setting. So Dolnaraq initiated plans to move Tresset cross country. The western regions were still mostly open and only sparsely populated. Initially, Dolnaraq thought perhaps Tresset could escape to Montana or Colorado. But, upon reflection, he thought of how the molt had hated the Siberian winters. Perhaps he would do better further south, Utah, or maybe Nevada. Possibly, he could even align himself with a reyaqc pack. Dolnaraq was certain that if Tresset did find such a community, and if he was not killed on first sight, he would rise to one day be their chieftain. For Tresset had a keen mind, a scheming mind, one full of strategy and will.

  In reyaqc society, ascension was achieved through the killing of the present chieftain. In fact, it was a duty, a responsibility laid upon the victor to then assume that mantle, to care for the pack, to lead and to protect. Yes, this was Tresset’s destiny. Dolnaraq could see this now. It had been foolish to assume otherwise. Dolnaraq would sorely miss his lifelong companion, but each must choose the path meant for him.

  Then came that dreadful evening in late April. It was the time of Monday night washing. Row upon row of linens, undergarments, shirts, and trousers were strung between buildings from each and every window a full six stories high. Dolnaraq was seated near the window of his fourth floor apartment, a large book of early European history in his hands as he gazed out over the fluttering spectacle before him. Suddenly, he heard the clamor of shouts, the racing of feet. Sniffing the breeze, he smelled blood, sweat, adrenaline—and Tresset. The beast had finally come home to roost.

  Moving quickly, Dolnaraq exited the apartment, locking the door behind him. He could not let Tresset lead the police to their home. If Dolnaraq were implicated, all Oskar Kohler’s assets would be frozen. Dolnaraq’s education would cease, he would quite possibly spend years imprisoned because of Tresset’s foolishness. And what then? From whom would he infuse? How long before the prison guards learned his true nature? The two might be executed, or, at the very least, isolated, which, in reality would be just a slower form of execution. For without access to essence, they would each perish in little over a month’s time, less perhaps.

  Dolnaraq cursed himself as he raced down the stairs. He should have sent Tresset on his way months ago. Why had he kept him near? Why had he continued to battle with the muddle-brained molt? Tresset would not listen to reason—even in his most lucid moments he was as bullheaded as a charging rhinoceros. A strange thought occurred to Dolnaraq. He loved Tresset. Not as humans defined love. He wasn’t even sure that reyaqc were capable of that emotion. But there was a bond they shared, perhaps akin to that of siblings. And if it wasn’t love, per se, it was at least a comfort, a familiarity that glued them together despite their growing differences.

  Dolnaraq exited a side doorway leading into the tight alleyway between high-rise apartment buildings. Hundreds of pieces of laundry fluttered above creating a low, almost thunder-like rumble. Leaning his head back, Dolnaraq breathed deeply. There. There was the scent. Tresset had not turned into the apartment building as Dolnaraq feared he might, but had continued past. Perhaps the molt had had a moment’s lucidity and realized the folly of leading the police to his home.

  Dolnaraq raced toward the scent. If asked, he couldn’t have expressed what he hoped to accomplish. This was Tresset’s fight. Dolnaraq had warned him of this inevitability for months. Yet still Dolnaraq raced through the crowded alleyways, bumping into pedestrians and bicyclists, nearly tripping over milk bottles and trashcans. Rounding a corner, he came face-to-face with the conflict. Tresset was on the ground, three uniformed officers over him, two of which pounded on the huddled form with nightsticks.

  Had Dolnaraq taken time to ponder the situation, he might have slunk back into the shadows and let the outcome be what it may. But Dolnaraq acted on instinct—and so, before he could contemplate his actions, he pulled the nearest of the officers away from Tresset’s huddled form. The man whirled on him, cursing, swinging his club, grazing Dolnaraq’s scalp. Blinded by fury, Dolnaraq lurched forward, attaching his teeth to the man’s ear and tearing away to his left. He pulled again, and then again, and now the member ripped free. The man howled as Dolnaraq spit the now-useless flap of flesh onto the gravel alley. But Dolnaraq wasn’t finished. Pulling the frenzied man to him, Dolnaraq bit hard on the Adam’s apple, chomped down, and twisted. The man’s shriek turned to a pathetic gurgle as he dropped to his knees, clinging at his ruined throat, before finally losing consciousness in a widening pool of his own blood.

  There was a sharp thud as a nightstick struck Dolnaraq. But, the reyaqc did not double over, did not cry in pain. A reyaqc’s strength is not superhuman as such, but it is greater than that of the average man, perhaps closer to that of one of the great apes, a gorilla or a full-grown chimpanzee. Three swift maneuvers and a quick twist, and the assaulting officer lay at Dolnaraq’s feet, his neck broken.

  Suddenly it was over. Tresset had disposed of the third policeman. They stood, momentarily alone in the alleyway, onlookers gawking and shouting from both ends, but none willing to come forward. Rising out of his carnal haze, Dolnaraq glared at the carnage about him, at his own bloodied clothing, at the bodies sprawled at his feet, and then his gaze lit on Tresset. “Never!” he shouted. “Never again.” He moved away, separating himself from his former companion. “I am not an animal,” he cried. “I am not an animal!” Then turning, he raced through a nearby doorway, down a corridor, out into the darkened street beyond.

  CHAPTER NINE

  2009

  Shane Daws had a nervous energy, a desire for excitement, maybe even a little adventure. Instead of returning to his room at the Pulitzer Opera Hotel, he’d decided to check out the Paris nightlife, and so landed at a little club only a few blocks from his hotel. The music was vaguely Latin style, the setting neo-gothic. Three large screens flashed scenes from about the club—couples dancing, beautiful girls giggling and drinking, a band playing on a small, mostly-dark stage, bartenders serving drinks. Shane settled at a small round table in a corner and took in the scene. The place was not large; it was very dark, quite smoky, and too crowded. But aside from that, it was very, very French. It just had that feel. This place was true Paris.

  The girl was standing perhaps ten feet distant, talking with a thin, olive-skinned man in a gray beret, and, of all things, sunglasses. Shane wasn’t particularly looking for a girl, but he wasn’t particularly not looking for a girl either. He was in his late twenties, newly single after his second divorce, and seeking adventure. It was only natural that a girl as attractive as this would catch his eye—or had he caught hers? It seemed she may have been studying him before his gaze had landed on her.

  Before Shane could contemplate his approach, she’d moved toward him, now smiling down at him as he sat in his little corner. “Bonjour.”

  “Bonjour,” he replied. He knew very little French and had just exhausted about a tenth of his vocabulary. “Comprenez-vous anglais?” he added, asking her if she spoke English.

  “Bien sur.” She nodded. “My English is passable. You are American?” Her pronunciation was accented, but quite clear.

  “Yeah, American. Guilty as charged.”

  “You are here alone, an attractive man such as yourself? Do you wait for others—a girlfriend perhaps, or a wife?” She tilted her head coquettishly and offered a wry grin.

  “Alone. No wife, not any more at least.” He chided himself immediately for saying the last. “And you?” he added quickly. “Looks to me like you’re with someone.” Shane inclined his head toward the young man with the
beret.

  “Oh, Eudo. My cousin. Do not concern yourself with him. He is here looking for…someone as well.”

  Shane smiled and nodded. Looking for someone as well? Was this beautiful woman trying to tell Shane that she was looking for someone—perhaps a blond American someone? He reached into his pocket, withdrew a stick of spearmint gum, unwrapped it, and slid it between his teeth wishing to God it was a Marlboro. “Well, here’s to hoping you both find what you’re looking for.” Shane lifted his glass in a mock toast.

  The girl smiled. It was that wry smile again; a smile that seemed to hint there was another more dubious smile behind it. Though this registered at some subconscious level, Shane was too enamored to pick up on subtleties. In retrospect, he would note that her facial expressions had a somewhat plastic feel about them, that her accent, while French, held something else behind it, something exotic and truly foreign. And of course, the eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes were only as brown as the brown contact lenses she wore. All of this registered, and none of it did. This was a stunning young woman, and she was interested in him. All nuance was lost in a swirl of hormonal haze. “My name’s Shane,” he said. “I’m here on vacation.”

  “Enchante, Shane. I am Gisele. And I am not on vacation.” She cocked her head. “You travel alone, or alone only tonight?”

  “Alone. I had some time off coming and Paris seemed far enough away from home that I might just relax.” Shane withdrew the gum from his mouth, placed it in an ashtray, and then replaced it with another. He’d picked a terrible time to quit smoking.

  “Time to one’s self is very important to the French,” smiled Gisele. “Did you know that the French work only thirty-five hours per week, and vacation for five weeks each year? Attending to personal time is vital to us.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I’m sure there are many things you do not know about us.” A cock of the head, and that coquettish smile again. “You have money to travel; your attire is new and well made. You must have a professional occupation.”

  “I sell insurance. I do okay.”

  “Insurance. There are licensing requirements, no? Schooling as well. You must have some intelligence.”

  A nervous chuckle. “Well, licensing, yeah. Before that, I eked through college.”

  A nod, a cock of the head. “And you are healthy?”

  “Um… Healthy, uh, yeah. I mean, as healthy as anyone, I guess.” What was this girl doing, screening for a husband?

  “No familial illnesses?”

  “Wow, okay. This is a little weird.”

  Gisele laughed an embarrassed laugh. “Excusez-moi. I am rude. Accept my apologies. It just seemed…” She trailed off as if embarrassed.

  “What?” prompted Shane.

  “Well, you seem—what is that phrase?—too good to be true. You are handsome. I have friends who would love to have a face such as yours. And intelligent. I’m sure those same friends would benefit from your intellectual capacities. As well, you are well-to-do, and yet, somehow single.”

  Shane blushed, but could think of nothing to say.

  After an awkward moment Gisele said, “The air in here is stale and it’s too loud to have civilized conversation. Would you like that we step outside, perhaps to where it is more private?”

  “Um, sure… More private.” Was this really happening?

  Gisele smiled a full smile this time. “Good. Allow me to inform my cousin of what we do. He can become over-concerned.”

  “Of course,” nodded Shane. And the course was set.

  * * * *

  Shane and Gisele strolled south from the club. She had her arm hooked in his, giggled like a teenager, and laughed—perhaps a little too hard—at his jokes. It was drizzling now, a thin mist that wafted through the air, adding a fresh scent to the urban environment. Gisele directed Shane around a corner to the left. Two or three blocks later, they angled right at an intersection. She continued probing, asking about his close acquaintances and family, if anyone in his family had ever had this disease or that. She threw in vague facts about herself, enough, Shane later supposed, to deter him from feeling like he’d been given the third degree. As well, she named streets as they wove from one to another. “We’re now on Rue Montorgueil. The bars are wonderful—very friendly. Oh! This is Rue Cler. The best cheese shops in Paris. Ah, Shane, Rue Poncelet. There is a tea room you must try someday.” It seemed to Shane that perhaps they had been walking in circles. But, he was a foreigner here. Everything seemed different and everything seemed the same. He wasn’t sure, at this point, if he could even begin to backtrack. And as it turned out, this was exactly as Gisele had intended. She’d named several frivolous boulevards, none of which were even in the same arrondissement, or neighborhood, as they traversed. This way, when Shane was released—assuming he survived—he would be disoriented and confused, and in no way capable of directing authorities back to Gisele and her companions.

  Eventually, they made their way to a small, brick, two-story apartment building that sat near the top of a rolling avenue. “This is my home. If you are interested, you may come inside.”

  Shane was interested, and followed her down the two concrete steps and in through the narrow wooden doorway. The entranceway was dark, the smell musty. Paint peeled from the plaster walls, and a single flickering bulb illuminated the space from a narrow corner alcove. A young man wearing too-large clothing squatted against one wall smoking a filterless cigarette. He stared at Shane and smiled as the couple crossed the threshold. The lighting was poor, but there was something about the man’s eyes. Something that seemed…

  “My apartment is on the second level,” said Gisele before Shane could complete his thought. Then she led him up the steep staircase. For the first time, Shane wondered if perhaps this hadn’t been such a great idea. Here he was in a foreign city, essentially lost, and following a stranger into her apartment. Gisele was beautiful. She was exotic, exciting, but also somewhat odd. It was now that Shane began to think about her oft-peculiar or forced facial expressions, about her numerous questions concerning his health and finances, about the circuitous route they’d taken to her apartment. He opened his mouth to offer some lame excuse as to why he should leave, but she was already pulling the door open, smiling back at Shane with that oh-so-beautiful smile. She took his hand in hers and drew him in.

  It was then Shane knew without doubt that he should have fled when he had the opportunity.

  There were five of them—four men and one woman, all very peculiar in their bearing, all staring at him with eyes that might just as easily have been pearls. In addition, the young man Shane had seen in the entranceway now stood behind him blocking his exit.

  “These are my friends.” Gisele stepped away from Shane. “They are pleased to meet you.”

  Terror seized Shane as he gazed from one to the other to the other and each stared back at him as a lion would an injured gazelle.

  All were young. All wore loose-fitting clothing, nothing stylish, nothing that would draw attention to themselves. They were thin, hungry looking. A couple seemed too pale to be healthy. Of course there were the eyes, those strange, strange eyes staring at Shane through pupils barely larger than flecks of pepper. One of the males, an unshaven youth with straggly brown hair and a missing front tooth smiled at Shane from the old threadbare couch on which he reclined. “Bon soir,” he said. Good evening.

  Eudo, Gisele’s “cousin” from the club, was the first to approach. He no longer wore his sunglasses and his white soapy eyes confused and frightened Shane. Eudo was not tall, nor was he bulky. Shane was athletic, and felt he may be able to “take” Eudo in a fair fight. But the odds weren’t fair, and Shane knew better than to aggravate the situation.

  “This will hurt,” said Eudo. The voice was heavily accented and not without compassion. “I apologize.”

  Shane made to move, to bolt from the scene, but the one in the doorway anticipated his move and grabbed him from behind in a fierce bear
hug. Eudo stepped closer, his murky white eyes intent on Shane.

  Even as Shane screamed and thrashed, Eudo seemed to contemplate his face, to study his features. “Gisele was right. I would like to have your face.” With an almost boyish smile he then extended his right arm, reached behind Shane’s neck. There was a sudden puncturing sensation, the quick snap and burn as something penetrated his spinal column…

  And there was most definitely pain.

  * * * *

  Shane found consciousness a very dubious commodity. It would come, and then flee. It would tickle at the edge of his mind, but never come fully into being. It seemed red clouds swirled before his eyes, drawing near, and then dispersing into haze, then reforming at the edge of his vision, only to repeat the process. A single dull tone sat in his ears, neither increasing nor decreasing in volume, simply remaining, unceasing, maddening. Strange scents tickled at his nostrils, something of the sea it seemed, oysters perhaps. But no. Something more peculiar. Something unknown. His entire body ached. Even the slightest movement seemed beyond his ability. But worse, he could not…seem…to…stay…awake.

  His eyes fluttered open, perhaps for the twentieth time. His stomach knotted. He retched, but there was nothing to expel. Someone sat beside him, patting at his forehead with a cool damp cloth. She came into focus. Gisele. But a different Gisele. Her eyes were as white as had been her companion’s. And her face was…different. Not much, just… The lips, perhaps a bit fuller, the ears, a tad larger.

  Shane chided himself for stupidity. He was delirious. A person’s features don’t change. Not without surgery or with the passage of time. She patted his head again and smiled her black widow’s smile. “Ca va?” she asked. “How are you?”

  Shane attempted to respond, but could accomplish nothing more than a grunt, which was probably for the best. For if he’d had the ability to speak, the words would have been less than gracious. Once again, she patted his forehead with the cloth, and then Shane was gone.