Somehow, he made it back to Rankeillor Street without shifting.
It was late, and the house was dark and quiet, the servants abed for the night. Drew hadn’t brought the key, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going inside. He went straight to the narrow-walled garden at the back of the house and stripped his clothes off, then unlatched the gate that gave onto the shadowy mews lane where he moved into the deeper shadows to shift.
He had never enjoyed shifting and he didn’t enjoy it now. The sense of being taken over by some alien thing had always troubled him and he fought it, every time. Francis said he seemed to find it harder than most. To Drew, it felt like being born and every time was a difficult birth, with the wolf inside him rushing up aggressively to take over his mind and body.
Was it worse for Drew because he was generally strict about only shifting when he absolutely had to? Sometimes he wondered whether, if he let his wolf out more often, it might be easier. But when he’d asked Francis, Francis had said there were other wolves who, like Drew, only shifted at full moon, so perhaps not. Perhaps it was only that his beast-self was an ungovernable, undisciplined thing.
Drew leaned over, placing his hands on his knees, as though readying himself to vomit—and he did feel nauseous, sick with nerves and sharp, demanding need. He fixed his gaze on the slick cobbles beneath his feet and tried to open up the tight, clenched part of himself that kept the wolf contained, readying himself for the usual painfully slow transition—but this time, his wolf surged, rushing up like a geyser, fast and brutal and powerful, taking over his body with unfamiliar swiftness.
The agony was intense but it passed in a moment, and when he opened his wolf eyes, the world was new. The adamantine glitter of a thousand stars had been hurled across the soft blanket of the night sky, and high overhead a milky moon glowed, one night away from being whole again.
The lure of that moon made his throat ache with an unborn howl.
He had to run.
With a quick, wary glance around, he began to trot down the lane. When he reached the end of it, it was as though he’d come to the end of the human world. The next few yards of ground had some foundations dug, and a few marker stones protruding from the dirt like broken teeth—but then there was nothing.
Ahead of him, Arthur’s Seat loomed darkly, a massive, densely black and hulking shadow.
He began to run in earnest, on light, silent paws, holding in his howl. Soon he was running flat out, bounding up the hill over stony crags and through clumps of gorse, ignoring the distracting scents of rabbits and small scurrying creatures in the undergrowth.
He ran up and up, till he was panting and his tongue lolled from his mouth and he thought he’d fall. And then he ran some more, until his legs did give out and he stumbled, falling hard on his side. He lay there, panting, and still the howl hadn’t come and now it was a hard stone of agony in his belly.
He whimpered. Or rather, his wolf whimpered.
His wolf was mourning.
He pictured Lindsay again, pale and frail. Remembered the disconcerting shocking sense of… absence.
It came to him then. To the wolf.
His mate was dying.
Dumbly, miserably, Drew staggered to his feet and as he did so, the howl finally came, arcing from his throat in a desolate, heartsick song. He lifted his head and out it soared, bleak and sorrowful.
A wild, animal song with teeth and claws and darkness to it.
He began to run again.
He ran blindly, heedlessly, tumbling once down a patch of scree, only to scramble back to his feet and throw himself headlong onwards.
He was not running in the direction of Rankeillor Street now. He was careering down the other side of the hill with a new destination in mind. He ran through the parade grounds at Holyrood then looped around the back of the Calton hill before carefully sidling back into the human world, making for the New Town.
Finally, exhausted, he limped onto Albany Street, and made his way to Lindsay’s neat townhouse. Slinking into the shadows, he sat back on his haunches and stared at the shining front door.
He did not try to shift back to his human form. It was better like this. Everything was much easier.
Time passed. He didn’t know how long, but after a while the shadow of a man appeared at a window and a whine escaped him, soft and pleading.
The figure gazed out into the night for a moment, then turned and vanished.
A minute or two later, the front door opened. Wynne stood there, candle in hand.
Drew had told Wynne he would not come. But he had said it as a man. As a wolf, he was different. Less troubled, more certain—and perhaps Wynne knew that somehow. Drew got to his feet and padded over to the house, slinking up the four steps to the front door and winding past Wynne’s legs to enter the house.
The door closed softly behind them. Wynne said not a word, only turned to mount the stairs and begin to climb. Drew followed, still in his fur. He would stay this way. Stay certain and clear in his thoughts.
When they reached the top of the stairs, he padded down the corridor after Wynne, passing several doors until they reached one near the end. Before he opened it, Wynne dropped down to his haunches, sliding his fingers into the thick fur at the back of Drew’s neck.
He met Wynne’s eyes, a difficult thing to do in his wolf form. It felt like a challenge—something he needed to react to aggressively—but he knew Wynne was doing this because he had something important to say. So he concentrated, making himself listen to Wynne’s foreign, human words, forcing his wolf mind to open up and comprehend them.
“The Wolfsbane in the poultice that he wears next to his skin will not be lethal to you—it’s bound up with other ingredients and some simple magic—but still, it’s best not touch it. It is under the bandages he wears, so leave it there.” He paused, tightening his grip on Drew’s fur, his gaze intense. “What you absolutely must not do is touch the undiluted tincture. There are several containers on his dressing table containing ingredients for the poultice. The tincture is in a blue glass bottle—it’s sealed but leave it alone. There’s enough in there to kill you a hundred times over. Do you understand?”
Drew dipped his head in the best nod he could manage, an awkward, unwolflike gesture he hated making in this form. He was glad to have done so, though, when Wynne, appearing satisfied, got back to his feet and, finally, opened the bedchamber door, allowing Drew to enter.
Drew padded into the bedchamber, nose in the air, scenting. A faint, almost imperceptible smell of profound sickness was everywhere, permeating everything. He had not detected it in his human form but as a wolf he found it obvious and distressing. He gave a soft, unhappy whine. Behind him, the door closed with a soft click.
Lindsay lay on his back in the bed, heaped with covers. His breath was light and wheezy, though it was regular at least. Drew leapt up on to the mattress to investigate further. He was a large wolf and made quite an impact when he landed, his paws leaving muddy prints on the clean linen, yet Lindsay barely stirred, even when Drew padded closer and nosed at the blankets to uncover him a little more. He slept like the dead, his body motionless, his face waxy and pale. Against the translucent skin stretched over his cheekbones, the vulnerable fans of his dark lashes lay still, not even trembling. The only sign he was alive at all was those light, almost imperceptible breaths.
And his scent…
Drew whined, distressed. He could smell death on Lindsay.
Was Lindsay dying?
Drew seized the edge of the bedcover with his teeth and pulled at it, uncovering Lindsay’s torso.
Lindsay barely stirred, even as Drew crept closer, nosing at his body.
Everything about him was achingly familiar, the pale skin, the small, dusky nipples, the trail of dark hair that ran from his navel and disappeared under the bedsheet. But he was different too. Thinner and less well-muscled. Fragile-looking.
Lindsay, fragile. God.
Bandages covered most of his left arm, beginning just below his armpit and continuing all the way down to his wrist. His arm was turned wrist-up, and beneath the white linen, Drew could see the dark shape of the poultice stuff, though none of it seeped through the fabric.
Drew growled to see it. And that was when Lindsay finally woke, coming to with a stuttering gasp, plainly startled by the beast looming over him.
“What the—” he muttered, then blinked hard, twice, and seemed to calm. He levered himself up onto his right elbow before saying, his tone disbelieving, “Drew? What are you doing here?”
Drew looked pointedly at his left arm and growled again, then shoved his head against the offending limb, moving it.
Lindsay’s gaze softened. “I know,” he said, “But it’s necessary. I need to—”
Drew growled again and Lindsay gave a sad smile. He leaned forward, pushed his right hand into the thick fur at Drew’s ruff and pulled him close, resting his forehead against Drew’s neck.
“Drew,” he whispered. “It’s been so long since you came to me like this.”
Drew whined softly, soaking up Lindsay’s presence with uncomplicated pleasure, nosing his short hair in search of those elusive rainwater notes, hating that all he could detect were the clamouring scents of sickness and death.
After a few minutes, Lindsay detached himself and sagged back against the pillows again. He held his bandaged arm out to the side, probably trying to keep it away from Drew. But Drew only picked his way closer and nosed at the bandages, growling. When Lindsay tried to pull away, Drew nibbled at a bit of the linen at his wrist, tugging till he loosened a section.
“No! You mustn’t!” Lindsay cried, shoving at Drew with his right arm and drawing his left one back. “You can’t get any of the poultice in your mouth—it will make you sick.”
Drew gave him a look that would have involved raised eyebrows if he were in his human form, and that was probably distinctly odd on a wolf. Then he moved in again, going again for the loose bit of bandage with his teeth.
“No!” Lindsay snapped and tried to shove him back, but he was weak, and Drew was a wolf, a big, powerful one, and he only pressed closer, ducking his big head under Lindsay’s right arm till Lindsay finally held his hand up in surrender and said, “All right, I understand. You want me to take it off.”
Drew gave a short sharp yelp of agreement and Lindsay sighed. “Very well. Just tonight though, since you’re here. I’m putting it back on tomorrow morning.”
Lindsay swung his legs over the bed and stood, straightening slowly, like an old man. Drew gave a tiny whimper of distress watching him.
Lindsay turned and pointed at him. “Sit there and don’t move while I do this.”
He sat himself down at the dressing table for the operation, pouring water into the washing bowl from the ewer, then laying out scissors and a large square of muslin. The dressing table was, as Wynne had said, crowded with jars and bottles, including a smallish bottle that—while it looked grey to Drew’s wolf eyes—was probably the blue one Wynne had mentioned that contained the Wolfsbane tincture. It struck him as a bluish sort of grey.
So typical of humans, to describe everything according to human senses and expect everyone else to understand. Drew gave a canine huff, causing Lindsay to glance up briefly with a puzzled frown before returning his attention to his arm.
Slowly, methodically, Lindsay worked. He had turned away a little so Drew couldn’t see much of what he was doing, but he did see Lindsay carefully laying the snipped-through bandages and the dried-up pieces of poultice inside the muslin square. Once Lindsay had removed all of it, he fastened the muslin square up into a secure bundle and got up to set it on the fire.
He returned to the dressing table then and set about washing his arm. Drew couldn’t see what he was doing but he noticed Lindsay wincing from time to time as he worked. Finally, he wrapped the limb in a fresh bandage and got up from his chair. He didn’t come back to the bed though. Instead he fetched a large copper kettle from the fireplace and carried it back to the dressing table. He poured the used water from the washing bowl inside the kettle, replaced the lid and carried the kettle back the fireplace. Then he dried the bowl off with another bit of muslin and deposited that and the bundle of used bandages on the fire.
“We have to be careful disposing of the waste,” he told Drew, turning back to him. “Humans are even more sensitive to Wolfsbane than us.” He seemed suddenly shy. “So. What now?”
By way of answer, Drew stood, moving so that the side of the bed Lindsay had been sleeping on was free again. He dipped his head at the mattress.
Lindsay’s lips twisted. “I’m to come back to bed, am I?” He didn’t argue though—he crossed the floor and obediently climbed back in.
It felt good to have him like this, quiet and quiescent. There had been so much conflict between them over the years. It was a relief to be in harmony for once.
Once Lindsay was laid down, Drew studied him. He looked better already, and it had only been minutes since he’d removed the Wolfsbane.
“Are you leaving now?” Lindsay asked. His gaze was soft, his voice wistful.
If he’d been in his human skin, Drew might have been flustered by that, unsure how to respond. He’d probably have said yes, that it was past time he was off. But his wolf self was made of different stuff. His wolf, in fact, considered it an asinine question and not worthy of a response. Drew turned his body three times, following his own tail, then sank down onto the mattress at Lindsay’s side, settling his big head on Lindsay’s thigh.
Lindsay let out a soft huff of surprise. “You’re staying?”
Drew just yawned, closed his eyes and went to sleep.