Chapter 3

 

Thierry rose at dawn, stretched, and walked into the forest to hunt.

He had dreamed all night. Running, as always, only this time when he had come upon the man in the trees, the man had shifted back into a wolf and run with him, just as they had done in actuality. In the dream, they had run side by side, then one leading, then the other. They had jumped and barked and skittered in circles. They had rolled in the snow, twisting to corkscrew through its fluffy chill, growling in delight. They had tussled. They had chased and been chased. They had found themselves, over and over, tangled, pinned. Each time, Thierry had reached with his tongue to lap at the other wolf’s nose. The other wolf had always jerked its head away and bolted.

And the dream had started over.

Now, here he was. He had found his man, this figure who had graced his dreams for months, for the breadth of a continent. Thierry had found him. He lay inside that cabin. With any luck, he wasn’t currently loading his shotgun in anticipation of Thierry’s return to his doorstep.

The man—Dmitri—had left his door unlocked, but Thierry hadn’t been able to bring himself to take advantage. He had been, as the night had worn on, increasingly crippled with doubt. And it felt strange. He didn’t like doubt. He fucking hated doubt. But now that he was here, had found Dmitri… he didn’t know how to proceed.

It felt like fate, but fate wasn’t something a man popped on another at first sight.

Hello. I’ve been dreaming about you since last Christmas. I tracked you. I’ve found you. Let’s have dinner.

He grunted. Digging in the snow, he sniffed. Scenting breath and blood, he stood still for a long moment. Then he dug furiously, breaking through a crust of snow housing the rabbit’s burrow and caught it in his teeth. He ate without thought except that he was hungry—starving suddenly—and didn’t stop until a single scrap of fur lay on the tumbled snow under his chin.

He was still hungry, but whatever other creatures had shared the habitat had fled, and he no longer had the will to seek them out. His mother’s voice came into his mind. Don’t gobble. She had said so to him too many times to count. He couldn’t remember her ever admonishing his older brother Guillaume the same way. He left the forest to return to the cabin.

He shifted at the truck and dressed. His clothes were cold, some patches stiff where his sweat in the fabric had frozen. He shivered, jogging in place to warm them, threw his coat over his shoulders. The front door stared at him for a couple of maddeningly uncertain seconds before the latch dipped under his thumb. He stepped into the warmth inside.

Holy virgin, it smelled good.

Sounds of cooking came from his right. Rounding the wall of the entryway, he discovered a counter with a coffee pot blipping at the far end. Dmitri stood at the range, intent on whatever he was preparing. Thierry had only a few seconds to admire him before he turned.

God, his eye. It was ringed in a purple that had Thierry’s name on it. He itched to soothe it but didn’t dare move.

“Hungry?”

“I just ate.”

Dmitri quirked an eyebrow. “Still hungry?”

“Yes,” he breathed, because at that moment, bread popped from the toaster, and the thought of melted butter on his tongue—

“Hey.”

Dmitri was looking at him, hard.

“I have a hell of a lot of questions, and you’re going to answer them. But we’ll eat first. Agreed?”

He nodded.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. Grab a shower if you want. This’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

Thierry found the small room and closed himself in. Gripping the edge of the vanity, he willed his hands to stop shaking. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, and he wasn’t even completely certain what the man’s welcome meant. He was either an idiot or he had a charitable streak. Who knew what he thought? He had every right to think Thierry insane, but he hadn’t scented fear just now. Dmitri had seemed uncertain but determined. Determined to get answers. Thierry turned on the tap and splashed his face, wondering just how many answers he could offer.

When he emerged, Dmitri still moved about the kitchen. Two plates rested on the counter. The kitchen shared a large open space with a great room. Overhead, the ceiling consisted of the beams and rafters of the roof and the plank decking on top, knotty and dark. The wood didn’t look new, exactly, but not old either. Lived in. He wondered how long the other man had lived here. A rack hung at the ceiling, the rope from its pulley tied to the wall next to the wood stove. That rested on a broad platform of stone, its pipe traveling most of the height of the wall before turning to push through it. Facing the stove sat a sofa, a wide, deep leather piece that looked very comfortable. A coffee table held a few books. At the rear wall, under a window, stood a desk. Its surface was a wreck of papers and a desktop computer. Even to Thierry, who never used one, the machine looked ancient, a faded hulking thing whose screen appeared green in its silent state.

“Breakfast.”

They carried their plates to a small table and sat. Thierry took a moment to gaze at the heap of food on his plate: eggs, with savory bits in them—onions? garlic?— toast glistening with melted butter, two thick rounds of sausage, crisped around the edges, and potatoes, fried golden and still sizzling. God help him, he almost plowed his face into the plate. Only his mother’s strict voice saved his dignity, leading his hand to pick up his fork like a civilized part-human and eat without growling.

Well, all right. He growled.

“Good?”

Thierry swallowed a huge mouthful of food and nodded. “Yes, thank you. It’s delicious.”

Dmitri nodded and took another bite. His eyebrows were drawn in a frown, and Thierry couldn’t blame him. He had shown up like a crazy person, what his mother would call—had called him, on several occasions— a fou bleu. She always pronounced the bleu as the silly American bloo, as if his craziness had affected her ability to speak the mother tongue. He missed her badly at that moment, would have given anything to have her standing behind his chair as he tried to explain himself to this man.

Thierry stole glances at him as they ate. The morning light picked out the silver strands in his hair, the rest of which was dark brown, almost black. His beard was full, though not the big, bushy style so popular with the fake lumberjacks in the cities. Dmitri’s was neatly trimmed, and almost completely gray. His eyebrows were still dark. Just now they gave his face a tension that, though Thierry wished he hadn’t caused it, did lend his expression an attractive, brooding quality. He wore a sweater over a t-shirt, both worn and comfortable-looking, and jeans. His shoulders were broad, sheltering a muscular chest. The sleeves of his sweater were pushed back, revealing thick hair on his forearms. It looked soft. His hands—

Were still, his fork hovering over his plate. Thierry looked up to find Dmitri watching him.

The man set down his fork and took a swig of his coffee. “Do you need more? You’ve shifted twice since you… showed up.”

Thierry glanced down at his plate. It was empty. He tried hard to remember if he had licked it clean because it looked as though he might have. He set down his fork. “No. Thank you.”

“So.” Dmitri held his coffee mug in both hands. “What’s your name?”

Mon dieu, his mother would kill him. “Thierry,” he said. “Thierry Marrou.”

“Yeah, I got the Marrou part.” Dmitri considered him. “Thierry. You’re French?”

His spine drew up straight, an automatic reaction to the question. “I am Québécois.”

“So, French Canadian,” the other man said, unperturbed.

“Québécois,” Thierry murmured.

“Why are you here, Thierry from Québec? You’re a long way from home.”

“I’ve had many homes.”

“That’s not an answer.”

It wasn’t. It was the kind of petulant response his mother—

He needed to stop thinking about his mother.

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

Dmitri’s eyebrows rose. “Future tense? Because that’s already happening.”

Future tense. Who spoke like that? “I dreamed about you,” he said. No, that didn’t sound insane.

“What?”

“I dreamed—” He stopped, took a deep breath. “About the time of last Christmas, I had a dream. I was a wolf. I was running through a forest. I was… drawn to something. When I woke up, I was lying on the floor, against the wall.”

“So you came here?”

“No.” He shot a dark look at the man, who only raised that infuriating eyebrow.

“I didn’t give it a second thought. But then it happened again. I had the dream, felt drawn, woke up on the floor, against one wall. It happened three times in my flat. Then we traveled for a game, and it happened in the hotel room. It kept happening. Then it happened at a mate’s house. One morning I realized that every time I woke up, I was huddled against the western wall of the room. So I left. And I went west.”

“And came here?”

He shook his head. “I went to the next city. Joined the team—”

“Wait, are you a professional hockey player?”

“Yes. Bien, I was.” No need to tell him just how professional.

Or how unprofessional.

“So I took up with another team, and the dreams continued. No matter where I slept”— Dmitri’s eyes narrowed at that; Thierry ignored them— “I woke up against the western wall. It happened even when I couldn’t have said which direction was west. I kept moving.”

“You put a lot of stock in dreams.”

“It was too much to be coincidence. Don’t you think?”

“We’re not talking about me.”

Fair enough. “They compelled me. As I moved westward, the dreams became more vivid, more detailed. I could feel the snow under my feet, smell the winter forest, even when I was stuck in Alberta during the hottest summer on record, and…” He bit his lip. “There was a wolf in the dreams. And then, a man.”

No reaction, except a subtle shift of shoulders.

“In each dream, I came to a tree under which a man stood. His head and shoulders were hidden by the branches, but his hand, always it was like this.” He demonstrated, palm up and forward. “Welcoming me. When I entered Alaska, I saw his face for the first time.” He hesitated, but then charged forward. “He had your face.” He hid his own face in his coffee mug.

Silence. A long, dragging silence that brought his gaze back up to search the other man’s face.

It held no belief whatsoever. “Quite a story. You should write novels.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s incredible.”

“It is—” he started, thinking he meant what most English speakers did when they used that word. Then he saw it on the man’s face, the irony. Not for his choice of words, but for their context. He’d said incredible because its French equivalent meant unbelievable.

“It’s true,” Thierry said.

Dmitri inhaled deeply and huffed it out. “So?”

“So… what?”

“So, what do you expect? You claim to have found me. I’ve gotta tell you, your story is intensely creepy.”

“I’m not a creep.” At Dmitri’s expression, Thierry pointed at him. “Don’t say incredible.”

“What would you think?”

He slumped against his chair. “That I am a creep.”

“So.”

“So.”

“I live here alone.”

“Yes.”

“I have for a long time. It works for me.”

“What do you do?”

Dmitri looked surprised for a moment, then tipped his head. “I’m a writer.”

“Oh.” He glanced to the computer. That made sense. “You live here, and you write?”

“Yes.”

“That seems lonely.”

The man’s jaw tightened. “It works for me,” he said again.

Thierry suspected it didn’t entirely work for him. He sought a new direction. “Look, Dmitri. Thank-you for breakfast.”

Dmitri nodded.

“I am… impulsive, that is true. And sometimes I make decisions with parts of me other than my brain.” When Dmitri’s mouth quirked in another infuriating way, Thierry added, “Such as my heart.” And his penis, but he would not give the man the satisfaction. “Not the sappy, lovey part of my heart, the intuitive part. Do you understand?”

Dmitri’s face softened slightly. “I understand.”

“I come on strong.”

“I noticed.”

His black eye. “I’m sorry. I wish I could blame the wolf in me for that—”

A small grunt stopped him. Dmitri shrugged. “Maybe you can. Have you ever been to Alaska before? Or this far north at all?”

“No.”

“It affects shifters differently. The atmospheric activity, the moon cycle, the sun cycle. Have you felt less control since you got here?”

“Yes,” he said, intensely relieved. “Nearly insane.”

“It can take some getting used to. Some people adjust, some don’t. You’re likely to feel like you’re in rut constantly.”

“I do.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to the north.”

“Thank you.”

Dmitri gave him an odd look. “For a loon, you’re very polite.”

“Ma mère. She insists.” Desperate to demonstrate his civility, he rose and gathered the plates and cutlery, carried them to the kitchen sink. “She raised me.”

“Does she know you’re here?”

“No.”

“How old are you?”

Thierry wheeled on him. “Twenty-seven, and how old are you?”

“Older than twenty-seven.” The rueful twist to Dmitri’s mouth clearly said he felt too old for some reason, and Thierry felt a surge of need to comfort the man.

“You’re exactly the right age,” he said.

“What?”

“Hm?”

Dmitri’s eyes narrowed. “Did you know your father?” he demanded.

“No.”

“Is this a daddy thing?”

“A daddy thing?” he asked, playing for time. He knew what daddy meant in this case, but he needed a moment to think. Was it a daddy thing?

“Are you looking for a replacement?”

Replacement sounded as though Dmitri had bitten the word off a hunk of dried meat.

“No, I’m not.” He hoped. “As I said, I felt compelled. I know it’s difficult to believe, and I can assure you it’s even more difficult to explain. And I know that you live alone for a reason, and that I have no right to ask…”

“But?”

“But… I crossed North America to meet you. I would like to know you better before I have to leave again.”

Dmitri stared, and Thierry was almost overwhelmed by the urge to run, to turn tail and sprint out the front door and never look back.

“Can you make yourself useful?”

“Useful?”

“This is when I write. After breakfast. If you can make yourself useful, quiet, or scarce… we can talk again at lunch.”

“I can do that.” He grabbed for something to say. “Laundry,” he snatched from the ether. “Do you need anything laundered? I should wash my clothes.”

“Sure. In the bathroom closet. Quietly,” he warned.

“Quietly,” Thierry whispered, then winked at him.

His silver wolf scowled.

Perhaps the wink was premature. “I’ll do these first,” he said, turning on the hot tap over the dishes. “Quietly.”

After a moment, the other man nodded and crossed to his desk.