Wolf's Clothing Page 2

  “Excellent idea.” I’ll leave the room. I’ll leave the house. I’ll leave the whole damned state! He stalked out into the foyer and ran up the staircase, his father’s voice echoing behind him.

  “You want to know when I’ll take down that memorial? When I’m convinced my son isn’t dead to me!”

  Trent stumbled on the last step. Jesus.

  His therapist thought he was shielding his kidnapper; the police thought he was covering for an accomplice; and his own father thought he’d kidnapped himself for some never-demanded ransom.

  The worst part was, he couldn’t tell any of them the truth. How could he convince them that a cheesy paranormal investigation show had gotten it exactly right? Nobody would buy anything that unbelievable.

  Except for one person. Logan.

  Trent’s birthday was on Friday—he wasn’t sure if it counted as the twentieth or the twenty-seventh, and no way was he celebrating it alone except for his parents and one of the housekeeper’s heavy cakes.

  Damn it, he’d spend the day in Portland with Logan, the only person on the planet who knew he wasn’t insane, hallucinatory, or a goddamn fucking criminal.

  Christophe Clavret studied his reflection in the full-length mirror. This new jacket wasn’t quite what he’d imagined when he’d discussed it with his tailor. Was the cut a trifle too snug? The tailor his family had used since before he was born had retired, and the man who’d taken over the business had more modern notions of fashion than the old fellow had.

  He rather liked this silhouette, though, and the suit had arrived with flattering speed, considering it’d had to be shipped from Vienna to Portland. One of the only acceptable benefits of being the heir to his family’s import-export business, in his opinion, was the ability to navigate the intricacies of international shipping.

  He turned and checked his back. Hmm, he’d have to get his shirts replaced—the old pattern was too bulky under the slim fit of the jacket, but he’d found a local tailor whose work he liked. His father would never approve, neither of the new suit style nor the blasphemy of using an American tailor.

  All the more reason to order a half-dozen shirts from the local shop immediately. Perhaps the next suit from there as well. If he—

  His doorbell chimed, and he frowned at his reflection. He wasn’t expecting visitors, and he’d left orders with the front desk that he didn’t wish to be disturbed. Acquainting himself with a new suit was not an activity to rush, nor was it one he wished to share with strangers. It was very unlike the security team to ignore his instructions. Since his family owned the condominium building, the staff was usually too deferential for his liking.

  He strode down the hall into the entryway and peered through the spyhole. Mother of God. His father and brother. No wonder the guards had waved them through.

  Christophe threw open the door. “Papa. Anton. What are you two doing in Portland?”

  “Conversing with you in English, it appears.” Anton chuckled as he escorted Henri into the flat with a hand under the old man’s elbow. “If you bothered to read your emails, mon frère, you would know that we’re in town for an international commerce symposium.”

  “Then English conversation is good practice for you.” He closed the door and followed them into the living room.

  “I see. So your refusal to speak French is entirely for our benefit. Very considerate.” Anton settled Henri into the wingback chair Christophe kept just for him. “Was your absence from the opening day’s events a gift to us as well, to give us practice in the American way of networking? Or could you simply not be bothered to open your messages?”

  Christophe grinned at his brother. “Have you considered that perhaps I study my email very closely indeed? Those gatherings are nothing but pointless chatter, over things that matter little. I prefer to avoid them whenever possible. I advise you to do the same.”

  “That is no way to talk, mon fils.” Henri rested his hands on the silver wolf’s head handle of his cane. “You missed a very satisfying session. We’ve finessed a most favorable trade agreement with the Portuguese, despite interference from that impudent pup, Etienne Melion.”

  “If you had to deal with Etienne, I’m even more pleased I wasn’t there.”

  “Bah. You cannot avoid him forever. Now that he’s taken over Melion GmbH from his father, you’d best learn to handle him. Understanding the nuances of such negotiations will be critical when you assume control of our company from me.”

  Christophe winced inwardly. His father might not notice the tightening of Anton’s jaw whenever Henri brought up the archaic succession plan for Clavret et Cie, but Christophe caught it. Every time.

  Anton lived and breathed the business, but would never inherit it as long as Henri insisted on adhering to the outdated tradition that decreed the CEO must be a true Clavret son.

  In other words, only a male who could transform into a wolf was allowed to captain the company.

  Christophe carried the damned genetic mutation that meant he qualified. Anton did not. No matter that Anton was twenty times better at the corporate dance than Christophe; no matter that Christophe’s vocation lay in another direction. In their father’s eyes, their fates had been sealed at the moment of their conception.

  “Papa, we’ve discussed this. Don’t you think—”

  Henri held up his hand, his golden eyes flashing even dimmed with age as they were. “I know you once had other dreams, mon fils, but I also know you will never disappoint me.” He snapped his fingers. “Anton, give the files to Christophe?”

  “Of course, Papa.” Anton opened his briefcase and withdrew a tablet. He woke it with a swipe and handed it to Christophe.

  Christophe stared at the screen, which displayed the pictures of several young women. “Surely these two are Gemma and Natalie Merrick? When I came to America, they hadn’t left school for university yet. They appear to have done well.” His lips twisted in disgust. “The Melion sisters, however . . .” Amazing how those three poisonous personalities were so accurately conveyed in a single image. The photographer must have cared for them as little as Christophe did.

  “Your brother was not entirely accurate as to the reason for our visit. Since we have been unsuccessful in convincing you to quit America and assume your traditional responsibilities, we have brought your responsibilities to you.”

  “Papa, you know I prefer coordinating the American side of the business. I like it here.”

  Henri waved a hand. “Bêtise. Any underling can manage such things. You are to be CEO, mon fils. You should be back in Vienna, attending meetings with me, learning the details of our company. Or home in Nantes, where your comfort can be seen to much better than in this paltry place. You have spent so many years here that our rivals, our peers, do not know your face. You even begin to sound like an American.”

  “America is an important market.”

  Henri’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “Yet that is not why you persist in remaining, is it? You think I don’t monitor your expenses? You have been dabbling again. Biology. Genetics. Bah. There is nothing to learn that we haven’t known for centuries.

  We don’t know how to fix ourselves. “Let us leave that conversation for another time. Tell me instead why I have a slate full of pictures of all the women from the Old Families save ours.”

  Henri chuckled. “Well you could hardly mate with one of your cousins.”

  “Mate?” Christophe’s breath faltered. “I have no intention of—”

  “Christophe. Enough. I have indulged your fancy since you left university, but the time has come for you to embrace your destiny. You need to return home. Assume your rightful place as my heir. Sire the next true Clavret son.”

  Christophe ran a shaking hand through his hair. “Even were I inclined to marry a woman—which I am not—I would never risk a child. And certainly not with any of these women, who have a much greater chance of carrying the defective gene.”

  His father bridled, thrusting his jaw out. “T
he gene is not defective. It is what makes us who we are.”

  “You are wrong, Papa. It made us who we were. But in today’s world, the mutation is a disability. How many times has Anton had to step in for you because you were ‘unavailable’—at the chateau, coursing through the woods in pursuit of a hare or a deer?”

  “It should not have been Anton. It should have been you.”

  “What if the compulsion had taken us both at the same time? Modern business moves rapidly. It doesn’t await the pleasure of the baron as feudal society did. It has already left us behind, and will leave us further if you persist in clinging to the old ways.”

  Henri’s knuckles tightened on the head of his cane. “I will not hear this.”

  “You must. Anton is far more qualified to take over the company than I. Furthermore, he wishes to do so. I do not.”

  “Anton is not a true Clavret,” Henri bellowed.

  Christophe glanced at his brother, but Anton had turned his back, apparently busy with something in his briefcase. Christophe knew the tension in those shoulders, though. He’d witnessed it often enough throughout their lives when his father or uncle had given him, the younger son, preference over Anton, simply because Christophe was a damned throwback.

  “Papa, we’ve discussed this. I’ve learned this much through my genetics studies. All male descendants carry the gene. The Y chromosome is passed unchanged from father to son. Anton is as likely to sire another mutant boy as I am.” For which reason, I hope he never marries.

  “Then why are not all sons true Clavrets? Why is Anton as mundane as any man not of our lineage?”

  “I know it can be confusing, but remember the gene is what is called dose-dependent. It can only be expressed if the X chromosome of the mother also contains the gene. But X chromosomes recombine, unlike the Y, which is unchanged. Anton’s mother did not pass it on to him. Mine did.” And she died for it. “Our semen doesn’t produce as many Y sperm, either.” Another present from our distant cursed ancestor. “That is why so few sons are born in each generation. Why,” he tapped the tablet’s screen, “the Merricks have no male in this generation. Why my cousins are all female. Why even the Melions have only a single male.”

  “Enough about Xs and Ys. Etienne may be an insolent connard, but he is aware of what is owed to his family. He is in negotiations with the Merrick family and expects to wed by the end of summer.”

  Christophe raised his eyebrows. “Gemma or Natalie?” Both women were intelligent, independent—or at least had been when they were younger and he’d seen them on a regular basis. Could one of them have had the ill luck to fall in love with that sadistic bastard?

  Henri flicked his fingers. “It hardly matters. Whichever one is dutiful enough to accept her responsibility to our heritage.”

  “Mother of God, it’s the twenty-first century. We shouldn’t be bartering brides as if they were no more than brood mares.”

  “It is how we have always done it. How we protect our lines. The girls know what is due to their families. As should you.”

  “Even if I were attracted to women—”

  “You had little trouble while you were at university.”

  “Yes, but I prefer men nowadays.”

  “Why should that matter? By nature, our kind are bisexuels. It is one of the ways we prove our worth, maintain our power.”

  “Once upon a time, perhaps. But we can hardly fuck a business rival into submission, Papa.”

  Henri’s grin could only be described as wolfish. “So you say.”

  That is not something I want to know about my father. “Be that as it may, I will not marry one of these women.” Or any other. Who knows how far our ancestor’s genetic defect has spread? Or the Merricks’ or the Melions’? “I can’t understand why any of them would agree to such an arrangement in this day and age.”

  Anton snorted. “Not all are as fortunate as you, Christophe, with your mother’s money at your back to give you independence. The other families are arranged exactly as ours is. The girls’ inheritance is held in trust, only released to them if they mate with a man from the Old Families.”

  “And that compensates them for a one-in-ten risk of death in childbirth?”

  “Who are you to judge if they choose those odds rather than a life of certain penury?”

  “Hardly penury. They’re as capable of earning their own way as anyone.”

  “It may seem a hardship, though, after a life of privilege. Besides, you’ve said it yourself. The world has changed. Science has advanced. The risks—”

  “Remain.” Christophe held his brother’s gaze. “Anton, would you agree to such a match?”

  Anton glanced down at his hands, bare of any rings—no wedding band, and no heavy gold signet such as Christophe wore, the badge of his role as the heir. “I don’t have your prospects. None would have me, even if I chose. Not while you’re available.”

  “But I’m not.” I never will be.

  Henri thumped the carpet with his cane. “Mon fils, please. I am old. I cannot continue to lead as I have in the past, and our company, our family will suffer. You must come home.”

  Ah God. The I’m old gambit. His father was extraordinarily adept at wielding filial blackmail. If only I weren’t so susceptible. “Papa—”

  “Not another word. You will return home. You will choose a bride. You will do your duty as each Clavret man has done since the first baron.”

  “But the American offices—”

  “Anyone can do that. Anton can stay.”

  At Anton’s flinch, Christophe clenched his fists. “Papa, Anton is not anyone. He’s head of logistics.”

  “And you are the next CEO. But I—” He stood, hands braced on his cane, but with his spine straight, his shoulders thrown back. He looked Christophe square in the eyes—they were exactly the same height, several inches shorter than Anton. Another gift from our ancestor. The stature of a medieval man. “I am the current CEO, and I am reassigning you to the Vienna office. Permanently.”

  “Papa—”

  “Enough, Christophe. If you do not obey, I will shut down the American operations.”

  Anton’s head jerked up. “Papa, the revenues from this market count for over half our profits. You can’t—”

  “I can, and I will if I must. What are profits when our heritage is at stake? I’d rather liquidate the entire company than leave it in the hands of any but a true Clavret.” Henri glared at Christophe. “So you see, if you persist in destroying our family, you risk destroying our business too. Is that the legacy you want?”

  Christophe bit back a bitter retort. Now is not the time for this fight. “Of course not.”

  Henri nodded, a decisive jerk of his chin. “Good. The private jet is at the airport. We leave tomorrow at ten.”

  “No. My friend’s wedding is on Saturday, and I intend to be there for him. Afterward—” He shared a glance with Anton. “Afterward, I will come home and do as you say.” At least for as long as you are with us.

  But the instant they laid Henri to his final rest, Christophe would turn everything over to his brother. In the meantime, he had less than a week of freedom. He intended to make the most of it.

  “Very well. When—” Henri sniffed and Christophe froze. “When did you shift last?”

  “A while ago. It is no matter.”

  “It is. You are depending too much on the suppressant. It is not good for you. It is not how we were meant to live.”

  “No. We were meant to live as wolves three days out of seven. Will you insist on that?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, but one day out of fourteen is not excessive. How long has it been?”

  Christophe stared at his hands, their tremor more noticeable now, the light winking off his signet. “Six weeks.”

  “Six weeks?” Henri rarely used his alpha voice, but now it rang in Christophe’s brain, activating his submissive response. He ducked his head. “It’s a wonder you can still think, let alone walk and talk. No
body has ever gone six weeks before.”

  Nobody has ever wanted to before. Had I a choice, I would go forever without shifting.

  “It is nothing, Papa. The suppressant does its job.”

  “Where did you last shift?”

  “I took a weekend off and flew up to the cabin in Fairbanks.”

  “Who went with you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Christophe. You know how dangerous that is. You must promise me to always take someone as guard. As backup.”

  The alpha timbre had returned to Henri’s voice, compelling Christophe’s obedience. “I . . . I promise, Papa.”

  “Good.” Henri cast an appraising glance at Christophe’s new jacket. “Is that a new suit?”

  “Yes. Do you like it?”

  Henri sniffed. “It won’t do. I’ll order another for you from Gottschalk.”

  “No, Papa.” Christophe had the same alpha potential as his father, and he injected a bit of it in his response. He could at least be master of his own clothing. “I prefer this one. I shall keep it. In fact, I’ve decided to order several more in a similar style. From an American tailor.”

  Christophe held his breath, but Henri’s eyes twinkled appreciatively. “So. You are capable of a challenge after all. Keep your suit, then, but I don’t understand why the classic style won’t do for you.”

  “Perhaps it’s time for a new classic.”

  “We shall see. I expect you in the Vienna office on Monday.”

  “Wednesday.”

  Henri raised one silver eyebrow. “Christophe—”

  “Riley’s wedding party lasts the weekend. With travel and the time difference, I can’t commit to earlier than that.”

  “Very well. Wednesday. Anton, forward Christophe the agenda.” Henri squeezed Christophe’s shoulder. “We have much to discuss.”

  Trent stepped onto the escalator that led down to baggage claim at the Portland airport, his hands deep in the front pocket of the same PSU hoodie he’d worn the last time he’d been here—the same PSU hoodie he’d worn for seven years under his phantom pioneer costume. Any sane person would probably have burned the damn thing at the first opportunity, but it was all Trent had left from his old life and he clung to it like a toddler to a security blankie. Because seriously? Sometimes the real world was freakier than his supernatural prison, and by everyone’s account, he and sanity weren’t totally reacquainted.