Skin of the Wolf by Sam Cabot Read Free Book Online

was sure she’d enjoy the warmth of his parlor even more.
    That warmth was not prompt in arriving, though. As Thomasjoined her she rang the bell a second time. Ten o’clock was the appointed hour and the first floor was ablaze with light. Where was their host? Livia leaned on the bell, long and hard, in case it was old and unreliable.
    “It’s ringing,” Thomas said. “I hear it.”
    “Me, too.” Livia frowned. Head down, she focused on what her Noantri senses were finding—what she could hear, what she could smell. “Something’s wrong,” she told Thomas.
    “What do you—”
    Thomas’s words were cut off when the door opened. Livia smiled with expectant relief. She found the doorway filled not by Spencer, however, but by a younger, larger man. He stood shoeless. His short black hair was messy, his face scratched. The jacket thrown over his wide shoulders didn’t hide the deeper scratches crosshatching his chest, or the clumsily applied bandages on his left side and shoulder. Mud streaked his slacks.
    “You must be Livia.” His voice was clear and deep. “I’m Michael Bonnard. I’m sorry we’re meeting like this. I know Spencer envisioned something different. But we had trouble tonight—we were mugged coming home. He’s all right but he’s not feeling well. If you don’t mind, I think tonight’s not the right time.”
    Livia looked steadily at him. In his dark eyes a ring of gold surrounded each pupil; they were odd eyes but they seemed kind, his attitude protective, guarding someone he cared for. She liked him right off; still she didn’t move. “I’m sorry, but Spencer’s an old friend and now you’ve made me worried. We’ll just come in and say hello. If he doesn’t want visitors we won’t stay, but I’d like to see him.”
    Spencer was Noantri; almost nothing could truly endanger him, certainly not a common mugging. He’d survive and eventually flourish no matter what had happened tonight. But unpleasantsensations—pain, discomfort—were as heightened by Noantri nature as agreeable ones; and to flourish, depending on the situation, could be a slow path. Livia owed Spencer a great deal and even out here on this landing in this frigid wind she sensed too much pain to allow herself to walk away. “Let us in, please. I’d like to see my friend.”
    “Michael?” Spencer’s voice, weak and rasping, barely carried to the sidewalk. “Is that door open to allow the breeze to soothe my fevered brow? Because I’d prefer a brandy, actually.”
    “Spencer!” Michael Bonnard snapped his head around. “You’re awake.”
    “Spencer,” Livia called, “it’s me. I’d like to come in.”
    “Livia! Michael, you’re keeping my friend waiting in the cold? I hope this is some greeting custom of your people, and not simple discourtesy. Tell me, has she got a priest with her?”
    “What are you talking about? You can’t be thinking you’re dying? You don’t need a priest.”
    “I’ve never needed a priest. I rather like this one, though. Please, let them in.”
    Thomas tugged at his scarf, revealing his clerical collar, as Bonnard said, “Are you sure you’re—”
    “Am I to rise and come to the door myself?”
    “No! No, don’t get up.”
    “Then I beg you to remember whose home this is.”
    Bonnard stood for a moment, focusing on Livia and Thomas a dark and steady gaze. Radiating a reluctance so strong Livia felt it as a wall she had to push through, Michael Bonnard stood aside and let Livia and Thomas into Spencer’s house.

11
    T homas was happy to be indoors and out of the cold.
    He wasn’t sure, though, that he was happy to be in this house. His last experience in a house where Spencer George lived had been one he’d never forget, nor want to repeat. The circumstances here tonight did not portend a relaxed evening of cognac and catching up, either.
    Michael Bonnard led them through the small foyer and under an archway on the left. Open glass doors revealed a