Skin of the Wolf by Sam Cabot Read Free Book Online Page A

high-ceilinged parlor. The house wasn’t among the grandest of Upper East Side residences, but it was comfortable enough, and these days in New York it must have cost a pretty penny.
    In Rome last fall Thomas had been granted a look into the lives of the Noantri—lives ordinary enough to those who lived them, but to Thomas, full of amazements large and small. The finances, for example, of eternal life. One Noantri could exuberantly expend all his resources and find himself facing eternity penniless, while another might husband and invest and grow rich. The Noantri leadership—the Conclave, before whom Thomas had stood in awe—were wise, judicious men and women. Prudent investment over centuries had filled coffers ample enough that any Noantri in need had but to ask.None was refused; what purpose would that serve? This was a policy that Thomas might have wished his own Church, possessed of inestimable secular wealth, would adopt; but Thomas was a Jesuit, devoted to a life of scholarship, forswearing issues of Church governance. Perhaps things were being done as they should be. If not, it wasn’t his place to agitate for change. Certainly not based on a comparison between the hierarchy and rules of the Catholic Church and those of a Community of vampires.
    Spencer George, in any case, had never needed the Conclave’s help. A respected historian of the Noantri people, he had come from wealth, and through the years protected and grown his fortune. The building he’d chosen for his New York home was unremarkable among its neighbors—neither more grand nor more shabby, well kept but, in its context, discreet. In all ways, perfect.
    They entered a parlor of dark blue walls hung with prints and paintings. A Persian carpet covered the floor, various coffee tables and side tables stood about, and two upholstered armchairs matched a sofa on which, propped up by pillows, Spencer George was reclining.
    He looked terrible.
    Spencer George had become Noantri at the age of fifty-two and hadn’t changed in the centuries since. Right now, though, he looked twice that age. The brown of his thinning hair only pointed up the pallor of his skin. Nearly healed but still-visible scratches on his long face echoed the raw, angrier ones on Bonnard’s. A large bandage circled Spencer’s throat and his hands were wrapped like mummies. He didn’t lift his head as Thomas and Livia entered, but he smiled.
    “Livia, my dear. How good to see you. And Father Kelly. It’s been too long.”
    “Oh, Spencer!”
    To Thomas’s ears Livia’s tone conveyed as much exasperation asconcern. Michael Bonnard turned an odd look on her as Spencer said, “Livia, would you mind?” He waved a bandaged hand vaguely. “Downstairs, behind the wine cellar.”
    Thomas didn’t understand what Spencer wanted but Livia clearly did. She turned to Bonnard. “Where’s the cellar door?”
    Bonnard hesitated, then shrugged. “Under the staircase.”
    Livia found the door and disappeared through it. Thomas stood uncomfortably under Bonnard’s dark scrutiny, but didn’t speak. He looked to Spencer for guidance but Spencer’s eyes were closed. Best, then, to keep silent and not add to whatever difficulties were under way.
    The cellar door creaked. Livia returned. “Gentlemen, please. If we might be alone for a few minutes.”
    “I don’t think so,” Bonnard said.
    “Michael, it’s quite all right.” Spencer roused himself to speak. “Livia means me no harm.”
    “Spencer—”
    “Really, Michael, I must insist.”
    Bonnard stared at Spencer long and hard. Spencer, blue eyes watery in his ashen face, looked back calmly. Shaking his head, Bonnard turned and led Thomas back through the archway and down the hall to the kitchen. Behind them Thomas heard Livia shut the curtained doors.

12
    M y God, Spencer.” Livia opened her bag and took out a brown glass bottle the size of a bottle of beer. “What went on?”
    “To tell the truth, I’m not entirely