His back was to me, and he was on the telephone. His voice was clipped and authoritative as he said, “Yes, all right. And I expect it right away. I’ll be at this extension for another ten minutes.”
He hung up the phone and swung around in the chair to face me, scowling. I caught my breath.
It was Noel Duprey.
CHAPTER TWO
Noel
You wouldn’t know me—not unless you are a king, minister or mogul in the world of human business and finance…or perhaps a fashion model or a rock singer or another member of the beautiful, fun-loving set with whom I used to roam. And even then you wouldn’t really know me. You wouldn’t know what I am.
My name is Noel Duprey. I like my music loud, my cars fast and my women leggy. I hate carrying a briefcase. Until six months ago, I was vice president in charge of research and development of Clare de Lune Perfumes, and I ran my division in accordance with my personality—brilliantly, creatively and with a great deal of laissez-faire.
It may surprise you to know I held a position of such responsibility, but I come from a family of high achievers. I was also, if I may say so, a very good chemist and an inspired researcher; no one gets to be a vice president in the St. Clare Corporation without demonstrating exceptional ability.
The fact that I could have achieved so much so young and still have time left over for the indulgent life-style I so enjoyed is not unusual among our kind. What we do, we do very well and with a definite flair.
I applied myself and I was pleased with what I had achieved. I had a secure future, high status and just enough responsibility to keep me from growing lazy. I even had hopes of one day becoming second-in-command to Michael St. Clare, who was heir to the entire St. Clare empire.
Instead, I am now heir to the empire, and I’m sometimes still not entirely sure how it happened.
Until six months ago, my life was perfect. I had a job I liked and excellent prospects for advancement. I had a fabulous town house in London and a black Ferrari. I worked maybe three days a week, and let me assure you, when I gave a party it wasn’t the kind where anybody worried about which fork to use. I climbed the Matterhorn. I raced the Grand Prix. I spent weekends on the Riviera, where even now, in the midst of all this craziness, memories of a certain nude beach can put a smile on my face that no one else can understand.
I still have the town house, of course, though I never see it. The Ferrari is gathering dust in a garage somewhere, for now I’m chauffeured around in a Rolls with no less than two bodyguards everywhere I go. The Riviera is a thing of the past. The Grand Prix? Forget it. I’ll be lucky if I get a chance to watch it on television. And now I carry a briefcase wherever I go.
I once had something of a reputation as a playboy—or playwolf, if you will—and why not? I’m only thirty-two years old, which is young among our kind. I had plenty of time to settle down. Or so I thought.
I never lacked for female companionship, and taking advantage of that fact was one of my primary leisure activities. To those unfamiliar with our nature, this may be shocking, but I assure you, in comparison to the way the human world conducts its courtship rituals ours are practically sedate.
We mate for life, and take the matter of finding a suitable companion very seriously. The physical consummation of the love of two werewolves for each other always takes place in wolf form, and results in a telepathic and empathic bond that only death can break. This does not mean, however, that a variety of sensual pleasures cannot be enjoyed in human form between consenting males and females in the meantime, and I have done my best to discover them all. After all, how is one to know when the right woman comes along if one isn’t willing to look with an open mind?
But that was then. These days I am far too busy to have much energy left over for recreation of any kind. And besides, as I am constantly reminded by everyone around me, I have a certain image to uphold.
Sometimes I’m not at all sure I was cut out for this life.
For over four hundred years, the pack has been ruled by the St. Clares, and without great complaint. Sebastian St. Clare, our present venerable ruler, is well liked, as far as I can ascertain, and certainly well respected. His son Michael was scheduled to succeed him, and we as a people looked forward to another hundred years or so under peaceful St. Clare rule.
Then Michael St. Clare fell in love with a human woman, and everything changed.
Oh, yes. It’s shameful but it’s true. And I, in my efforts to bring Michael back to his senses—he is my cousin, after all, not to mention that I was under orders from no less than Sebastian St. Clare himself—only made matters worse.
A centuries-old rule of succession was invoked requiring the two of us to do battle for the throne—a battle to the death. Every werewolf in the empire was there at the amphitheater at Castle St. Clare to witness it, cheering us on, and what was I to do? I never wanted to fight Michael St. Clare. Hell, he’s twice the werewolf I’ll ever be. I’m lucky he didn’t kill me.
But…and this is where I still have difficulty believing it…not only did Michael not kill me, he forfeited the battle, and the throne, to me. Sometimes I wonder how history will remember that moment; already I see it being rewritten by those who, to honor me, I suppose, forget that it was Michael who first bared his throat to me. They remember only that I refused to kill him when it was my right, and even brought him under my protection when the keys to the kingdom, so to speak, were mine.
So that is how I came to this position of great importance. Accidentally, unwillingly, and, some say, unfairly. As for what, exactly, my new position is…well, that’s still a matter of some debate, particularly in my own mind. Michael St. Clare, the natural heir, is alive and well and living as a human in Seattle. Sebastian St. Clare still rules us all firmly and fairly from Castle St. Clare Alaska. And I, the heir designé and newly named CEO of the St. Clare Corporation, spend a great deal of time flying from one city to the other, attending meetings, plowing through great tomes of corporate documents and scanning gigabytes of computer data…but doing, for the most part, nothing at all. I haven’t been in a research lab in months. Some new man has taken over my office at R & D. The things I knew and enjoyed are all behind me. What lies before me is anyone’s guess. Like the human Prince of Wales, I suppose, I am little more than a man in waiting.
As for what I was doing here, in the cramped little cubicle of the most junior account executive in our Montreal office…well, my head was still spinning. The phone call had come in the middle of the night less than forty-eight hours ago, putting me on the corporate jet for Alaska almost before my eyes were open.
My first clear memory of that flight was of Castle St. Clare, erupting in all its Gothic magnificence from a cloud of mist and ice fog like a well-planned miracle. I love that first view of it from the air, and whenever I think of home that’s how I see it. Carved into the side of an ancient mountain in one of the most rugged, isolated parts of Alaska, the castle has been a fortress for and a monument to our kind from time immemorial. The sight of it never fails to take my breath away.
By that time, we had transferred to the helicopter, for Castle St. Clare is accessible only by air in winter. The whole way, we fought wind sheers and temperatures that were minus twenty in calm winds, and no one but a werewolf pilot could have made that landing safely.
Even under the uncertain circumstances, I was glad to be home. I had been born here, spent much of my childhood here, and even after my education at Oxford and the assumption
