The Frenchman Page 7

  The stranger turned back to Darren, brows raised. “Excusez-moi?”

  “Are you John Croxen?” he repeated, his voice faltering with exhaustion as he tried to formulate the question in French rather than English.

  The stranger came closer, but did not touch him. “Do not say that name here,” he advised in a hushed voice, so soft that he was sure no one else on the street could have heard them. “Come with me.”

  The stranger, whom Darren could only identify as John based off what the butcher called him, hurried past him. He obediently followed, hoping that wherever they were going, there would be a fire so he could finally eat what he had stolen. The relief of finally finding someone who knew John Croxen was dwarfed by his need for food. Perhaps once his belly was full, he could properly celebrate.

  Chapter 6

  They returned to the mocking forest with its faceless trees that had kept Darren company for the last few weeks. He wanted to return to the town, where there were people and streets and buildings for him to walk into and take shelter. Here, in the wilds of France, there was no reprieve, only the incessant chirping of birds and rustling of leaves when animals scurried away from him in fear. It had been a lonely journey from England and the one thing he was entirely sick of was the forest.

  John, however, did not seem to dread these woods as Darren did. He took a deep breath before coming to a stop. Then he turned and regarded Darren with a certain look of curiosity. “Why have you not eaten yet?” he asked in perfect English with no hint of a French accent. In the village, they spoke nothing but French to one another and Darren easily mistook him for a French native.

  They had been traveling for several moments outside the village and were well away from the prying eyes of the townspeople. Darren could have eaten the raw meat if he pleased, but the last shreds of his humanity still clung to the standards on which he was raised.

  Instead of answering his question, Darren’s eyes widened a bit. “You’re not French?”

  John gestured the tip of his cane toward him. “Of course, not. I’m no more French than you are.”

  Darren straightened. “I am French, sir. On my mother’s side.”

  The man squinted at the youth’s features and pulled his lips in such a way that told Darren he was only mildly convinced. “Very well. Why have you not eaten? You look as if you’re starving.”

  “It’s not cooked.”

  John passed his hand over his face and sighed. “Dear boy, it is better for us to eat it raw rather than cooked. Please eat, before I am forced to carry you over my shoulder, because you can’t bring yourself to move.”

  Darren looked down to the rack of lamb that was still held tightly to his chest, the dirt from his hands and tunic spotting the rich red meat. The wolf in him approved and continued to salivate for the taste of it, but it took a few heartbeats before Darren brought it to his lips and bit down.

  John continued, beating a path through the bushes for them to follow. All the while, Darren feasted upon the lamb. After the first bite, he couldn’t help himself. As he cleaned each bone, he let it drop to the ground so the ants and other creeping bugs could pick away the scraps that he couldn’t.

  The cold wash over his eyes returned and he knew they must have turned gold, however he didn’t have to conceal it from John. Nor did he have to close his lips over the sharp fangs that seemed to manifest the more he ate, providing him ample tools to shred the meat and pull at the tough parts with ease.

  When he came to the last rib, Darren was still ravenous. The lamb did little to quell his hunger.

  “If you are French, then why do you speak like an Englishman?” John asked, not even taking the courtesy to look over his shoulder.

  “I was raised in England,” was all Darren said. He still didn’t know for sure if this was the John Croxen for whom he had been searching. Bartholomew’s warning to never reveal his true name continued to ring in his head and he frantically thought of a false identity to tell John before he finished licking the last of the juices from the rib.

  “How long have you been loup-garou?”

  Darren paused at the word. He understood its translation to be roughly the same as werewolf, but if this man was English, why didn’t he use the proper term like Bartholomew did?

  “You mean werewolf,” Darren corrected as he deposited the last bone as an offering to the forest.

  “It is the same, but we use loup-garou here,” John said, as he finally looked to assess Darren’s clothing and appearance. “How long?”

  “Three weeks or so,” he replied.

  John nodded and turned back to the path without a word.

  “You said ‘we’. Are there more than just yourself? Are you taking me to John Croxen?”

  He stopped to face Darren once more and stamped the end of his cane in the earth. “First of all, I am John Croxen. I go by John Dumonte in the village, which is why I told you not to speak my true, given name. Secondly, yes, there are more than just myself, but I will explain that once we’ve arrived.”

  Silence stretched between them, werewolf regarding werewolf, each with an edge of suspicion and wonder.

  “Where are we going?” Darren inquired. The question burned in his belly as strong as the hunger.

  “My home. It’s not much farther… May I have your name now that you know mine?”

  Darren narrowed his eyes upon John. “Are you really John Croxen?”

  A slow smile crept across his lips. “Why should you doubt my word?”

  There was every reason. Though he was also a werewolf, how did Darren know that he wasn’t lying? How could he know that this man wasn’t working with people who wanted to kill him? If the last few weeks had taught him anything, it was that no one could be completely trusted.

  When he didn’t receive an answer, John approached him. “Here is your first lesson. Do you know how you feel when you tell a lie?”

  Darren shrugged, at least willing to play along. “I suppose my hands sweat.”

  “Yes,” John said. “Your heart also beats just a little faster. You’ll either look away or stare too fixedly at the person you’re lying to. These are just some of the ways, but even if the liar is a good one, you can always tell by the heartbeat. Listen closely.”

  Darren did his best to focus on the muffled thump coming from John’s chest.

  “My name is John Croxen.”

  There was no pitch, no sudden flux or break in the way his heart continued to steadily pump beneath his ribs.

  Darren gritted his teeth and decided to take the plunge. If John wasn’t who he said he was, heartbeat or not, what would death matter to him? At least he would be with his mother again.

  “My name is Darren Dubose.”

  John gave him a short bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Darren Dubose.” He turned once more and waved him on. “Come. We will be just in time for the noon day meal and you can meet the others.”

  Darren hurried to catch up. Instead of trailing behind like a stray dog in need of a few more scraps, he came to John’s side. “So, there are more in France? I haven’t been told falsely?”

  “Who told you that?” he asked, sliding a glance Darren’s way.

  “A werewolf I met in England, before I left, told me that I could find you in Albi.”

  John grabbed Darren’s arm and pulled him to a stop. “His name?”

  Darren blinked away his surprise at John’s sudden insistence. “He was a baker. His name was Bartholomew.”

  A look of utter relief came over John’s face and he nodded. “It’s good that he’s still alive. I haven’t seen him in many years. England is not a safe place for our kind anymore.”

  “When we parted, he was going to travel north to Scotland.” Darren wasn’t going to mention the fact that it was his fault the baker had to leave Warminster. It was clear these two men esteemed one another enough to remember each other after all that time.

  “It might be safer in Scotland, but I wish that he would come he
re,” John remarked as he let go of Darren’s arm and walked on.

  “He also said that you could be an alpha. That you had the makings of an alpha.”

  John gave Darren a pleasant smile. “I suppose he saw great things in me when few others did. Yes, I am an alpha.”

  Now it was Darren’s turn to be relieved. He was in the presence of an alpha, a possible mentor and guide to controlling this thing he had become. It was hard to hold back the assurances that he wouldn’t let John down, that he would be an excellent pupil, and that his years of private education would ensure that he wouldn’t be an ignorant apprentice. Though his clothes probably didn’t profess him to be the scholar he longed to be, John knew he would tell the truth.

  Yet he bit his tongue and kept his grateful groveling to himself. John exuded a certain confidence and intolerance for such stupidity. That was clear when Darren told him why he hadn’t eaten the raw meat. Like he learned through one of his many tutors, it might have been wise to simply shut his mouth and let the alpha teach. God knew there was so much he needed to know, so many questions he needed answers for.

  When they arrived, Darren was met by a wall of new sensations and scents. It was as if he had stepped into another world, filled with werewolves in such a contemporary setting that it confused him at first.

  He had expected John’s home to be a little hovel in the forest, much like George’s. At the most, perhaps a farm house. What greeted him instead was a towering chateau with many rooms and a landscape to rival that of Longleat House back in Warminster.

  Hedges were trimmed and neatly cut into geometric shapes of grand design. Flower beds sprawled across the grounds like rivers of vibrant colors, only severed by the gravel pathways that allowed the residents to walk through and enjoy its beauty.

  The house, built with stone the color of sun-ripened wheat, was larger than his first home had been, but nothing near the architectural grandeur of Longleat House. Instead, there was a gentleness in the way its slate roof and the way the tops of the windows were rounded to avoid the sharp angles he had been accustomed to seeing on many homes. Brick chimneys peeked up from the roofs, letting their smoke swirl and climb into the sky, carrying with it the sweet promise of meat.

  The front walk parted to the left and the right to lead toward steps that curved up to the front terrace and the massive twin doors. They were already propped open, receiving the fresh spring air and any weary traveler who might stumble upon the home.

  The solid doors were crowned with a piece of Grecian design that might have seemed out of place with the rest of the façade, but Darren saw it to be fitting. A stone carving of men and wolves running alongside one another was trapped within a triangular pinnacle frame. An ironic depiction, if there ever was one. Any human who noticed the artwork might never think twice about it.

  From inside, he could hear the voices of men and women alike, some arguing, others laughing and a few seemed to be in a heated discussion of some topic or another. It only proved to complement the rest of the estate, and Darren felt at home for the first time since the evening before his transformation.

  John led him up the walk and pointed out the features of the home as a way of introducing the two. “These gardens were first planted by my wife and I when we built this place,” he said. “I have my students tend them for three hours every morning.”

  Darren smiled at the thought of spending solitary time fostering something so aesthetically pleasing. Finally, he would have the garden he always wanted. Out of all nature, he preferred these flowers and hedges over the uncultivated and uncivilized forests. Though, he supposed that would have to change with time.

  “Behind the house is a forest where I’ve constructed a course of sorts, designed to keep the body fit. We might be supernatural beings stronger than twenty men, but we cannot allow ourselves to become lazy.”

  His smile widened. Darren couldn’t decide where he would spend the most time, with the flowers or with his new strength that he now prized.

  “Of course, if it’s time for one of the boys to change, you’ll be expected to join them,” John continued. “You won’t have to be concerned about anyone outside of the pack seeing you. We travel farther south to the forest beyond where no human lives. There are mountains, streams, and meadows to run through, so you’ll get plenty of exercise and fair game.”

  The smile weakened and the corners of Darren’s lips turned down at the thought of changing. The concept was still foreign to him. How could a man shift into a beast? He had no doubt that John would teach him everything he needed to know. So far, the alpha did not appear to be the harsh headmaster that he might have expected. It was clear that he could administer a firm hand if needed, but there was nothing malicious in the way he talked or instructed Darren. Thus far, he seemed to be the caring mentor that Bartholomew promised.

  “We have twelve other boys here who are learning just as you are. They have been loup-garou for only a few years or less. My son, Bart, is their beta. We have others who are still in training, but they have their own betas and reside all over the province. They are just a short distance away and join us for our runs, just as we join in theirs on occasion. We have enough loups-garous in our pack that we meet almost every night of the month. Our bunch do not go with them all the time, unless our change nights coincide. We do this to avoid excessive conflicts between members. Though, it is always better that a wolf run with his pack.” John looked to his future pupil and grinned. “You will never be alone here, Darren. I can assure you of that.”

  Darren’s head swam with the idea that there were so many other werewolves – loups-garous as John called them. Bartholomew had talked of betas and alphas, but he never imagined that there would be multiple betas within the same pack. If there were so many, why hadn’t he sensed them earlier? Perhaps they were all in the villages, just as Bartholomew had been. Perhaps some of them lived in these immaculate homes and could become part of society like any other normal citizen. If that were the case, it was no wonder that he couldn’t find them.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up and in a fresh set of clothes. Evangeline will help you. She only speaks French, but it seems you have no difficulties with the language.” John walked Darren to the open doors and gestured for him to precede. “Then I’ll have Noelle bring you a meal. I’m sure you’re still hungry after that lamb.”

  For the first time, Darren took the lead and walked into the foyer ahead of John. The sound of tramping feet and the turning of book pages added to the full effect of the home’s ambiance. The smells of cooking meat intensified, along with the usual scents of hardwood floors. Patterned wallpaper, and an assortment of artistic decorations such as paintings and crafted sculptures perched upon table tops and pedestals along the walls.

  It was nothing like what he expected. Then again, nothing had been. Down the foyer lined with doors that led into multiple rooms on either side, he could hear them brimming with life and activity. A hush fell over the house as he entered and the pattering feet fled to the doors. One by one, heads poked through to investigate their new visitor.

  Eyes of every color focused upon him, all full of questions and curiosity, just as he was. Some wrinkled their noses, probably repulsed by his stench. Their faces were unique, but he knew they all had one thing in common. They were all loups-garous.

  “Go back to your studies, boys,” John ordered. “You can meet him later.”

  Without question, they turned away and retreated to the rooms, which must have been libraries or sitting rooms. He could hear their whispered questions and gossiping about Darren’s shabby rags, but his attention was diverted elsewhere.

  The sharp rap of heels on hardwood approached, bringing with it the sweet scent of lavender. A young woman dressed in the usual gown of a servant entered from a corridor at the far end of the hall, from where the delicious aroma of food originated.

  She looked up from the tray she carried, laden down with porcelain cups of steeping tea and a pot to match.
Green eyes met his and her thin lips parted in a gasp. All in seemingly one move, she let go of her tray and John sped forward to catch it. He covered the distance of more than a few yards in less time than it took to blink, just to save the tea.

  The servant let out a string of exclamations in French of which Darren didn’t even understand the translation. He knew the common language, but curses had been conveniently left out of his education. Then she turned her wrath upon John.

  “Why did you let this boy come in the house with his filthy bare feet when you know I already cleaned the floors this morning?” she cried, stamping her heel like a cross housewife.

  John chuckled, but did not offer her back the tray. “Evangeline, this is Darren Dubose. Since you clean so well, I thought you could take him to the washroom and scrub him down.”

  Darren swallowed hard and felt his stomach quiver with anxiety. The lady that was to strip him down and wash him was certainly beautiful. Though his experience with women was limited, he was sure there were no girls like Evangeline in Warminster. He also noticed, with a kind of wonder, that she was not a werewolf as the others were. She was purely human, if his senses did not lie.

  The servant looked from John to Darren and made a face as if she were to dread the task of cleaning up the wreck of a man who stood on her pristine floors. “Very well. Come,” she said as she turned back down the corridor from which she had come.

  John jerked his head toward the fleeing Evangeline and Darren hurried to catch up.

  “By the way,” John said as they passed one another, “she’s married to my son.”

  Darren wasn’t so impulsive to try and steal another man’s wife, especially when that man was a beta. Bartholomew said that betas were sometimes the strongest and most capable of werewolves within a pack. They enforced the rules set down by the alpha and kept unruly pack members in line. Darren wouldn’t want to be on bad terms with a beta, especially if he was John’s son.

  Down the corridor and through several doorways, he and Evangeline silently walked until they came to what resembled something of a room that his old estate used to use for washing clothes. A large tub sat in the center with a pump beside it to dispense water, while the edges of the room were lined with counters and bins of linen and clothes. A door led to the outside where clothes lines stretched from one pole to another to allow laundry to dry.