“Paris was an exciting place after the war,” I said. “The city was alive, and people were rebuilding. Philippe had saved my life. He took care of me. I thought I was in love with him.”
Caleb’s expression didn’t change. He stayed steady and quiet, waiting for me to continue.
“He taught me how to control my wolf,” I said. “He helped me understand that wanting another man wasn’t wrong or something to be ashamed of. In the winter of our fifth year together, I got word that my grandfather was dying in Amsterdam. My parents had already passed, and this was my last chance to see a family member. Philippe didn’t like leaving France, so he stayed behind.”
Memories rose. In my mind, lamplight glinted off wet cobblestones.
“I’d just left my grandfather’s bedside,” I said. “I was walking toward my hotel when I felt a pull like a hook in my chest. It was another wolfseeker, but it wasn’t Philippe. I’d never felt anythinglike it before. I rounded a corner and walked straight into a man who looked almost exactly like me.”
Caleb leaned forward again, a frown creasing his brow.
“He introduced himself as Emile Laval,” I said, more memories swirling. “He looked me up and down, then laughed and said he didn’t realize Philippe had a new boy.”
Caleb’s frown deepened.
I knew my smile was tight and humorless. “I asked Emile to explain, and he gave me this look of such…pity. Like the whole world was enjoying some inside joke, and I was the only person left out. Which wasn’t too far from the truth.”
“Did he explain?” Caleb asked softly.
The briny smell of canal water drifted through my memory, and I could almost hear the rumble of old motor cars. I blinked and focused on Caleb.
“Yes,” I said. “He told me that Philippe was his sire. That Philippe had found him dying of cholera in Paris and turned him a century before me. The Council had tasked Philippe with creating wolfseekers, but he did it on his own terms. He only turned men, and they were always on the verge of death. Every wolf he sired had a certain look. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Six-foot-three or something close to it.” I gestured at my own face. “You get the idea.”
“Why?” Caleb rasped.
“His mate was killed, and it broke something in him that never healed. About a year after his mate’s death, he met a human fortune teller who claimed they’d find each other again, so Philippe spent centuries searching.”
Caleb straightened. “Like reincarnation?”
I nodded. For a second, it was like I stood in that Amsterdam alley, cold air sliding under my collar while a man with my face demolished my whole world.
Caleb looked too stunned to speak. Then he lowered his voice. “Did you believe him? Emile, I mean?”
“I didn’t want to,” I said. “But I had to know. So I went back to France and confronted Philippe. When I said Emile’s name, his face gave him away before he’d said a word. He was skilled at hiding his emotions, but I knew his tells by then. Once I’d cornered him, he told me everything. Emile was the last man he’d turned before me, but there were half a dozen others. The Council didn’t care that Philippe chose men with specific looks. As long as he delivered what they needed, they weren’t inclined to ask questions.”
Caleb exhaled slowly. I could see him working through things in his mind, trying to decide which question he wanted to ask first. “Did you know about Philippe’s mate before you met Emile?”
“No.” I looked at the hearth, more memories trying to rise. “His name was Marcus Verus Dorsuo. He was over fifteen hundred years old when he sired Philippe. They were mated for eighty years before Marcus was killed.”
“How did Marcus die?” Caleb asked.
I turned back to him. “He was traveling through the Cévennes during the War of the Camisards.”
Caleb gave me a blank look.
“Catholics and Protestants were fighting each other in the mountains,” I said. “Marcus was passing through during a time of constant skirmishes. Someone saw him shift. This was in 1706, when having a funny-looking mole could rouse suspicion. They accused him of witchcraft and dragged him to the nearest church. Marcus was extremely powerful, but there were too many humans with weapons for him to fight. They burned him at the stake.”
“Jesus,” Caleb said.
“Philippe felt his death the moment it happened. That’s how it works with mates.”
Caleb’s gaze didn’t waver, but something knowing moved through his eyes.
“Philippe retraced Marcus’s steps,” I continued. “He found the church and burned it to the ground, making sure all records of Marcus were destroyed. Then he hunted down every human who’d had a hand in Marcus’s death and killed them. He did it to keep our secrets, and also for revenge.”
Caleb fell silent again, doing more of that quick cataloging that had made him such a good football player. “Why would someone like Philippe believe a fortune teller?” he asked after a moment.
“I’ve wondered about that,” I said. “The werewolf mate bond is a lot like human marriage. It can run a whole spectrum of devotion. Some pairs are together because they crave companionship. Others can’t live without each other. Philippe and Marcus were the second kind. When Marcus died, Philippe was desperate, and he latched onto something that gave him hope. According to Emile, Philippe spent the first year after Marcus’s death searching for any sign of Marcus’s soul. Then the fortune teller came along and convinced him that Marcus would return in another body with the same dark hair, same height, and same brown eyes. So for the next two centuries, Philippe turned men who looked like Marcus, hoping to find him.”
