the wehrwölfe in San Francisco could tell her. He had even hinted that he himself knew more than he had ever let on.
But he had never had the chance to explain. He had taken all those secrets with him in death, and his special documents with them.
Maybe Cortland Renier could help her. If he knew about werewolves in San Francisco, it seemed possible that he would know about the Carantians, too. And he had mentioned families. Was that what Franz had meant? Was it possible her family wasn’t dead after all? Would she find cousins, uncles, brothers or sisters among those who waited for her?
She licked her lips. Franz had said the Carantian colonists in San Francisco were good people, honorable and steadfast. But he had said there were bad werewolves, too, just as there were bad humans. How was she to distinguish one from another, when she couldn’t even be sure when a man was human or not?
You don’t have to tell him everything, she thought. You can wait and see if he really means what he says.
Moving quickly, Aria grabbed the blanket in her jaws and raced to the door. She Changed, snatched up the blanket and wrapped it snugly around herself. Renier crossed his legs casually and smiled.
“Now that we understand each other,” he said, “you can have no further doubts that I wish to help.”
Aria pretended to relax. “Did you know what I was all the time?” she asked.
“Long enough. The fact that you could not recognize me, however, greatly complicates your situation.”
“Why? The people who took me … they weren’t werewolves, were they?”
“It seems unlikely.”
“Then I could have escaped as soon as the poison went away.”
“Perhaps. But where would you have gone?” he asked. “If you have no memory…”
“How many others like us live in San Francisco?” she asked quickly.
“A dozen, perhaps.”
“You said there were families….”
“Two that I am aware of, and various lone wolves.”
Any of whom might know or even be the Carantians she was seeking. “Do they hide what they are from humans?”she asked.
He regarded her with new interest. “Why do you ask, ma chère? Surely you know that all loups-garous conceal what they are, even as they move in human society. Was it different with your people?”
“I don’t remember.” But of course that was exactly what Franz had told her, that werewolves had to hide what they were, and she had seen what had happened the one time she’d been careless in New York. “Does anyone know what you are? Humans, I mean?”
“One man only, in this city. But—”
“Is it the man in the other room?”
“Baron Yuri Chernikov. You will meet him later.”
Yuri. It was a Russian name. Aria could speak fluent Russian, but she had never met a man from that country. “He is your … friend?” she asked.
“You have no more to fear from him than you do from me.”
But what did that really mean, given that she had no real idea whether she could trust Cortland Renier or not? Why should she trust this Russian, when he was human like the men who had taken her?
She had much more to learn before she could decide.
“You asked me if I ran away,” she said, circling around the room. “Wouldn’t someone be looking for me if I was lost?”
“One would presume so.” He watched her progress with keen yellow eyes. “I will make inquiries of the families I mentioned before.”
The Hemmings and the Phelans. She couldn’t keep the hope and yearning out of her voice. “So you know them?”
“Not personally, but that is no object.” He stretched his arms, and joints popped. “You must strive to regain your memory, beginning with your name.”
Aria stopped. Should she tell him her name? There must be a reason why Franz had warned her never to tell anyone what it was, why he’d made her go by another even in Carantia.
“What kind of name is Renier?” she asked.
“It is of European derivation.”
“Where do you come from?”
“From another part of this country, to the east.” He raised a brow. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s the way you talk. It’s different from most of the people I’ve met here.”
“Your manner of speech is also a little different, mademoiselle, though I can’t place the accent.”
Aria rubbed her arms, though the room wasn’t cold and she seldom felt uncomfortable even in freezing temperatures. “Where are we?”
“In the rooms I share with Yuri. You are quite safe.” He rose. “You obviously need other clothing. I will buy a minimal wardrobe for you until we determine what course of action to take.”
In all their time in the mountains, Franz had bought everything they had needed. She’d almost never had money of her own. After Franz had been robbed of the papers and his money, then killed by the thieves, she’d had only what Franz had given her for herself. When she’d used it up getting to San Francisco, she’d quickly learned just how necessary money was to survival.
“I haven’t any money to give you, Mr. Renier,” she said.
“I have sufficient funds to cover what you will need. And you may call me Cort.”
Cort. So much easier to say than Cortland Beauregard Renier.
“Will you give your word not to attempt to leave while I am absent?”
She would be foolish to do so. But Cort was still her only possible connection to the other wehrwölfe in San Francisco.
And she wanted so badly to trust him.
“I will stay,” she promised.
He nodded and strode toward her. She moved out of his way, and he went through the door to the other room. The Russian’s voice, his speech heavily accented, rose in question. Aria could understand every word he and Cort spoke, and she knew Cort was perfectly aware of that.
“She’s awake,” Cort said, “and well enough, but she doesn’t remember her past.”
“Chyort. I don’t believe it.”
“Believe as you choose. Whether or not she is telling the truth, we must help her.”
There was a long pause, and then the Russian said grudgingly, “I suppose you are right. But if she remembers nothing, how do you intend to find her people?”
Cort went on to tell Yuri the same things he had told Aria. When the discussion ended, the two men emerged from the adjoining room.
The human, Aria thought, was nothing special. He was a little round in the belly and plump in the face, but he carried himself like Cort, straight and proud. He walked into the room, paused and looked Aria up and down. His gaze came to rest on her face, and he stopped breathing. A moment later he seemed to remember that he could not live without air.
“So,” he said, and clicked his heels together. “Baron Yuri Chernikov, at your service.”
It was the same thing that Cort had said, but Aria didn’t believe it this time. There was something about the Russian she didn’t like, even if he was Cort’s friend. He had doubted that she was telling the truth about losing her memory. He was right, of course, but every instinct told her not to trust him.
“I