The Wolf Came on Christmas (Johanna and Alexander) novel Chapter 16

“Why would it be?” I said. “You paid me eight million dollars.”

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Laughing at the idea came so naturally that I had to cover my mouth with one hand. Alexander looked at me again with those dignified, serious eyes, and suddenly I felt just like at the beginning- seeing the majestic muzzle of his animal form and feeling intimidated by his colossal, furry height. He could subdue anyone easily with his size alone, and I could feel it in every fiber of my body. I sobered up at once and cleared my throat.

“Really, it’s not a problem, Alexander. We’ve… we’ve already established that this will be temporary, and the children-well, you said that anything I did would be for the children, not for you. I chose to help you. Sasha will need care you won’t be able to give her in a hotel, and… well, yes, I think you understand me by now.”

Alexander nodded and smiled slightly.

That was a change-his face no longer looked so carved in stone. He was a good-looking man,

with strong, attractive features, a gallantry that didn’t go unnoticed. He wasn’t my type, but I won’t deny he was very handsome.

“Good…” he agreed, sounding pleased. “Thank you, Johanna.”

“Yes, well.” I stood up from the chair and remained on my feet, still twisting my fingers nervously,

trying not to give the matter too much importance. “You know, it’s still early for lunch, and the computer I work on is upstairs, so I’m going to go up, and you can do whatever you like. If you’re hungry, help yourselves to the fridge; you can watch TV, read, listen to music-really, do whatever you want. I’d like to go to my room and write a bit, all right?”

Andre was the first to move, alert. I could almost imagine his ears pricking up over his short

platinum-blond hair.

“You write, Mrs. Johanna?” he asked excitedly. “Do you write books? Stories and things like that?”

“…I write novels, yes. That’s what I do for a living.”

“Novels-about what?” This time it was Alexander who asked, his tone serious.

I glanced toward the bookshelf next to the fireplace, by the window, and nodded in that direction. I had a few extra copies of my work there-my editor had given me a box. I had only published two novels and they weren’t popular, but I was satisfied with both; several people had told me they weren’t “ordinary.” I pointed to some silver-gray hardcovers on the middle shelf, held upright by two plaster bookends shaped like French dolls.

“Nothing very interesting-books for teenagers and young adults,” I replied, then looked at Andre with a small apologetic smile. “I wouldn’t say they’re stories for children, I’m sorry, But on the same

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Chapter 16

shelf I have storybooks, if you want to read some.”

“Novels for adolescents. Very fashionable, from what I understand,” Alexander agreed, more kindly.

Was he trying to find something out and didn’t dare ask directly?

“They pay the bills,” I said with a shrug.

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I began to relax as the initial shock faded. Talking about this and that distracted me enough for my mind to open itself to the possibility that everything would be all right from then on. I tried to convince myself of that. It would only be a few days. I looked toward the staircase again and thought once more that I should go write at least a few pages before lunch-but I knew that the moment I closed the door to my room, it would be mpossible to sit down in front of the computer and simply forget what was happening downstairs

I had eight million dollars in my account, and my curiosity was on the verge of exploding.

Was it really that important to make sure I wouldn’t talk?

As if anyone would believe me, anyway. He would have worried more if I’d taken a photograph, perhaps, but even that wouldn’t guarantee authenticity-it’s incredibly easy to fake an image or a video. For the authorities to believe what you say, you have to show up with a corpse or a caged

monster.

I bit my tongue in my thoughts. Monster, monster.

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I sat at my desk for the first half hour, just staring at the blank screen of my work laptop and the desktop background that changed from one image to another every few seconds, showing photographs of national parks and wildlife. During that time, I heard Alexander’s voice several times, talking on the phone. Thank goodness I had a plan that covered long-distance calls (my editor lived-and still lives-in London).

I didn’t understand what he was saying, but I heard him speak in at least four languages.

I’ve heard enough Japanese to recognize it, and I’ve seen enough video jokes about “Hitler finds out…” to identify German. English, Russian, Japanese, German. His last conversation was in Spanish (high-school classes let me pick out a few words of what he said, but it didn’t make sense). He spoke at least five languages. That threw me completely. This “Alexander Baryshnikov” was definitely someone very powerful in his public life-educated, perhaps with a brilliant career, judging by the modest fact that he didn’t fear parting with eight million dollars as if it were spare change. And also a werewolf-what a coincidence Was that why his face seemed so familiar to

me? Because he was someone important?

When I heard the television turn on downstairs, I rested my hands on the keyboard, alert. The paranoid part of me fought with the honest, respectful part. He had already paid me to keep still, hadn’t he? So why was I itching to investigate him-him, his kind, whatever it was?

Well, the answer was precisely that: an answer.

A journalist’s instinct never really dies; somehow it manages to hibernate until the exact moment. Maybe I had quit journalism, but that didn’t make me any less curious. Before I realized it, I had already typed the words into the search engine and was looking at images and articles about werewolves-nonsense written by people who (judging by what I’d seen in my living room) didn’t have the slightest idea what they were talking about. It wasn’t a full moon, and from what I could tell, Alexander and Andre shifted at will and didn’t find it painful at all. I read about silver and specific herbs, about ways to recognize them… I went through two or three very popular French, English, and German legends, and even learned the different meanings of “werewolf” in various countries-but everything felt so fantastical that there was no way to make those ideas fit the people in my living room. Nothing about them seemed “magical.”

I closed the browser, feeling bad about myself.

Was I really going to be that stupid?

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