Skin of the Wolf by Sam Cabot Page B

they say—leave you twisting in the wind.”
    “They still say that? How colorful. I believe I first heard that phrase some three hundred years since. Livia, in addition to my fears for Michael among his own people, my worry is that the excited reaction this news will provoke among ours will somehow cause it to spread beyond the Conclave. Noantri eager to Unveil may try to make common cause with those of Michael’s people who hope to do the same, if such exist. Or worse: it’s not impossible that certain Noantri would be only too willing to throw Michael’s people under the bus to prove to the Unchanged what good, human citizens the Noantri can be.”
    Livia sighed. “I think, in this case, the expression you want is ‘throw them to the wolves.’”
    “Possibly, but under the circumstances . . .”
    “I agree. All right. Let’s talk to him. We can always disappear and Cloak, if we have to. He can say he met vampires, as people have from time to time, and he’ll just be thought insane.”
    That had been their conversation. The story they’d just heard from Michael Bonnard was astonishing, but no more so than their own. What, she wondered, was to be done with this knowledge now?
    Michael might be asking himself that, also—how could he not be?—but he slowly began untangling himself from the blanket.“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll come back, I promise I will, and we’ll talk, we’ll give all this the attention it deserves. But I’ve got to find Edward. I’m—”
    His words were cut off by the ringing of Livia’s cell phone.
    “Livia, it’s Katherine.” The voice was tight, distraught. “I’m sorry about the hour. Something terrible’s happened.”

21
    T homas listened as Livia relayed Katherine Cochran’s news. The story struck him with a horror he saw echoed on Michael Bonnard’s face, and even on Spencer George’s. In addition, Thomas felt a despair that shamed him even as he recognized it. A young woman had died violently. Livia and Katherine had known her, albeit briefly; Katherine’s friend Estelle had been her employer. As a priest it was Thomas’s duty to offer solace. He wouldn’t shirk that duty; he suggested immediately he go with Livia to Sotheby’s, to join Katherine and Estelle. But oh! he was so bad at this. Clumsy, cliché-ridden banalities were all he could seem to muster at times of grief. His own faith ran deep—deeper, he’d discovered in the last few months, than he’d known—but he had no talent for pastoral counseling.
    And that was under normal circumstances. This situation, if Michael Bonnard was correct, was far from normal.
    “Blood was everywhere,” Livia had said. “She didn’t scream—the guard says he’d have heard it, that he was on his way there on his regular rounds and she was still alive when he found her, though just barely. They think it must have been an ex-boyfriend, or a stalker, someone so insane . . .”
    Bonnard spoke. “She was killed in the holding room? Where they keep the pieces for the auctions?” Thomas saw a darkness in his eyes that seemed to go beyond exhaustion and pain.
    “But nothing was taken. At least, Estelle doesn’t think so. The room’s a mess, boxes all over the floor, but they seem to have been knocked down during the struggle. It’s not clear what’s damaged, though there’s blood on some of the pieces. That’s why she asked Katherine to come. Because she was the consultant on these sales so she knows the art. They want to complete an inventory and examine the pieces, get them to conservation as soon as possible if they need that.”
    “The Ohtahyohnee?” Bonnard asked. “It’s still there?”
    “Yes. The box was open, and on the floor. She must have been examining it one more time before the sale.”
    “No,” Bonnard said tightly. “Edward was.”
    “Michael?” Spencer asked. “What are you saying? Your brother did this?”
    “I understand now,” Bonnard said. “His rage. The reason