I turned to look at Samuel, who was singing a verse alone. His fingers flew on the neck of the borrowed guitar and there was a wide grin on his face.
“Yes,” I said, though we weren’t really. And wouldn’t now. It was less complicated just to say yes rather than explain our situation.
“He’s a very good musician,” Tim said. Then, his voice so quiet I knew I wasn’t supposed to hear him, he murmured, “Some people have all the luck.”
I turned back to him and said, “What was that?”
“Austin’s a pretty good guitarist, too,” he said quickly. “He tried to teach me, but I’m all thumbs.” He smiled like it didn’t matter, but the skin around his eyes was taut with bitterness and envy.
How interesting, I thought. How could I use this to pry information from him?
“I know how you feel,” I confided, sipping my pop. “I was practically raised with Samuel.” Except that Samuel had been an adult several times over. “I can plunk a bit on the piano if someone forces me. I can even sing on key—but no matter how hard I worked at it”—not very—“I could never sound as good as Samuel. And he never even had to practice.” I let a sharp note linger in my voice, a twin to the jealousy he’d revealed. “Everything is so easy for that man.”
Zee had told me not to help him.
Uncle Mike told me to stay out of it.
But then I’d never been very good at listening to orders—ask anyone.
Tim looked at me—and I saw him register me as a real person for the first time. “Exactly,” he said—and he was mine.
I asked him where he’d learned Welsh, and he visibly expanded as he answered.
Like a lot of people who didn’t have many friends, his social skills were a little lacking, but he was smart—and under all that earnest geekiness, funny. Samuel’s vast knowledge and charm had made Tim close up and turn into a jerk. With a little encouragement, and maybe the two glasses of beer he’d drunk, Tim relaxed and quit trying to impress me. Before I knew it, I found myself forgetting for a while that I had ulterior motives and got into a spirited argument about the tales of King Arthur.
“The stories came out of the courts of Eleanor of Aquitaine. They were to teach men how to behave in a civilized fashion,” Tim said earnestly.
A caller with more volume than tone on the other side of the room called out, “King Louie was the king of France before the Revolu-shy-un!”
“Sure,” I said. “Cheat on your husband and your best friend. The only way to find love is through adultery. All good civilized behavior.”
Tim smiled at my quip, but had to wait as the whole room responded, “Weigh haul away, haul away Joe.”
“Not that,” he said, “but that people should strive to better themselves and to do the right thing.”
“Then he got his head cut off, it spoiled his constitushy-un!”
I had to hurry to slip in before the chorus. “Like sleep with your sister and beget your downfall?”
“Weigh haul away, haul away Joe.”
He gave a frustrated huff. “Arthur’s story isn’t the only one in the Arthurian cycle or even the most important. Parcival, Gawain, and half a dozen others were more popular.”
“Okay,” I said. We were getting our timing down now and I started to tune out the music completely. “I’ll give you the urge to do heroic deeds, but the pictures they painted of women were right along the lines the Church held. Women lead men astray, and they will betray you as soon as you give them your trust.” He started to say something but I was in the middle of a thought and didn’t pause. “But it’s not their fault—that’s just what women do as a result of their weaker natures.” I knew better actually, but it was fun to rant.
“That’s a simplification,” he said hotly. “Maybe the popular versions that were retold in the middle twentieth century ignore most of the women. But just go read some of the original authors like Hartman von Aue or Wolfram von Eschenbach. Their women are real people, not just reflections of the Church’s ideals.”
“I’ll give you Eschenbach,” I conceded. “But von Aue, no. His Iweine is about a knight who gave up adventuring because he loved his wife—for which he must atone. So he goes out and rescues women to regain his proper manly state. Ugh. You don’t see any of his women rescuing themselves.” I waved my hand. “And you can’t escape that the central Arthurian story revolves around Arthur, who marries the most beautiful woman in the land. She sleeps with his best friend—thereby ruining the two greatest knights who ever lived and bringing about the downfall of Camelot, just as Eve brought about the downfall of mankind. Robin Hood was much better. Maid Marian saves herself from Sir Guy of Gisbourne, then goes out and slays a deer and fools Robin when she disguises herself as a man.”
He laughed, a low attractive sound that seemed to take him as much by surprise as it did me. “Okay. I give up. Guinevere was a loser.” His smile slowly died as he looked behind me.
Samuel put his hand on my shoulder and leaned close. “Everything all right?”
There was a stiffness in his voice that had me turning a little warily to look at him.
“I came to rescue you from boredom,” he said, but his eyes were on Tim.
“Not bored,” I assured him with a pat. “Go play music.”
Then he looked at me.
“Go,” I said firmly. “Tim’s keeping me entertained. I know you don’t get much chance to play with other musicians. Go.”
Samuel had never been the kind of person who put on graphic public displays of affection. So it took me by surprise when he bent over me and gave me an open-mouth kiss that started out purely for Tim’s benefit. It didn’t stay there for very long.
One thing about living a long time, Samuel told me once, it gave you a lot of time to practice.
He smelled like Samuel. Clean and fresh, and though he hadn’t been back to Montana for a while, he still smelled of home. Much better than Tim’s cologne.
And still…and still.
This afternoon, talking to Honey, I’d finally admitted that a relationship between Samuel and I would not work. That admission was making several other things clear.
I loved Samuel. Loved him with all my heart. But I had no desire to tie myself to him for the rest of my life. Even if there had been no Adam, I did not feel that way about him.
So why had it taken me so long to admit it?
Because Samuel needed me. In the fifteen years more or less between the day I’d run away from him and last winter when I’d finally seen him again, something in Samuel had broken.
Old werewolves are oddly fragile. Many of them go berserk and have to be killed. Others pine and starve themselves to death—and a starving werewolf is a very dangerous thing.
Samuel still said and did all the right things, but sometimes it seemed to me that he was following a script. As if he’d think, this should bother me or I should care about that and he’d react, but it was a little off or too late. And when I was coyote, her sharper instincts told me that he was not healthy.
I was deathly afraid that if I told him I would not take him for a mate and he believed me, he would go off someplace and die.
Despair and desperation made my response to his kiss a little wild.
I couldn’t lose Samuel.
He pulled away from me, a hint of surprise in his eyes. He was a werewolf after all; doubtless he’d caught some of the grief I felt. I reached up and touched his cheek.
“Sam,” I said.
He mattered to me, and I was going to lose him. Either now, or when I destroyed us both fighting the gentle, thorough care he would surround me with.
His expression had been triumphant despite his surprise, but it faded to something more tender when I said his name. “You know, you are the only one who calls me that—and only when you’re feeling particularly mushy about me,” he murmured. “What are you thinking?”