Chapter Thirty
“Grandpa?” I repeated, glancing at the guy behind me, who kept his eyes fixed on John.
“Tell her,” he ordered.
My gaze went to Rodolfo. He continued to lean in the doorway, his slumped shoulders proj ecting exhaustion, even as the tilt of his head broadcast awareness of every movement and word.
There was something familiar about him. I looked at the other man. With shorter hair, a goatee, and sunglasses, he would be John’s twin. What was going on?
“First things first.” I j abbed a finger at the intruder. “Who the hell are you?”
His bright blue eyes flicked to John, then back to me. “Adam Ruelle.”
I frowned. I’d heard that name recently.
“Your friend Sullivan is a guest of my dungeon,” he continued.
“Dungeon?” My voice squeaked.
“I mean cage. Big one. Silver bars.”
That explained why I knew the name but not much else. “How did you get in here and, more importantly, why?”
His lips tilted. Not a smile, but close. I wondered if the man ever truly smiled, which gave him a lot in common with John.
“I was once in de army,” he said. “I did a lot of breaking and entering in places where, if they caught me, I’d wish I were dead long before I was.”
Translation: hush-hush, Special Forces stuff. The locks on Rising Moon, and on my bedroom door for that matter, would have been child’s play to a guy like him.
“Once I spoke with Murphy,” he continued, “and I heard de name Rodolfo, I had to come.”
“Why?”
“Rodolfo means ‘famous wolf’ in Spanish.”
“That seems to be the consensus,” I said.
“Ruelle means ‘famous wolf’ in French.”
Uh-oh.
“It’s at de heart of our curse. The reason man turns into wolf and not alligator, snake, hedgehog. Names have power.”
I must have been staring at him blankly—could you blame me?—because he continued to explain.
“You’ve heard of de loup-garou? Our crescent moon curse?”
“I got the highlights.”
He swept out his hand. “Meet de cursed one.”
I glanced at John. He continued to stand immobile, everything he felt and thought hidden behind those damnable glasses.
“That’s impossible,” I said.
“You’ve seen a man turn into a wolf. Nothing’s impossible.”
Memories flickered—of John telling me he’d been touched by God’s wrath. If that wasn’t a curse, I don’t know what was. I still couldn’t believe it.
“I asked you if you were a werewolf,” I pointed out. “You said you weren’t.”
“I’m a loup-garou.”
My eyes narrowed. “You’re a liar.”
“Of course he is,” Adam snapped. “You think if he murders de innocent night after night, year after year, century after century, he’d balk at lying?”
I rounded on Adam. “Why do you know so damned much?”
“I’m cursed too. Or I will be if Grandpère ever dies. I become a loup-garou and my son after me and so on until de end of time, or we break this curse.” He sighed. “My money’s on de end of time.”
“You’re telling me John is your grandfather”—I glanced back and forth between the two of them —”even though he looks young enough to be your brother.”
“Looks deceive. He was born in eighteen thirty, died de first time in eighteen fifty-eight.”
“His name isn’t even Ruelle.” I grasped any excuse to refute this claim. “It’s Rodolfo.”
“No,” Adam said, “it isn’t. He took another name when he came back here. What I don’t understand is why?” His gaze went to John—or whatever his name was. “Why would you come to New Orleans, Grandpère?”
“Quit calling him that!” I snapped.
Hearing a man who appeared thirty years old calling another who appeared of equal age “Grandpa”
made me want to shriek mindlessly until my mind snapped, if it hadn’t already.
“Should I call him by de name he was born with?” Adam asked. “Henri,” he said, pronouncing the name in the French manner, dropping the h, putting the accent on the second syllable. “Why did you come here?”
“He can’t be who you say he is,” I put in desperately. “Cassandra told me any afflictions heal once a person becomes a werewolf. He’s blind.”
“No,” Adam murmured. “He isn’t.”
Slowly John straightened away from the doorj amb, lifting his hand to his sunglasses, then removing them.
I’d wished countless times that I could see the color or the expression of his eyes. Now I could.
They were blue; they were agonized, and they were no more blind than mine were.
“Why?” I turned away. “Why pretend?”
“I’m sure he didn’t want anyone to recognize him, or me as de case may be,” Adam said. “No one would suspect him either. A blind man can’t be a murderer.”
I flinched. I’d said as much to Sullivan.
“I’m not a murderer.” John’s voice was low and furious.
Adam snorted. “Grandpère, you’re one of de most vicious beasts in history. Angelus has nothing on you.”
“Angelus?” John asked.
” Buffy the Vamp ire Slayer,” I murmured absently. “Television show—hot guy, vicious vampire.”
“I’m not a vampire.”