The House of the Wolf

13

It was not far to the dwelling place of Honoré Dubois, which lay in a section of the city between the Mountain and the eastern end of the McGill campus. But short as the trip was, Hunter was nearly asleep by the time they arrived, lulled by the swift-rushing, forward motion that not too long ago had made him feel anxious and uneasy. He had grown used to the sensation of being swept along, submissive and unresisting, as a leaf rides the surface of a fast-flowing stream. Like the leaf he was content to be carried, giving no thought to his final destination or whatever fate awaited him there. The night's events had left him exhausted and he wanted only to rest. But before he could drift away completely there came a sudden quick swerve, the motion of the vehicle ceased, and the throb of its engine was stilled. His ears pricked up and his nose strained, as his eyes still showed him nothing but the impenetrable darkness in the back of the van. He heard approaching footsteps, smelled a soothing familiar scent: then Josephine Legris, in her human form, swung open the back doors of the van. With her was Dubois, his man's body now clad in the clothes that he had retrieved from his hiding place in the park.

"We're here, pup!" said Josephine, smiling in at him. "Come on out."

Hunter looked around him with interest as he leaped out onto the pavement. The van was parked in the driveway of a building in an unfamiliar part of the city. A yellowish, artificial glow came from rows of tall street lamps: this light, not that of moon or stars, lit the scene. There were no gigantic towers here: all the surrounding structures had only two or three levels at most. But they were also far larger than the humble huts and cabins that he and Josephine had visited in the north. Those on the nearer side of the street had elaborate decorated fronts, while those on the opposite side were plainer in appearance, their separate floors joined by external staircases. There were also many more trees in this place.

Due to the lateness of the hour there was no one about on this quiet residential street, but it would not have mattered if there had been any witnesses. Josephine and Dubois appeared to be perfectly ordinary human beings, returning home from a late-night drive, while Hunter could easily pass for their pet dog.

"I've never quite understood why you two picked this neighbourhood for your pied à terre," Josephine said to Dubois, walking with him towards the nearest house, a tall structure with a carved sandstone façade. "You could easily afford a nice place in Westmount or Outremont."

"We love the McGill Ghetto," Dubois replied. "The area has its charm. This street, now, such a study in contrasts! The houses on our side date to Victorian times when wealthy and influential people lived here. See all the fancy gingerbread trim, the gables and balconies and bay windows. And they are as elegant inside as out. Most are being turned into condos now that the area is being gentrified again. But those newer buildings on the far side are all divided into apartments, and McGill students and young immigrant families live in them. It makes her feel young again, Angélique says, to live in such a vibrant and varied neighbourhood."

"Why on earth do Montrealers put staircases on the outside of their apartment buildings?" Josephine asked him, pointing. The wrought iron stairs were painted in bright colours, and some zigzagged sharply on their way down to street level while others descended in sedate and graceful curves. "It looks so funny. You never see that anyplace else."

"To conserve heat in the long winters. A heated internal stairwell costs more. But the exterior staircase has also become a cultural motif of this city. The residents help each other to clear snow off them in wintertime, and in summer they use the landings as balconies, sitting out on them, calling greetings to one another. Angélique has made many friends here, on both sides of the street."