by Kody Boye
It’ll be off the road, Amadeo had said, and you’ll have to get out of the truck, so make sure you’re armed.
The pistol lay on the center console—loaded, the safety on, the bullets secured in their packs of cartridges beneath the passenger seat. All I had to do once I pulled over was round the vehicle, open the passenger door, and lean under. Then I could reload and go in guns blazing. Or not. At this point, I wasn’t sure how anything would play out. I didn’t want to kill anyone. I wasn’t a violent person. But if it meant them or Guy—sociopaths who would either kill or sell Guy to those who would brutally torture him—it would be them.
I cycled through the radio in an attempt to find something to calm my nerves but was unsuccessful. Frustration eventually took the best of me and I swiped my hand over the nodule, silencing the various sounds of country and pop music instantly.
Sighing, I trained my eyes along the darkened road.
Here, so far from anywhere, the only sights revealed was the grass and the trees that flanked the road.
My paranoia over getting there rivaled that of the actual arrival. I was terrified out of my mind of hitting a deer.
I shook my head.
I had to get a hold of myself.
“Just keep your calm,” I whispered. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Somehow, I highly doubted that.
Blood would be spilled tonight.
Chapter Sixty-One
The GPS directed me to a run-down farmhouse matching that of Amadeo’s directions. I pulled over to the side of the road and let the truck sit idle before I killed the engine. The lights dimming, then going off, my nerves escalating to a fever pitch, I scoured the landscape for any sign of trouble and reached into the console to retrieve the revolver with the silver bullets. Second nature drove me to ensure it was loaded and that the safety was on.
This was it.
In less than a few moments, I would be entering the dilapidated property and descending into the Howler lair.
I’d never been more scared in my life.
Dirt crunched beneath my shoes as I jumped out of the truck and rounded the vehicle. Key in hand, its jagged edge a sharp countenance of extra defense, I opened the passenger door and fumbled through the ammo caches until I pulled free seven cylinders.
Thirty-five bullets, not counting the five already in the revolver.
Hopefully I was still the decent shot I’d been in my teens.
The woods whispered about me as I stood there considering my plan, rustling about the underbrush and flickering through the high branches. Few birds could be heard, save the hoot of an owl and the low mourn of a dove, and the few animals were insignificant to the point where their noise was little distraction. I caught sight of an ugly creature’s eyes as I swept my flashlight along the line of trees, but disregarded the hiss the opossum offered.
There were animals here.
I was safe.
Training the light on the ground, I followed the directions Amadeo had offered by tune of a compass inlaid into the Swiss Army Knife and headed into the wooded area. So close to ranching the property, and even closer to ranchers who would have no hesitation shooting trespassers, I kept as quiet as possible, knowing well that any unwanted attention would surely result in the police being called.
The bitter humidity was staunching.
Sweat beaded down my neck and slid into my shirt.
I licked a droplet from my lips and tasted salt.
It was at that moment that I realized I’d just become even more vulnerable.
If there were any Howlers downwind—if they were anywhere near me—
I froze.
The dove, the owl—they’d stopped calling.
A rustle in the bushes spun me around faster than I thought possible.
The safety went off.
The gun barked and muzzle fire flashed in the night.
The figure—only briefly illuminated as a man—went down instantly.
Lowering the smoking gun, I centered the barrel on the unmoving body and waited for any further movement.
Steam sizzled from the gap beneath his arm.
Howler.
I turned my head and swallowed a lump in my throat.
So—I’d already been approached.
Directly around a bend in the animal-trodden path was the dilapidated farmhouse Amadeo had spoken of—desecrated with age, ruined by weather, and gnarled by human abandonment.
It had no roof to speak of.
The front door and a portion of windows were completely missing.
I exhaled the breath that had been trapped within my chest and fumbled through my pocket for the cylinders, my thumb flicking over the bullet’s tipped surface before sliding it into the weapon.
I didn’t want to go in with only a few bullets.
Bracing myself for whatever was to come, I started up the path.
The trees provided ample cover for myself and anyone who might be watching me. The snarl of gunfire had momentarily silenced the night, to the point where only bugs chirruped or whistled in the early-morning dark. Guided only by the flashlight and the moonlight that illuminated the house, it took little to realize how much of a target I was.
I’d killed one of their own.
I’d broken the pact.
Humans had entered their territory.
All those hikers, all those travelers—gone, missing, ripped to pieces by what the authorities had considered accidental causes and then by the feeding of animals—
I was in their territory now.
The game was on.
I mounted the incline where the stairs leading up to the house used to be and directed the flashlight around the area, cutting a beam of light through the broken windows and the open front door. Free of graffiti and bearing only the casual semblance of animal activity, it appeared nothing more than an abandoned house—a place where some lowly farmer or widow had lived in ages past.
With trepidation I’d never experienced in my life, I stepped into the house.
Old glass crunched under my feet.
The hairs on my neck shot upright.
The one thing Amadeo had not been able to tell me was where the entrance was.
It’ll probably be a hideaway, he’d said. Look where a basement would be.
And I did. What little space there was to search offered nothing in regard to secret entrances that would lead to some underground bunker.
I paused, in the middle of the room, and directed my attention toward the kitchen.
Most of it lay in ruins.
The one thing that didn’t was the pantry door.
Lifting my gun, I edged forward.
It took only a second for me to lash out, grab the handle, and rip the door open.
A hatchway—leading directly to what I could only assume was the Howler compound—was revealed.
I only had one way to go from here.
Reaching back, I guided the pantry door closed behind me, then flipped the porthole open.
A ladder descended into darkness. A quick sweep with the flashlight showed nothing but solid, concrete ground at the bottom.
Slapping the flashlight into the space between my belt and waist, I balanced its outer rim alongside my pocket before I crouched down and took hold of the rungs.
It was there that I began to descend.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Only the coldest parts of the Kaldr estate could make me feel the way I did as I touched down into the Howler compound. Hairs on end, the back of my neck prickling with tension, I pulled the flashlight from my waistband and scoured the excruciatingly-claustrophobic tunnel with a sense of dread. At little more than ten feet wide, I would stand little chance if I got overwhelmed, though thankfully if I managed to get a shot off, the narrow corridor gave me an upper advantage.
I only faced one problem:
Now that I was here, where the hell did I go?
It turned out the answer was not as hard as I thou
ght.
Most of the entrances to other rooms were either completely barricaded or blocked off with faded ‘DO NOT ENTER’ signs. Age had warranted several of their collapses, prompting the summons of refuse and dirt, and those doors that seemed capable of being opened I avoided completely—in part because they appeared too insignificant to hold someone important like Guy. They wouldn’t have put him in some normal, back-bunker room, where behind a cage he could freeze the air and will to his command the atmosphere within it. No. They’d have to keep him somewhere high-security, somewhere they’d be able to contain him if something went wrong. Somewhere like—
“A lab,” I whispered.
The sound of my voice was like a brick being dropped in the middle of the compound. Echoing across the concrete walls, a mere whisper in the darkness, a tentative signal for prey—it shattered all sense of calm and forced my heart to beat ten times faster.
The gun was up before I could think.
The flashlight cut a path through the corridor.
Without hesitation, I started forward.
My footsteps couldn’t have been any louder. At the pace I was walking, they sounded like untrimmed nails rebounding off a linoleum floor. The dogs were coming, my conscience was quick to say, as I continued to peruse the corridors, and because of that my panic began to escalate. Given my father’s military background, I’d never been prone to such unnecessary apprehension. But here, in this place, with these monsters, and only a gun and a few silver bullets to protect me, I couldn’t have been more exposed.
I turned down one corridor, then another.
The flashlight passed over doors whose windows were clean and whose surfaces were maintained.
A silhouette behind one broke all sense of rationale.
I ran.
The harsh bark of a door slamming into the hallway and a voice crying after me signaled the call for the hunt. Torn free of their dens, they bayed and howled and screamed as if they were demons within the night and came barreling into the corridor behind me—nails clicking like wildfires in the open countryside. The twists and turns that managed to lead me to safety eventually tapered out into one-ended options. At one junction I was forced left, then right, then back around again. I blindly fired a shot behind me, resulting in a wicked howl, and threw myself into a side corridor.
A dead end.
A dead fucking end.
I spun just in time for one of the creatures to rear its ugly head.
It snapped.
I fired.
Its teeth sunk into my arm and tore into my wrist before sliding off the bone.
Bleeding, and backed into a corner where behind me a high-security door lay in all its glory, I centered my gun on one of the approaching creatures and tried to see through the haze of pain.
“Get back,” I managed. “Get… back.”
I fired a warning shot near their feet, which was met with snarls.
“Leave me be,” I cried. “Leave me—”
“Enough!” someone shouted.
That voice—
It sounded just like—
The wolves cowered under the man’s voice and shrunk as he approached.
I swallowed.
The man who’d confronted Elliot Winters in his own home
The Frenchman was beautiful in his feral grace and immaculate appearance. His harsh features accentuating a pair of gold-rimmed brown eyes, his jaw covered in a bristle of stubble and his lengthened hair hanging in straight locks to his waist, he centered his attention on me and pressed a hand back to the pack.
“Silence, my brothers,” he said. “He is one of our own now.”
The Howlers eased forward to stand behind the Frenchman, their glowing eyes haunting in a place where, only illuminated by the flashlight’s beams, they appeared to belong to nothing but ghosts. The Frenchman held my attention. His tone rang of complete and utter dominance.
Was this the alpha of the pack?
“Guy,” I managed, grimacing as a sliver of pain shivered along my arm. “Where is he?”
“I assure you, he is perfectly safe,” the man said, taking a step forward. I raised my gun and pointed it directly at his chest. “There now. Don’t be getting any ideas.”
“Stay away from me,” I said.
“You’re in danger now that you’ve been bitten, Jason. You’ve contracted Lycanthropy—the Howling Fever. It’s only a matter of time before you turn.” He took another step forward, hands falling. “You’re one of us, Jason. We take care of our own.”
The tangible sensation of something making its way through me was reminiscent of blood exiting under the guidance of a hypodermic needle—quick, without control, and in a way that made it feel as though my body was inhabited. It reminded me of a parasite—a monster whose sole purpose was to possess you—and in that came to light what was really happening.
I was becoming a monster.
Now that I’d been bitten, I’d soon be one of… them. Those… things that had tried to kill me, that looked nothing like normal animals, who changed from men to beast by curse or will only to slaughter those weaker than them.
The barrel of the revolver was still warm from the last discharge.
If I just put it to my head—
The Frenchman stepped forward. My gun was on him instantly. “Easy, now,” he said, raising his hands to his sides. “We don’t want you to do anything drastic.”
“You did this!” I screamed. “This is all your fault! YOUR FAULT!”
The tremor throughout my injured arm reduced my aim to a feverish inconsistency. If I shot now, I would most surely only graze, if not miss him entirely. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t save Guy if I was a monster. I couldn’t do anything if I was the one thing that sought to kill him.
Shivering, I tightened my screaming muscles and focused the gun on the man.
“I have the cure,” he said. “If you kill me, how will you ever get it—or see Guy again?”
“You’re lying.”
“No. I’m not.” The man stepped forward, apparently unafraid of the gun or the silver bullets within it. “You’ve only recently contracted the disease. In its infancy—before the first transformation—it can be treated. But that’s not going to happen if you stand there pointing a gun at me.”
“What do you want?” I asked, tears burning down my face.
“Why don’t you come in and find out?” the man said. He extended a hand. “Give me the gun, Jason. We can talk about this. You can see Guy.”
The urge to shoot was overwhelming.
I only had two bullets in the cylinder. If I really wanted to shoot this man, then take my own life…
No.
I couldn’t.
I couldn’t do that to Guy—Howler, human, or something in-between, I’d come here for him. I couldn’t let him down.
Lowering my gun, I flipped the cartridge open, dumped the bullets onto the ground, then extended the revolver to the Frenchman by the barrel, who took it with little more than a nod. “Good choice,” he said, stepping toward the security door. “Come, now. Let us see your beloved Guy Winters.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
Hope was but an illusion as we walked through the high-security door into what was for all respects a medical facility. The rows of glossy metal tables, the acrid stench of painkilling fluids and antiseptic wipes, the sheer, blinding white light that emitted from fluorescent bulbs all around—all spoke of hospice: a place where the sick came to die.
Despite the pain coursing through my body, I had enough strength to shiver.
This was no medical facility—at least, not the kind I was used to.
This was a laboratory.
Disoriented by the shock rocketing my system, my eyes trailed across the space, darting across areas where light was consumed by shadow and where figures could briefly be seen in human form.
Eventually, my eyes fell to a fixture at the far side of the room, one I’d not noticed upon our initial entrance—a gla
ss wall, or at least a window, set into stonework behind which there was a self-contained room.
A flicker of movement appeared from the depths of it.
At first, I wasn’t sure if I was seeing things. Then I realized I wasn’t.
The eyes looked back at me, their rims solid and glowing blue.
I lost my breath as the only thing I could say was, “Guy.”
The Kaldr man—stripped naked but for his white briefs—stood opposite the glass window, hand pressed to the glass.
“Jason,” he said.
The sound of his voice through an intercom ripped fire through my head. Grimacing, and stumbling forward, I reached up to cradle one ear with my good arm while keeping my bad one against my chest.
Before the glass, I looked at Guy with tears in my eyes.
Frost framed his dispersed fingers.
“Jason,” he whispered, eyes falling to my arm.
The click of a gun sounded. Then the barrel was placed to my ear.
“Time’s up,” the Frenchman said.
“Let go of him you bastard,” Guy growled, spittle flying through his teeth. “He had nothing to do with this.”
“Quite the contrary, Mr. Winters. He has everything to do with it.” I felt the touch of the man’s hand along my collarbone and shivered at how hot his skin felt. “I see you haven’t marked him—at least, not in the way I would’ve expected. A human mate? Warm flesh? Are you Kaldr really that noble?”
“Let him go, Pierre. You can do whatever you want to me, but by God, let him go.”
“I could,” the Frenchman said, “but then there’s the matter of his infection.” I grimaced as he reached around and took hold of my right arm, his fingers prying through the tattered flesh to take a rough hold. “You see, Guy, there was an… accident. One of my wolves got too careless and let the boy shoot him after the first bite. He didn’t finish the job. He’s infected. He’s turning. Now. I let him go—and by God, out there, in the wild—he’s going to go on a rampage. The bloodlust will consume him. There’s a reason Howlers are made in confined quarters.”
I fought to contain my tears as Pierre tightened his hold on my arm. “Please,” I begged. “Don’t do this to me.”
