Wolfsbane: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Mortlake Series Book 1)
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The baseball bat spun clumsily up into the air and struck the beast on the side of its head just as it leaped. Sammy dodged the spring and jabbed the creature with his taser, connecting with its ribcage. It yelped and fell, writhing, to the stained concrete just inches from Mortlake. He threw the blanket over it and then hurled himself onto the shrouded beast. Sammy ran forward and produced not the silver dagger but a small white tube. He pulled the tip off the syringe and, as Mortlake held the struggling form, jabbed the needle through the blanket. Tara looked up at the stairs, but Steve had gone. Smoke was billowing from the doorway, and she could see a flicker of flame. The grenade had started a small fire.
An alarm sounded, shrill and still somehow startling despite everything she had just seen.
“Bloody hell, that’s all we need,” said Mortlake.
For the first time since the fight had begun, Tara looked closely at him. She saw an oddly serene expression, as if the professor was presiding over a fairly routine tutorial. She had no time to wonder how he managed to be so cool in a crisis but felt reassured.
“Help me get her upstairs,” Mortlake said.
The shrouded figure was limp now. Tara grabbed a hairy limb sticking out of the blanket and felt bones changing shape, muscles and tendons shifting. She thought of the idea that primal fear triggered the transformation, reasoned that it would be reversed if the lycanthrope was calmed down. By the time they got to the top of the stairs, the arm was fully human, if scrawny and dirty.
The cellar door was blazing, and Sammy kicked it wide so they could get through. Then he fell back just as another shotgun blast gouged a great gash in the plastered wall of the passageway. Tara and Mortlake both leaped back, almost dropping their burden. Steve was between them and the kitchen. Sammy, crouching low, hurled another concussion grenade as a second shot ripped a chunk from the door at head height. The grenade blast produced a yell of pain or alarm—maybe both. Sammy ran ahead, and Mortlake signaled Tara to follow. Her ears were ringing and she could only hear the fire alarm as a tiny, distant sound.
In the kitchen, Sammy was grappling with Steve, the shotgun between them. A second later, Gonfallon’s hired thug was crashing into a table that collapsed under him. Sammy was holding the gun by the barrel, then threw it aside. He shouted something at Mortlake, but the professor shook his head. Sammy gestured them to go on, and they carried the girl outside, then set her down. Billows of smoke were filling the kitchen as Sammy dragged Steve’s inert form outside. Then Sammy took over for Mortlake and Tara and carried the girl to the SUV.
Tara’s hearing recovered enough for her to hear the sirens approaching as they pulled onto the road that led back to Wyebridge. She was in the back, holding the second hypodermic close to the freed captive, whose ripe smell filled the vehicle. Sammy was driving while Mortlake was on the walkie to Jones.
“Your information was a little inaccurate,” the professor was saying. “But don’t worry—we got it done. Best get off home, there’ll be a lot of awkward questions about this—especially when they find the body in the cellar. Not to mention the cage.”
It was amazingly calm and understated, again reminding Tara of an academic dealing with a purely intellectual problem. She wondered if she would ever understand a man like that. Or if she wanted to.
Chapter 13
“They’re taking a long time,” Tara said.
They were sitting in the SUV eating fish and chips. The distinctive smell did something to banish the lingering odor of the girl, who was now inside the safe house. It was a nondescript, isolated cottage on the outskirts of Wyebridge, several miles from Gonfallon’s estate. Mortlake was inside with his mysterious contacts.
“He’s probably giving them a lecture on medieval legends,” Sammy said.
He rubbed his knuckles which were encrusted with blood. His jacket, one sleeve torn open by claws, smelled of smoke. Tara guessed she did, too. She wondered if Anita’s silver jewelry had prevented the beast from attacking her when it left its cage or at least deterred it just enough. But that was not the main concern.
“Will you tell him what happened?” she asked.
“The bat?” he said. “Nah. We’ve all got secrets, Tara. Not for me to blab. If he didn’t see, it’s up to you to tell him—if you want.”
Tara tried to remember exactly where everyone had been when that baffling, terrifying power had flowed through her. Mortlake might not have seen, as Sammy’s considerable bulk was between him and the beast. Or the professor might have seen something but not be sure what had occurred. It had been a chaotic situation. Or, and this seemed just as likely, Mortlake knew damn well what had happened but was waiting for Tara to speak up.
“So, you won’t tell him?”
Sammy shook his head firmly.
“Like I said, we’ve all got secrets. Yours is safe with me. Will you tell him?”
Tara gazed at the nondescript little house. The front door opened, and Mortlake emerged. He gave them a smile and a thumbs-up sign. She smiled back.
“I guess I’ll have to—eventually. Just not now.”
Sammy looked at her for a moment.
“You think we should leave him some chips? After all, he is the boss.”
***
They got back to Cambridge late that night. Sammy dropped off Mortlake and Tara, then headed back to his home in North London. As they walked up to the main gate of St. Ananias College, Tara tried to find some sense of closure. But it wasn’t there. Josh was still dead, along with other victims, some of whom might never be known. And Gonfallon was still free, along with his depraved friends.
“Yes,” Mortlake agreed when she tried to sum up her feelings. “There are always loose ends. But in this case, more needs to be done. First, though, let’s have a nice cup of tea and a sit-down. I’m knackered after all that violent malarkey.”
The night porter let them in after Mortlake leaned on a door buzzer for a while. It turned out that a parcel had been left for Professor Mortlake earlier that day. He unwrapped it there. It contained some bottles of clear liquid. Mortlake thanked the porter and showed a bottle to Tara. There was a handwritten paper label bearing one word—MONKSHOOD.
“Also known as wolfsbane,” he explained. “Too late for the big raid, but nice to have it nonetheless. The skiing witch came through.”
Five minutes later, Tara was sitting on the sagging sofa in Mortlake’s living room while he made tea. He offered her biscuits, which she wolfed down. She was suddenly ravenous despite the odor of fish and chips still wafting from her torn, sweaty clothes. Tara checked her phone, looking for news updates from Wyebridge.
Local media reported that there had been a fire at Gonfallon’s estate, and a body had been found when the flames were extinguished. A local man, named Stephen Foxton, had been arrested and was being questioned. This raised the question about whether Mortlake and his companions would be accused. The professor was sanguine about this.
“If this Steve bloke accuses us of breaking in, that raises the question of why we did it. He can hardly say we wanted to release a girl from the cellar, can he? And fire investigators will already have seen that cellar.”
“What do you think they’ll make of the cage?” Tara asked.
“Possibly try to hush it up to avoid embarrassing His Lordship,” Mortlake mused. “Unless the local chief constable is feeling bold, and then awkward questions might be asked. No, I doubt Gonfallon will be much troubled by the boys in blue. But he has lost his prisoner, we have defeated him. And one of his dirty little secrets—that cage—is a matter of official record. That matters.”
Tara nodded uncertainly. Her mouth was full of blueberry oatmeal cookie. It tasted delicious, as if she’d never eaten one before. Mortlake, meanwhile, poured some tea and then checked his phone. Eyebrows raised, he showed her a new message. It was from Gonfallon.
“You may think I will not be able to seek restitution from you,” it read. “But rest assured, there will be a reckoning.”
Mortlake sat down in a leather chair that was leaking stuffing at the seams. He nursed his teacup for a few moments, then shrugged.
“Threats go with the territory,” he said. “I suspect he’s rattled, didn’t expect us to be so bold. Whatever he intends, though, I’m not going to wait for him to devise some nasty little stratagem. I’ve already got a plan. I’ll confront him in a place of my choosing.”
He put his teacup down and picked up his phone, started to type out a message.
“The thing is… always to keep the initiative… once you’ve got it… there!” he said triumphantly. “Challenge issued. I propose to meet him, in a public place, in London, day after tomorrow.”
“And then what?” she asked. “I mean, you said you can’t kill him, and you can hardly arrest him? Or is Westall going to try?”
Mortlake looked amused at that, shaking his head. He explained what he had in mind. As she listened, Tara felt a sinking sensation. She asked if Sammy would be providing support. Mortlake shook his head again, held up his phone.
“Another message. It seems Sammy wasn’t entirely honest with his other half over his activity today. His wife has grounded him, indefinitely. Which, in my experience, usually means about six months. That’s why he’s not a permanent member of the team, unlike yourself and Monty. And Lonely, of course.”
Tara didn’t have time to ask about Sammy’s domestic life.
“You can’t face him alone!” she said. “At least let me come! I can… I can kick him in the nards if he tries to wolf out on you!”
Mortlake looked dubious but then smiled.
“No,” he said finally. “You’re on my payroll, and I get to give you orders. You’ve been through a lot and you showed your mettle today. But I think this is something I should do alone. I don’t want to put you at further risk and, without Sammy to hold things together—well, I’d be worried about you. This is the man who killed Josh. Put bluntly, you’d be more of a distraction than a help.”
Tara started to protest, but he simply picked up his teacup and let her words flow over him. She felt angry at being suddenly relegated to the role of dumb sidekick who couldn’t be trusted.
“Is this concern for me really about your girlfriend who died?” she demanded. “Because I’m not her. I’m me. And I thought we were a team.”
She saw him turn pale, and he stared into his cup, silent for several heartbeats.
“I’m sorry,” she said, backpedaling with a twinge of guilt. “That was… I just want to be involved.”
“It’s not because of her,” he said finally, still not looking at her. “Please, just let me do this on my own. I think you’ll agree I have considerably more experience in these situations. And I would point out, you have research to do. Haven’t you neglected that enough?”
Tara got up, her anger fading, wishing she could think of a clinching argument. Instead, she mumbled something about getting some sleep and started to go. Then something occurred to her, and she walked back over to Mortlake and touched him, lightly, on the shoulder.
“I never thanked you,” she said. “So, this is me saying thanks for everything you’ve done. You didn’t have to help, stick your neck out. Sometimes, I forget that. Sorry for... what I said. You are one of the good guys.”
***
“Why a church?” asked Gonfallon. “You think the power of God will smite me or something?”
“Perhaps,” Mortlake said. “One can’t entirely rule out the possibility of a just God, despite a lot of evidence that seems to contradict it.”
“Place is almost empty,” Gonfallon pointed out. “Not many faithful about.”
Mortlake glanced around. He was halfway up the aisle, his back to the great altar and the fine stained-glass window behind it. A handful of people were in the church. A couple of tourists were studying the inscription on a medieval tomb. A woman sitting a short distance away seemed to be praying, head down. A man was sitting at the back, head on one side, apparently asleep.
“I chose this place because it’s just public enough to keep you sensible but without too many innocent bystanders,” Mortlake said. “And because—I wanted to conduct an experiment. Again, for the last time, I offer you my help. Let me research your affliction, find a cure.”
Gonfallon walked forward, and Mortlake noticed that the other man was not swinging his arms normally at his sides. They were unmoving, fingers half-clenched. The aristocrat had also developed a loping gait, knees slightly bent, feet splayed at a distinct angle in their fine shoes. Yet Gonfallon had been walking normally outside the restaurant just a few days earlier.
“You’ve passed a threshold,” Mortlake said. “The beast is taking control. It may already be too late, but if you at least let me try—”
Gonfallon laughed, and it sounded very like a snarl. Mortlake continued to walk backward until his heel struck the step up to the altar. He stumbled, almost fell. Gonfallon crouched, almost on all fours, his teeth bared. His canine teeth were abnormally large.
“See?” Mortlake said, trying to keep his voice level as he stepped up and kept retreating. “The instinct to attack is always there, now. You must know it will burst out, sooner or later. And you will kill someone in public, and be seen for what you are.”
Gonfallon emitted a full-throated snarl. When he spoke again, the lord’s voice was deeper, the words coming slowly, with a growling undertone.
“I love the beast! It frees me from all my fears! The scent of fear—I smell it now! Beware, little man. I will tear you apart if you don’t leave me alone!”
Mortlake reached into his coat for a small spray bottle, took it out. He continued to back up until he felt cold stone. He was right underneath the vast medieval window. The dull mid-morning sunlight cast weak patterns of color on the floor in front of him. He wondered if it would be enough to have any effect. But he had one more thing to say, so he said it.
“No, Your Lordship, I will not leave you alone. I have a nice, sharp video of Alfred Gotobed transforming before attacking me. I will release it, naming names, giving facts, and let the wonderful online community draw their own conclusions.”
“Fake!” snarled Gonfallon, the word barely recognizable. “Fake!”
“Some will say fake, others won’t. And there are people in Eastern Europe who will be very interested to know who had one of their kind kidnapped. Whichever way it pans out, you will never be rid of me, Rupert, because I’ll tell the world what you are. I’ll be called a crank, but so what? I’m used to it, and I’ve got tenure. You will be investigated, followed, observed twenty-four-seven. And then, when people grasp the truth, you’ll be hunted down and killed like a rabid dog.”
Gonfallon’s snarl was truly bestial this time, and Mortlake heard ripping sounds as the man’s finely tailored clothes started to split all over his body. The werewolf loped forward into the light cast by the stained-glass window, arms swinging low. The aristocratic face that had sneered was now turning into a muzzle, the eyes were truly golden-yellow, the ears had shifted back and grown. Rags of expensive cloth hung from contorted limbs that bulged with muscle and sprouted thick clumps of hair. Mortlake, struggling to control his fear, could still observe with some detachment. The creature was an abomination, yet it still had some of the beauty of a wild beast.
Mortlake took the small bottle from his coat. The beast sniffed, paused in his menacing advance. Mortlake aimed the spray at himself and squirted a cloud of colorless vapor. The creature snarled and shook his head, saliva flying from the massive jaws. Then it darted forward, lashing out with a huge paw. Claws slashed the front of Mortlake’s jacket as he flung himself sideways and fell. The bottle flew from his fingers and broke on the stone flags.
Mortlake half-expected the monster to spring, but the spray did its work. The beast shook its head, then bit at its paw, which smoked slightly. The contact with wolfsbane�
��even in diluted form—had proved effective. Mortlake crawled quickly into the pool of liquid, ignoring the shards of broken glass, and rolled in the toxic fluid. The creature roared in pain and frustration, desperate to attack but obviously fearing further injury. Two primal impulses fought in a mind where reason had been banished.
It must not flee, Mortlake thought desperately. It will run and innocent people will get in the way…
He got to his feet, cursing his slowness, as the creature pivoted on three limbs and snarled at the onlookers. The woman who had been praying was already dashing out of the main doorway, but the tourists and the vagrant were confused. Then someone new appeared, moving fast, red hair tied in a long plait behind her.
“Run!” Tara shouted, grabbing one of the tourists and dragging her toward the church door. “Get out of here, you dumb assholes! Run for your lives or that thing will rip your guts out!”
Mortlake didn’t have time to wonder how she had found him. He hurled himself at the beast, wanting to make it smoke and howl, determined to clutch it to himself even if it tore his throat out. But the creature was too quick, leaping aside and swiping viciously with a huge paw. The blow caught him on the shoulder and sent him sprawling. His elbow struck stone with a nasty crack that sent shockwaves through his frame. The beast hesitated once more, its impulse to attack vying with fear of the poison. It turned to face the bystanders and braced itself to leap into the aisle. Tara ran forward, silver gleaming on her neck and hands.
Then the sun came out.
The winter sunlight was dazzling, banishing the gloom and casting a bright pattern of intense colors over Mortlake and the beast. The werewolf looked up in surprise at the vast, bright window, and its eyes narrowed. Then it yelped and flung up a forelimb to cover its face. Smoke started to rise from the creature’s fur, and it yelped, again and again, a piercing sound that echoed in the stone building.