Wolf in the Fold h&f-4

by Simon R. Green

  have been, and she cursed briefly.

  "We never did get round to finding me a sword." She reached out and took an oil

  lamp from its niche in the corridor wall. She shook it and listened to the oil

  gurgle, unscrewed the lamp into its two parts, and spilled the oil in a wide

  sweep across the floor. She then threw away the lamp, took a box of matches from

  her pocket, and held them concealed in her hand.

  "Good thinking," said Hawk. "I've always admired your essentially sneaky and

  devious nature."

  "You say the nicest things," said Fisher.

  The footsteps grew louder. Hawk drew his sword, and he and Fisher stood side by

  side. Jamie and David appeared round the curve of the corridor, and came to a

  sudden halt as they saw their prey waiting patiently for them. Alistair and

  Brennan moved quickly in beside Jamie and David. Hawk fixed Jamie with his best

  authoritative gaze.

  "Listen to me, Jamie; I'm not the freak, but I know who is."

  "Kill him," said Jamie. "Shut his lying mouth."

  The four of them started forward, swords raised. Hawk cursed, but held his

  ground. "Listen to me, dammit! I can prove what I'm saying!" Jamie broke into a

  run, David only a step behind him. Hawk looked at Fisher. "All right; do it."

  Fisher struck a match. It flared up on the first try, and she dropped it into

  the oil. It caught in a second, and flames leapt up to block off the corridor.

  Hawk and Fisher backed away from the searing heat, and then tensed as a dark

  figure came hurtling through the flames. It was Alistair.

  He stood before them, smoke rising from his smouldering clothes, his mouth

  stretched in a cold and deadly grin. He stepped forward, sword at the ready, and

  Hawk went to meet him. Sparks flew in the narrow corridor as steel rang on

  steel, and Hawk knew right away that he was in serious trouble. Alistair was a

  superior swordsman, and Hawk wasn't, anymore. With his axe in his hand he could

  probably still have given a good account of himself, but as it was, it was all

  he could do to defend himself. He backed slowly down the corridor, using every

  trick he knew to buy himself some breathing space, but Alistair knew them all,

  and their counters. He began to press home his attack, his death's-head grin

  never once faltering. And then Fisher stepped out of the shadows to Alistair's

  left, and kicked him expertly behind the knee. He collapsed and fell forward as

  pain exploded in his leg. Hawk and Fisher turned and ran down the corridor.

  Alistair slowly forced himself back onto one knee, paused for breath, and then

  got to his feet, favoring his aching leg. He'd underestimated Isobel. He

  wouldn't do that again. He looked back, and saw the others gingerly making their

  way round the edges of the dying flames. He gestured impatiently for them to

  join him, and started down the corridor after his prey, ignoring the pain in his

  leg.

  Farther down the corridor, Hawk stopped suddenly and Fisher almost ran into him.

  "What is it, Hawk? Problem?"

  "More like a stroke of luck," said Hawk. "I remember this bit of corridor.

  There's a secret passage here… somewhere. Jamie showed it to me earlier on." He

  pressed hard against a particular piece of stone moulding, and a section of the

  wall swung soundlessly open. Hawk grinned.

  "Grab a lamp, Isobel. With any luck, it'll be ages before the others can be sure

  we're no longer on this floor."

  Fisher took a lamp from the wall and lit it, and the two of them plunged into

  the narrow tunnel. The section of wall closed silently behind them.

  In the library, Holly sat staring disconsolately into the fire. The quiet

  crackling of the flames was the only sound in the room. Arthur had tried to keep

  her spirits up with his usual dry humor and amusing anecdotes, but he soon

  stopped when he realized she wasn't listening. She couldn't seem to concentrate

  on anything but the thought that David was in danger and there was nothing she

  could do to help him.

  She still couldn't believe how easily Richard had taken her in. Taken them all

  in. She should have sensed something was wrong about him… but she hadn't.

  Instead, she'd actually found him rather likeable, in an unpolished kind of way.

  The thought depressed her, and she looked listlessly round the room, searching

  for something her eyes could settle on that wouldn't require her to think or

  feel anything in particular. Arthur was sitting next to her, his eyelids

  drooping, a glass of something as always in his hand. He looked half asleep;

  either the drink or the strain was getting to him. Sitting next to him, Katrina

  glared blindly straight ahead, lost in thought, the heavy iron poker still

  clutched firmly in both hands. Her knuckles showed white from the fierceness of

  her grip. And Marc was sitting comfortably in his chair, a little away from the

  rest of them, staring thoughtfully at nothing. He seemed perfectly relaxed and

  at ease, and Holly looked at him enviously. Sometimes it seemed to her that

  she'd never feel relaxed again.

  The flames leapt up suddenly as a log shifted in the fire, and Arthur studied it

  out of one eye for a moment, before letting it half close again. In a way, he

  almost wished he'd gone with the others. At least then he would have been doing

  something, instead of just waiting and worrying, not knowing what was happening.

  Maybe it was all over by now, and they'd found Richard and killed him, and

  everything could get back to normal again. Or maybe Richard had killed them all,

  picking them off one at a time from hiding, and was now on his way back down the

  stairs, to finish the job and silence everyone who could identify him. Arthur

  stirred unhappily, but kept his features relaxed and his eyes half closed. He

  didn't want Holly to see he was worried. She looked scared enough as it was.

  His hand dropped self-consciously to the sword at his side. He'd had the same

  training all young Quality men went through as a matter of course, but truth be

  told he'd never drawn the blade in anger in his life. He'd never given much of a

  damn about his honor; certainly not enough to risk his life in a duel over it.

  Besides, he'd never been much of a swordsman, and he might have got hurt. But it

  wasn't just his life that was at stake now. There was Holly to think of. She was

  depending on him and Marc to defend her if things went wrong. Arthur's mouth

  tightened. Probably Marc would turn out to be an expert with a sword, and he

  wouldn't be needed. That was how things usually went. No one had ever needed

  Arthur in his life. But if worst came to worst, and there was only him left

  between Holly and the freak, he hoped he'd find the courage to do the right

  thing, for once in his life.

  He looked across at Marc, and frowned slightly. He couldn't say he'd never

  warmed to the man. He seemed pleasant enough, in a dull, earnest kind of way,

  but basically Marc had all the character of a block of wood. He had no interests

  or opinions of his own, and absolutely no sense of humor. It wasn't often that

  Arthur found someone he could feel superior to, and he rather enjoyed the

  novelty, but there was something about Marc he didn't care for. He was too

  quiet, too
bland, too self-effacing. It just wasn't natural for a man to be that

  polite. And then Marc raised his head and looked at Holly, and Arthur felt a

  sudden chill go through him. Marc looked different somehow. He looked… Arthur

  sat up straight suddenly as the thought hit him. Marc looked hungry.

  Marc turned his head to look at Arthur, and smiled pleasantly.

  "Something wrong, Arthur?"

  Arthur tried to clear his throat, but his mouth was very dry. "I don't know."

  "You look as though you've seen a ghost. Or something worse. What do you think,

  Arthur? Have you seen something worse?"

  "Maybe. Maybe I have."

  Katrina looked at them both, frowning. "What are you two talking about?"

  "We're talking about me," said Marc. "It's a fascinating subject, really." He

  rose lithely to his feet and stood with his back to the fire, smiling easily at

  them all. "Tell me, Arthur, when did you first begin to suspect?"

  "I'm not sure," said Arthur numbly. "Maybe earlier on, when I noticed you never

  ate anything that was offered to you, and although you always had a glass of

  wine in your hand, you never drank from it. Drunks notice that kind of thing.

  And you were always too self-controlled, too unaffected by the things that were

  happening here."

  "Ah yes," said Marc. "Emotions. I never could get the hang of them. Unless you

  count hunger as an emotion. I'm always hungry."

  "No," said Holly, her eyes widening as she shrank back in her chair. "It can't

  be. You can't be…"

  "I'm afraid so," said Marc. "And they've all gone off and left the three of you

  alone with me. We're quite safe in here. No one can get to us; I've seen to

  that. Or did you never consider that a barricade will serve just as well to keep

  people in, as well as out?"

  Katrina glared at him, holding her poker before her. "You come near me, and I'll

  kill you, you… freak!"

  "Such a harsh word," said Marc. "But unfortunately for you, perfectly accurate.

  I'm afraid I've waited as long as I can, and I really don't care to wait any

  longer. The others will be busy killing each other by now, so we shouldn't be

  interrupted."

  "You don't have to do this," said Holly. "We wouldn't tell anyone about you.

  Honest."

  "Oh, I think you would," said Marc. "If you had the chance. But I'm afraid I

  can't afford to leave any witnesses. So I'll take care of you three first, and

  then I'll go upstairs and introduce myself to whatever survivors there may be. I

  couldn't do that before; I wasn't strong enough. And the memories got in the

  way. But now Greaves is mine, the memories are under control, and after I've

  drained the life and strength out of you as well… When the wards go down

  tomorrow morning, I shall leave this Tower and go down into the city, and I will

  feed and feed and feed, and never be hungry again.

  "I think I'll start with you, Holly. I've always admired you. Like a rose

  without a thorn; so pretty, so vulnerable. That's why I came to you in the

  night, while you slept, and took a little life from you, to keep myself going.

  Your memories drifted through my mind like petals on a breeze, sweet but

  unsatisfying. Did you dream of me, perhaps? I'd like to think you did. I dreamed

  of someone like you for years. And now you're mine."

  He started towards Holly, and Arthur scrambled to his feet. He drew his sword

  and put himself between her and the freak, hoping he looked more impressive than

  he felt.

  "Get away from her, you bastard. I won't let you hurt her."

  The freak just stood there, smiling. "Very nicely said, Arthur. Now put away

  your sword and sit down. I'll get round to you, when I'm ready."

  "I mean it!"

  "I'm sure you do. But there's nothing you can do to stop me. As long as I'm

  within arm's reach of someone, I can drain the life right out of them. Besides,

  it's obvious from the way you're holding your sword that you don't really know

  how to use it. Marc knew about things like that, and now, so do I. I wonder what

  I'll know when I've emptied your head, Arthur. How to mix cocktails, perhaps?"

  "Stay back," said Arthur. His voice sounded shaky, even to him, but at least his

  sword hand was steady. He'd often dreamed of standing between Holly and some

  unidentified villain, being the hero of the moment, but now the time had come

  and he'd never felt so scared in his life. But he wouldn't back down. Holly

  needed him. The thought steadied him, and he stepped smartly forward, his sword

  shooting out in a textbook lunge. Marc sidestepped elegantly, and dropped a hand

  on Arthur's outstretched arm. The sword fell to the floor as his hand went numb.

  A wave of shuddering cold swept through him as the strength went out of him and

  into Marc. He fell limply forward, his face striking hard against the floor, but

  he couldn't feel it. He tried to get to his feet again, and couldn't move. He

  would have been frightened, but his thoughts were growing too dim even for that.

  And then Marc's hand was suddenly jerked away from his arm, and his thoughts

  began to clear.

  Marc fell back a step as Katrina swung the iron poker with both hands again. The

  first blow had connected strongly enough with Marc's head to send him staggering

  sideways, but there was no sign of any wound. Of course not, thought Katrina

  crazily. He's not really there. That's just an illusion of Marc. Behind the

  illusion, he's probably bleeding like a stuck pig. The thought comforted her as

  she swung the poker again, putting all her strength into it.

  Marc's hand shot out at the last moment and intercepted the poker, absorbing its

  momentum with hardly a jolt, though Katrina's hand went numb from the impact.

  Marc smiled at her, and her eyes rolled up in her head as he sucked the strength

  out of her. She collapsed in a heap, and Marc let the poker drop to the floor

  beside her. He turned to face Holly again, and then stopped as Arthur grabbed

  him by the ankle. Marc tried to pull free, and couldn't.

  Arthur's fingers whitened as he put all his remaining strength into his grip.

  Holly needed him. Nothing else mattered. Marc bent down and picked up the poker

  he'd dropped. Arthur knew what was going to happen, but didn't have the strength

  to turn his head away. He couldn't even shut his eyes. Marc struck down hard

  with the poker, and Arthur's vision disappeared behind a sudden rush of blood.

  He still wouldn't let go. Holly needed him. Marc hit him again, and again.

  Holly burst out of her chair and threw herself at Marc, screaming and flailing

  at him with her fists. Marc stumbled backwards and almost fell, but he quickly

  regained his balance and grabbed one of her waving arms. She fell to her knees

  as the strength went out of her, and he smiled down at her.

  "Don't be so impatient, Holly. I'll be with you in a moment." He bent down and

  struck repeatedly at Arthur's hand with the poker. The sound of bones breaking

  and splintering was horribly loud on the quiet. Marc pulled his foot free, threw

  aside the poker, and turned back to look at Holly. "There; that didn't take too

  long, did it? Now I'm free to give you my full attention."

  He smiled slowly. "You know, Holly, you're all I ever dreamed of, down all ther />
  years, locked away in stone and silence. I watched the light come and go through

  the narrow slit of window, and listened to the gulls screaming, and felt the

  slow turning of the seasons… and dreamed about what I'd do when I finally got

  out. At first I dreamed of blood and pain and sweet revenge, and then I dreamed

  of the world beyond the Tower, and all the terrible things I would do there, and

  then I dreamed of women, and all the warmth and kindness and beauty I've always

  longed for, and never known except in dreams."

  "But the years passed, and the dreams got mixed up with each other, until I

  really don't know what I want anymore.

  I want you, Holly; you're all I ever dreamed of. So I'm going to hurt you and

  drain you and hurt you some more and maybe finally I'll hurt you till you die of

  it, because I want you so much it hurts. Come to me, Holly. No need to be

  afraid. After all, I'm just one of the Family."

  Holly jerked her arm free from his grip and scrambled to her feet, backing away

  across the room as he came unhurriedly after her. She looked desperately around

  for help, but Katrina was lying unconscious on the floor, and Arthur was only

  moving feebly, despite the desperation on his bloody face. Holly wanted to cry,

  for them and for herself, but there wasn't time. She kept backing away, and Marc

  kept coming after her, still smiling. She wanted to scream for help, to Jamie or

  David or one of the others, but she knew they were too far away to hear her.

  There was no one to help her. So she'd just have to do it herself.

  You're a MacNeil. Act like one.

  She chanted that silently to herself, like a prayer or a penance, as her gaze

  swept the room, searching for something she could use as a weapon. Maybe a brand

  from the fire; she could set his clothes alight. Except that the fireplace was

  on the other side of the room now, and he stood between it and her. There were

  heavy paperweights on the desk, but even as she looked at them, Marc intercepted

  her gaze and moved to block her way to the desk. She thought about making a dash

  for the door, but one glance was enough to convince her that she'd never be able

  to dismantle the barricade before Marc got to her. She smiled humorlessly. She'd

  felt so safe behind that barricade… Think, dammit, think! She passed by an oil