Wolf Blood
Lycanthropic
Book 1
Steve Morris
This novel is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, places, names or events is purely coincidental.
Steve Morris asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Published by Landmark Media, a division of Landmark Internet Ltd.
Copyright © 2017 by Steve Morris.
All rights reserved.
stevemorrisbooks.com
Acknowledgements: Huge thanks are due to Margarita Morris, Michael Smith and James Pailly for their valuable comments and help in proof-reading this book.
Table of contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter One
The mountains of Romania, midwinter, full moon
Professor Norman Wiseman poured himself another shot of whisky and tried to ignore the distant howling of the wolves. He wondered how many glasses he’d need to drink to block out the noise completely.
‘Six so far,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Nowhere near enough.’ He knocked back the crystal glass of golden-brown liquid and poured another.
A wolf howled again from somewhere outside the log cabin. It sounded closer than before, but the winter wind blew so violently at this altitude he couldn’t be certain. The heavy snow played tricks with sounds too, muffling some while seeming to amplify others. A man couldn’t trust his own senses in this place. Not human senses, at any rate.
What was he doing up this mountain in the middle of winter anyway? He had come chasing wolves. Now they chased him. There was a certain justice to that, he supposed. Wolves had always ruled the Carpathian Mountains. Humans had driven them out of the lowlands and civilized lands. But here, among the rugged peaks and thick forests of Romania, nothing much had changed since humans had first come. Wolves, bears and lynxes went about their business as they always had. It wasn’t just ordinary wolves he feared now though. If only it were just wolves.
The wind gusted again outside the cabin, twitching the flames of the candles on the table, making shadows dance across the wooden walls. He had killed the electric lights earlier that evening when the full moon rose above the densely-packed trees. No point drawing attention to himself, although he doubted that would make any difference. They knew exactly where he was. But the ambience of candle flame and moonlight soothed his nerves and quenched the worst of his fears. Or perhaps that was just the alcohol.
He drank the eighth whisky more slowly than the seventh. If it was going to be his last, he might as well try to enjoy it.
‘A twenty-year-old single malt doesn’t come cheap,’ he reminded himself.
His grad students had clubbed together to buy it for him on his fiftieth birthday. No need to waste a good malt.
Professor Wiseman, his students had called him. He had been Professor of Emerging Diseases at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine once. He still would have been, if his paper hadn’t been leaked to journalists. He’d sent it in confidence to the International Journal of Virology, Epidemiology and Communicable Diseases. It was the most important scientific paper he’d ever worked on, with content that would have rocked the field of epidemiology. And some idiot had given it to the popular press. He had a pretty good idea who’d done it. The academic world was small, and full of petty rivalries and bitterness.
Now they called him Professor Wolfman, or worse. Professor Wolfman predicts Werewolf Outbreak. Doctor Werewolf’s Evil Experiments. He forgot some of the most absurd headlines now. The whisky was starting to do its job.
What stung him most was the way his former colleagues had treated him. They should have defended him from ridicule. They should have recognized the significance of his discoveries. But they were just as bad as the newspaper journalists. Oh, they dressed it up in academic language so they could claim the moral high ground, but most of what they wrote was just vindictive.
Completely unsubstantiated speculations. Groundless scaremongering. Preposterous and dangerous theories and poorly-designed experimental protocols. He knew what they really meant. This doesn’t fit our pre-conceived models. Conventional theories cannot account for your rogue ideas. You’ve gone off the rails, Professor.
In a way, he hoped they were right. He had uncovered something so horrifying that he had questioned his own sanity at times. He had double-checked his calculations, repeated his experiments under different control conditions. His conclusions were robust. The journal editors should have seen that. He had handed over every last piece of data and all his notes from the past two years. Photographs even. All the evidence, documented, analyzed and repeated. But once the story had leaked to the newspapers, they had rushed to denounce him and dismiss
his results.
‘One day it will all come back to bite them.’ Wiseman chuckled. That was a good joke. It was a pity he had no one to tell it to.
Unless …
No, he mustn’t even think about that.
He sipped the whisky and tried not to think any more about biting. How much of the bottle would he need to drink so that when they came for him he would no longer care? He intended to find out. There was no point saving the whisky for another night. This would be his last.
A faint rapping came from inside the cabin. Not outside, this time. Not the howl of a wolf, or the scratching of icy pine needles against the cabin wall. A muffled rhythmic drumming, from inside. Metal against wood. He knew what it was and where it came from. He glanced quickly at the bedroom door, then looked away. The door was firmly locked. He patted his shirt pocket to check. Yes, the key was still there. He had locked the door himself. Firmly.
‘Don’t open it, Wiseman. Don’t even think about it.’
He picked up the bottle to pour again, then thought better of it. Easier just to drink straight from the bottle. He preferred his whisky straight anyway. He stood up, slightly unsteadily, and walked the short distance to the window of the log cabin. White. All was white out there. Snow thick on the ground, icicles hanging from the trees. Above everything, the moon. A beautiful night. And black too, of course. Black of night. Black of shadow. Black of the unknown.
The beauty hadn’t struck him quite so forcefully before. A fierce beauty. Untamed nature in its purest state. Mile upon mile of pine trees standing tall, or bending under the weight of the snow. Unchanged for ten thousand years. And beneath the trees, wild beasts roaming freely, indifferent to human concerns. If only they could have remained as beasts.
The snow was deepening. Perhaps it would fall all night and bury the cabin. Maybe he would survive then, hidden beneath a layer of white. He would emerge in the morning and the nightmare would have passed. But that was crazy thinking. There could never be that much snow, not even in this desolate wilderness. And there was no time now. They were close, not more than a mile away he guessed.
The tapping sound started up again from inside the other room, louder this time. ‘Dammit!’ It was impossible to ignore. He turned away from the winter wonderland outside and paced the wooden floor of the cabin. Twelve feet by ten. That was the size of his world now. Outside no longer mattered. You could get cabin fever, living here. And yet that was the least of his worries. He wished that cabin fever was the worst thing he’d discovered in these mountains.
He wondered again at the events that had conspired to bring him to this godforsaken cabin for his last night on earth. He could discern no rational reason for it. He had done nothing to deserve this fate. No good would come of it. His discoveries had been pushed aside and ignored. One day they might be unearthed by some researcher somewhere, but by then it would be too late. His thoughts were turning maudlin again. He could blame the whisky. Either that, or the clarity of knowing he had less than an hour to live.
He paused at the locked door and listened carefully. No knocking now. He reached for the handle and pulled it slowly. It turned just so far and then stopped. Locked. He felt for the key in his pocket again. What if …?
No, that was dangerous thinking. And yet … what difference did it make now? The two outside were coming for him, and they were fully turned. Stage Three of the condition already. No longer a shred of humanity left. Whereas the girl was still human. Just … different.
Leanna. She had been a promising student once. The other two had been too. But Leanna had always been the best. Smart girl, straight A grades, a promising academic or clinical career ahead of her. He’d been delighted when she volunteered to come with him to the mountains. A three-year project, isolated from other people. It was a lot to ask from a young student with the world at her feet. And yet she’d had faith in him. All three of them had. They’d followed him to this wilderness, and he had let them down. He’d failed in his basic duty of care. Poetic justice then. He deserved what he got.
A wolf howled again outside, quickly followed by a second. Not wolves, though. Creatures.
They were very close now. As if in reply, the knocking started up again, louder and more violent. Wiseman tipped the bottle and swallowed a big mouthful of whisky, slopping half of it down his front. He’d lost count of how much he’d drunk. What the hell, he would open the door. He drew the key from his shirt pocket and inserted it into the lock. Slowly he turned it, until the lock clicked softly. He tried the handle again. This time it turned all the way. He pushed the door open a few inches and peered inside.
Chapter Two
Moonlight from the window threw a stark strip of white into the darkened room beyond. Careful now. He mustn’t let the moonlight reach her. If it did, everything would be over. Moonlight was the catalyst for Stage Three.
The bedroom was even smaller than the main room of the cabin, and sparsely furnished. It was incredible that they’d all lived together for so long in such primitive conditions. A combined kitchen diner and living space, four tiny bedrooms and a basic bathroom. Leanna’s room had few items of furniture, but still felt cramped. A wardrobe against one wooden wall, a locker just visible opposite. He pushed the door to the room open a little more. The moonbeam crept further across the floor, reaching almost to the bedside locker. He mustn’t open it any more.
He grabbed one of the candles from the kitchen table and held it before him as he slid through the half-open door. The candle flashed monstrous shadows on the back wall as it swayed in his hand. Once inside he put it on top of the locker, keeping the bottle of whisky in his other hand. He was going to need that.
Leanna lay on the bed where he had secured her, arms and legs tied tightly to the metal bed-frame with thick ropes. Congealed blood covered her wrists and ankles where she had struggled with the knots. The bedsheets beneath were stained red and brown. He felt a pang of guilt, but quickly fought it away. Those knots were all that had kept him alive.
The stench from the room made him want to gag. She had been lying in her own filth for days now, strapped to the bed. He hadn’t been to see her since Stage Two had taken hold. There had been no point after that. She had stopped accepting food and water, so what could he have done for her in any case? No cure existed. Nothing could slow the onset of the next stage. And she had been unconscious for much of the time.
Wiseman pulled up a wooden chair and sat next to the bed. The chair rocked slightly from leg to leg on the uneven floorboards as he tipped back the whisky bottle, swallowing another mouthful. She hardly seemed to be aware of him at first. Her eyes remained closed, almost as if she were sleeping, but then she arched her back and thrashed at the ropes that bound her, making the bed frame rattle and thud against the back wall of the cabin again. She was still fully human to look at, but her face was horribly gaunt and pale, her cheeks like hollows, the skin stretched taut across her forehead. You could see the skull outlined beneath the translucent flesh. It was hardly surprising she looked so thin and pinched, given that she had refused all fluids for over a week now. A normal human would be dead already.
That was how he knew she had entered Stage Two of the condition. The refusal to eat or drink. The disgust she showed when offered food. The acute sensitivity to sunshine or electric light. Symptoms he had meticulously catalogued and sent to the journal, only to be met with ridicule and disbelief.
Her fingernails had become unnaturally long, and he could see that the shape of her jaw had changed to accommodate the extended teeth. Her nose had changed shape too, becoming more animal-like as her wolf senses developed. And her golden hair, always beautiful, had grown even longer and thicker than before. It shined lustrously in the orange flicker of the candle. She was ready to make the transition to Stage Three.
Her eyes snapped open as he looked at her. Bright yellow eyes.
It startled him to see that. It was the most inhuman aspect of the transformation. Her eyes had been blue before
. The purest blue. Now they burned yellow like the fires of hell.
She struggled when she noticed him, thrashing from side to side, trying to break free of the ropes that bit into her flesh.
‘Calm down, Leanna,’ he said soothingly. ‘You’re just hurting yourself.’ He reached out a hand to touch her, but she snarled at him, wolf noises, growls and stifled yells. He was thankful for the ball of cloth he had stuffed in her mouth to gag her. She shook her head violently from side to side in frustration, trying to shake the gag free, but he had tied it too firmly.
‘Leanna,’ he tried again. ‘You know I had to tie you. It was for your own sake.’ There was truth in that. She would have battered herself to death when the fever took her. Before the calm set in, she had been like a rabid dog, thrashing her limbs, hurling herself to the ground as the disease spread through her body, squeezing the last vestige of humanity out of her very bones. It had been horrible to watch, and just as bad to listen to. The gag had been for his own benefit, there was no point denying that, least of all to himself. Least of all now.
She stopped shaking her head and lay still, seemingly exhausted. Then she fixed him with those yellow eyes and started to make a new sound. It sounded like speech, but he couldn’t be sure.
He bent his head closer to her face. ‘Leanna? Are you trying to say something?’
She gave him a quick nod of her head, then fell silent again, beseeching him with her wide eyes.
Wiseman took another swig of whisky. He might as well remove the gag. What harm could it do now? The worst of the animal noises had ceased at least a day ago. Since then she had stayed mostly silent. And now perhaps she wanted to talk. Why not? He had little to fear from her now. The two outside were the true threat.
‘Leanna?’ He spoke quietly to her, pronouncing the words carefully so that the wolf brain would understand. ‘I’m going to remove the gag, but you have to promise not to scream or howl. Do you understand?’
After a brief pause she nodded.
‘Okay.’ He put the bottle down on the floor next to the bed and reached his fingers around the back of her head, taking care to keep his arms and hands well away from her mouth. The knot had pulled taut from the strain of holding her for so long. The cloth had been soaked in sweat and grime and had become so knotted he couldn’t unpick it.
Lycanthropic (Book 1): Wolf Blood Page 1
