She dug in harder and twisted with all her strength. The screw turned a quarter of a notch. She tried again, applying pressure with both hands. It turned again, but it still had a long way to go. Patience, Melanie, you can do a little more tomorrow. And then again the next day.
‘Six, five, …’
To hell with patience. She was done with that. There might not even be a tomorrow. The mirror had loosened from the wall a fraction and she slid her little finger under the free corner. She pushed and wriggled it as far as it would go. If she could just lever the mirror off the wall …
‘Three, two, …’
She flushed the toilet with her free hand and called out. ‘Okay, I’m done. I just need to wash my hands now.’
She held her breath until the answer came. ‘All right, but don’t take long.’
She turned the water and let it gush into the hand basin. The sound would mask any noise she made removing the mirror. She pushed again, this time with her middle finger. The edge of the glass lifted slightly away from the wall. She strained, forcing two slender fingers behind the mirror.
With a sudden release of pressure the glass broke. It shattered with a loud crack, spraying fragments of glass across the small space of the bathroom. A splinter entered Melanie’s finger and she watched in fascination as a tear of blood wept from behind her fingernail, matching the chipped remnants of her red nail varnish. She plucked the glass needle out and dropped it into the sink. The churning water there turned red.
Behind her the door burst open in fury and the man rushed in, blade first, hands shaking and eyes everywhere.
Melanie grabbed a long shard of glass, wincing as it sliced into her palm and fingers, but gripping it tightly. The drugs quenched the pain. The man’s knife came at her fast, but she moved faster, despite the fog that filled her head. She plunged the glass into the back of his hand and watched it split the vein that pulsed there so angrily.
The man recoiled with a deafening roar, dropping the knife and snatching his hand away.
She lifted the splinter of glass again, ignoring the pain as it dug into her injured hand, and waved it in his direction. He stepped back, fear on his face. For once, his eyes remained fixed on hers.
‘Get back in the bedroom, and close the door behind you,’ Melanie ordered him. She waved the glass fragment in front of her. ‘Hurry,’ she added, when he hesitated, ‘or I’ll eviscerate you.’ She pronounced the word carefully, just the way he liked it.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Greenfield Road, Brixton, South London, New Year’s Eve, 1pm, full moon
It was nearly time for the Wolf Brothers to change. Leanna had already explained the process to Warg Daddy in detail. Now the time had come. New Year’s Eve. The night of the full moon.
It had been a month since the Brothers had first encountered Leanna on Clapham Common. So much had changed since that night. The Brothers had been twelve originally. Now they were nine. Wombat had died on the Common, and two others had succumbed to the fever. Leanna had forbidden the survivors to mourn the fallen. The weak did not deserve it.
Warg Daddy had never doubted his own strength. The fever had proved it once again.
Now they were hungry. Hungry for blood.
They would change tonight, Leanna had promised, when the full moon rose. And then they would hunt, for the first time. Warg Daddy could still hardly dare to believe it. Becoming a werewolf had been a childhood fantasy. As an adult, he had learned that it was an impossible dream. Now it was a reality. If this could be true, then anything could.
But while they waited for moonrise, Leanna had other matters she wished to discuss with him. In private.
Warg Daddy nodded as Leanna briefed him. They sat in comfortable armchairs in the house in Greenfield Road where Leanna lived with her friends. The domestic setting unsettled Warg Daddy. This was no place for a wolf, and he had never felt comfortable in suburban houses. Their dullness constrained him. He longed instead for the freedom of the open road, a powerful engine throbbing beneath him. Dressed in his leathers and helmet, he could imagine himself as a knight of old, an adventurer on a quest. A life without such dreams was not worth living.
Leanna’s clipped voice cut through his drifting thoughts. ‘So I have two close advisers,’ she told him. ‘They are smart, but perhaps too smart.’
Warg Daddy listened carefully. She was talking about the friends she shared the house with, Adam and Samuel, both werewolves like her. The three of them were the first of their kind, bringing the condition from the Carpathian Mountains of Romania. Warg Daddy disliked them already. He had never enjoyed being a follower.
‘Adam is a power-seeker,’ continued Leanna. ‘He has a hunger in him that makes him very dangerous. Samuel is loyal, but perhaps a little too metrosexual for my liking. Do you know what I mean?’
Warg Daddy grunted in acknowledgement. He had no idea what a metrosexual werewolf might be like, but he understood Leanna’s real problem. It was leadership.
Leadership, and trust.
Warg Daddy had the same issues with the Pack. Snakebite was perhaps like this power-seeker – a strong man with his own agenda. Snakebite could be slow-witted at times, but once he grasped a situation fully, he acted with brutality and a cold ruthlessness. He was Warg Daddy’s most valuable ally. But he needed to be watched, to make sure he stayed on plan.
Wombat had been like the other Leanna spoke of, far too clever for his own good. He’d read too many books as well. All that Ragnarök stuff. Norse myths and New Age mumbo-jumbo. Yet despite his brains, he had no street smarts. He’d always had the knack of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. That’s what had got him killed that night on the Common. Leanna had been looking for someone to make an example of, to demonstrate her power, and Wombat had as good as raised his hand to volunteer.
Leanna was still talking, but Warg Daddy had stopped listening. He had already grasped what he needed to know. The details of her two so-called advisers were unimportant. What mattered was that an opportunity existed for them to be replaced. ‘I know what you mean,’ he told her. ‘You need a right-hand man. Someone you can trust.’
Leanna smiled her cold smile at him. ‘I need a strong man. A born leader. Can you be that man, Warg Daddy?’
Warg Daddy freed himself from the constraints of the comfy chair, straightening himself to his full height and puffing out his chest. ‘I’ll be your man.’
Leanna stood too. She was tall, but not as tall as him. She pushed her long, slim body against his. ‘I’ll be your woman too, if you want me.’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
James could hear voices coming from the front room, a man and a woman deep in conversation. The woman’s voice was Leanna’s, but he didn’t recognize the other. He had seen a stranger arrive at the house earlier – a huge bear of a man, dressed in motorcycle leathers, with a black beard and shaven head, riding the biggest motorbike James had ever seen. James had watched him from the upstairs window, but had not dared show his face. The man scared him.
Leanna scared him too. She didn’t like him, even now that he’d fully changed, and she made it clear every time she encountered him. He didn’t really like her much either, nor Adam with his sneering disdain. Both were cold, selfish people. Only Samuel made him feel comfortable in the house. He kept his distance from the others.
He slipped quietly down the stairs, taking care to avoid the step near the bottom which creaked loudly. He had become adept at creeping around the house without drawing attention to himself. Sneaking, Adam called it. But James was no sneak. He just preferred to avoid confrontation.
The stranger had an almost overpowering smell – a mix of leather, sweat and engine oil. James would not forget it in a hurry. And there was another smell too. The whole house reeked of male and female lust.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and was treading quietly past the room with the voices when the door opened. The strange man stepped into the hallway, blocking his path. He was ev
en bigger than James had realized, almost six and a half feet tall, and built like a bodybuilder. James could smell the wolf in him, although the man wasn’t fully wolf. He hadn’t yet changed.
The wolf-man regarded James with undisguised hostility. ‘Is this the one?’ he asked.
Leanna appeared beside the man, her thin frame dwarfed by his bulk, her blonde hair and pale skin contrasting with the stranger’s thick black beard and swarthy skin. ‘James, this is Warg Daddy. He’s a friend of mine.’
‘Pleased to meet you, um, Warg Daddy,’ said James. He offered a hand, but the man ignored it. Instead he rubbed the back of his head with his thumb.
‘Later,’ said Warg Daddy. He gave Leanna a kiss on the mouth and turned to leave.
Leanna stopped him. ‘James, I want you and Warg Daddy to be friends. We’re on the same team, after all. Do you think you can do that?’
‘Sure,’ said James. ‘I want to be friends with everyone.’ It was Leanna and Adam, and now this Warg Daddy who were being unfriendly. Why couldn’t they just accept him for who he was? He was wolf as much as any of them – more than this biker guy in fact.
Leanna held his gaze with her blue stare. ‘Tonight’s a very important night. Warg Daddy and the Wolf Brothers will change for the first time. It will be a turning point for all of us. Tonight, the balance of power begins to shift. Can we count on you, James?’
Warg Daddy had turned to stare at him too. James needed all his courage to withstand the combined force of those two hard gazes. ‘Of course. We’re all wolves, right?’
‘Right,’ said Leanna, although he sensed her reluctance to admit it. ‘This is your chance to prove it.’
Warg Daddy gave him a firm punch on the arm that might have been friendly if it hadn’t been quite so hard. ‘Right,’ he agreed. ‘Until tonight, then?’
‘Until tonight,’ said Leanna.
James watched the man leave the house without another word. He listened to the harsh roar of the motorbike starting up, and waited until the sound of the engine had faded to nothing. Even after Warg Daddy had gone, the smell of engine oil and leather lingered on.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Queen’s Road, Harrow on the Hill, North London, New Year’s Eve, 1:30pm, full moon
The man crept backward into the bedroom that had been Melanie’s prison cell for so long, and closed the door behind him, just as she had ordered. So far, so good. She stumbled down the hallway, legs moving jerkily, ignoring the searing cramp that hobbled her every step. The shard of glass digging into her palm helped to distract her from the pain of walking. The drug-induced haze that filled her body helped too. That, and the thought of what the man would do once he gathered his wits again.
Eviscerate her. Hadn’t he told her enough times?
She was halfway down the hallway when she remembered the key in the bedroom door. The drugs had muddled her head, made her forget. She should go back and turn it. Lock him in. But that would waste time, and time was one thing she didn’t have.
Hurry, his voice nagged in her head. Be quick. Don’t take so long about it. That was damn good advice, and she accepted it with pleasure. Speed was her only hope now. That, and the fragment of broken glass she clutched in her bloody hand. That might be useful too.
Step left, step right, step left again. Ignore the pain. Every move was a monumental struggle, but each step brought her closer to freedom. It was that simple.
She reached the front door of the apartment, and suddenly it wasn’t that simple anymore. Metal bolts, a chain, a deadlock and even a padlock sealed the door. Melanie screamed inside.
Keys, there must be keys.
She turned and looked around the hallway. Nothing. No hooks, no shelves, not even a coat stand. An open doorway led off the hall and she rushed through it as quickly as her half-lame feet could carry her.
The room was a lounge or study of some kind, lined with bookcases and filled with clutter. Cardboard boxes were piled high against the walls, even in front of the bookcases. More boxes teetered on a desk, and the table in the middle of the room held a tower of books.
Keys. Where are the keys?
The sedatives that coursed through her bloodstream blurred her thoughts and made her slow. She turned her head at a snail’s pace, scanning the room from one corner to the other. Still no keys.
Think, Melanie. Concentrate.
She stumbled forward to the table and collided with it. The mirror fragment in her right hand bit into her palm. She had almost forgotten it, but there was no forgetting now. Fresh blood dripped from her hand. With her other hand she fumbled to open a box. It was packed with more books. She shoved the box onto the floor, watching the books spill out in crazy patterns.
Where are the keys?
Coats, jackets and an umbrella hung on a coat hanger on the wall by the door. She limped over to it and started rifling through the coat pockets. It didn’t take her long to strike lucky. Her fingers found a bunch of keys dangling from a large key ring and she pulled it out of the pocket as quickly as she could.
She listened at the door and peeped her head cautiously back into the hallway. There was still no sign of the man. She must have totally terrified him. But he wouldn’t stay in the room forever. She hurried to the door and started working through the keys. How many keys did the man own? A crazy number. She couldn’t imagine what locks they opened. Lock-up garages, sheds, warehouses. Maybe he had dozens of women locked up all over town. The idea was noxious and helped her focus on her task. The last key she tried unlocked the padlock.
She pulled the heavy padlock out of the chain it secured and dropped it to the floor with a clunk. In her hurry, her still-numb fingers fumbled the keys and the whole bunch crashed to the floor next to the lock. As she stooped to pick it up, she heard the bedroom door open down the hallway.
She slipped the brass chain off its hook and slid open a bolt. A roar of anger erupted from the man. Melanie ignored him and slid open the second bolt. Now only the deadlock remained. But the keys – there were so many keys.
She clutched the fragment of mirror tightly in one hand and started trying keys in the lock. One, two, three, … there were just so many. Footsteps and heavy breathing drew closer. The fourth key fitted the lock. She was turning it when a hand fell on her shoulder. She spun around in frustration, swinging the sliver of glass upwards. Something flat and heavy knocked it out of her fingers.
The man stood there, eyes wilder than ever, but his bloodied hand held no knife. She wasn’t going to be eviscerated after all. Instead he swung the cricket bat a second time and Melanie’s world exploded in a burst of violet stars.
Chapter Sixty
Battersea, South West London, New Year’s Eve, 8:05pm, full moon
PC Dean Arnold had never thought that serial killing could become a fashion, but London’s murder rate was escalating sharply as more and more copycat killers joined the frenzy. Bodies were turning up everywhere, their butchered, tangled remains found in ditches, on canal paths, even in residential streets. Ripper had become the top internet keyword on search and social media, and it seemed to be the only story the news outlets wanted to talk about. Politicians, celebrities and other news had all but been forgotten.
Even the Beast had faded from the news reports. There had been no Beast sightings for almost a month now, and people were saying that it had all been a hoax, or a mass delusion. But Beast or no Beast, the streets of London were more dangerous than ever, despite the growing number of arrests of suspected or confirmed serial killers.
It wasn’t just London, or even England. The serial-killing craze had gone global. Gruesome murders were sweeping the world. The commentators were going wild, wheeling in expert after so-called expert, all with increasingly crazy ideas. There was even speculation about some kind of brain-washing cult or a mind-control drug that turned ordinary people into psychotic murderers.
The authorities had responded with tough talk and pledges to make the streets safe again. Dean found hi
mself out on patrol long hours of the day and night. An additional five hundred armed police had been deployed to bolster police power. More arrests had been made, but still the murders continued like an unstoppable flood.
Vigilante groups had formed in response to the wave of killings. Protests had become violent, immigrants had been attacked, and arrests made in response, but the murders continued unabated.
The long hours were taking their toll on Dean. He longed to be at home with his wife and daughter instead of out on the streets yet another night. But he understood the reasons for the police presence. The public needed to feel that the authorities still remained in control. Tonight would be an important test, with the New Year’s Eve celebrations under way and millions expected to turn out onto the streets of the capital.
He could have used Liz’s reassuring company right now, but she hadn’t showed up at work since Christmas Eve. Dean had tried to call her, but had only managed to get a few words out of some shady character who claimed to be her father. He just hoped she was okay.
This evening he was patrolling his home turf of Battersea. Some minor vigilante violence had rocked the district the previous night, and a strong show of force was being mounted to prevent any escalation.
The vigilantes were becoming almost as much of a problem as the killings. Groups of young men had seized the opportunity to protest against immigrants. As far as Dean was concerned it was just an excuse for violence. While several immigrants had been arrested for murder, not all of the men held were non-British. These so-called vigilantes were largely thugs looking for trouble. He just hoped there wouldn’t be any tonight.
While he waited, he thought of Samantha and Lily and his unborn child, and he remembered the promise he had made to keep them safe. Keeping that promise started here, tonight. Order must be maintained on the streets, or they would be safe for no one.
A familiar female voice startled him. ‘Hey, Dean. Stop daydreaming. You’re supposed to be on duty.’
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