The knife was in his hand already. He didn’t recall having reached for it. He gripped it firmly, readying the blade, waiting for his chance. He might only get one.
The beast roared again, rising up onto its hind legs, filling the air with its rage. It powered forward with all its strength, butting its head against the shattered windscreen. The glass turned white and crumbled like powder, filling Chris’ lap with frosty crystals.
Nothing stood between Chris and the monster now but empty space. Yellow eyes stared at him, radiating hate and violence. The giant jaws opened once more, ready to bite.
Chris lunged with the knife, putting his weight behind the blow, summoning all his strength for this one heroic act.
The knife flew from his grasp and the beast swept it aside with a flick of its jaws. It bounced off the car and fell to the ground out of sight.
Chris stared at his empty hand dumbfounded.
The werewolf had barely paused in its attack. It came on again, more savage than ever, widening its jaws like the mouth of a cavern, sharpened teeth glinting like pearly blades, the dark throat opening up to swallow Chris whole.
A silver blade flashed suddenly in Chris’ peripheral vision. It jabbed once at the wolf’s paw and the beast howled. The great jaws snapped shut an inch from Chris’ face. The wolf jerked its head back and turned, spinning away and dropping back to the ground. It flew, running back down the street and into the night.
Chris turned to look at Seth. The knife was in his friend’s hand. Seth’s face was white with shock and incomprehension. A single drop of blood clung to the blade. Seth stared at the weapon, seeming not to know why he held it in his grasp. He dropped it onto the dashboard, his hands starting to shake. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’ He opened the glovebox and retched into it. When he was finished he closed it again.
The street was quiet now, almost empty save for the still body of the trampled woman, and a sea of dropped litter and glass. Other drivers started to emerge cautiously from their stranded cars, peering around in disbelief at the devastation. In the distance, the wailing sirens of emergency vehicles began to call.
‘You did it,’ said Chris to his friend. ‘You fought off a werewolf.’
‘We did it,’ said Seth breathlessly, flicking long hair away from his thick glasses. ‘Awesome.’
Chapter Eighty-Five
St John’s Road, Battersea, South West London, New Year morning, full moon
Paramedics lifted Liz carefully onto a stretcher and then into the back of a waiting ambulance. She felt little as they shifted her body. Weariness had washed all feeling away.
‘What about Dean?’ she asked as they lifted the body of her injured colleague into the ambulance beside her. ‘My colleague. Is he alive?’
‘Alive and stable,’ replied one of the paramedics. ‘But unconscious.’
‘And the others?’
‘Let’s get you off to the hospital,’ said the man. ‘You can worry about the others later.’
A voice from outside the ambulance called to her. Vijay. ‘You saved us,’ he said. ‘Me and Rose and Drake, and my sister and her friends. We’re all still alive because of you.’
‘Are you hurt?’ she asked.
‘A bit. But I think we’ll be all right. That man you rescued from the burning car, he woke up. The medic said he’d be okay too.’
‘What about the others? The ones the wolf attacked?’
‘You mean the rioters?’ Vijay shook his head. ‘Dunno. They looked dead to me.’
‘Vijay?’
‘Yes?’
‘Take care.’
The door of the ambulance slammed shut and the vehicle started to move. Its siren blared out as it turned back onto the main street and began to pick its way through the debris of the riot.
The paramedic stayed in the back of the ambulance with Liz, tending to Dean’s unconscious form.
‘Is the fighting over?’ she asked him.
‘It’s all quiet now in this area,’ he said. ‘The armed police soon put a stop to the trouble. But the rioting has spread to other parts of the city.’
‘What about the wolves?’
‘Wolves? You mean the Beast?’
‘Not one Beast. Many. Do you know anything about them?’
‘Only rumours. But never mind that now. You just try to rest.’
The ambulance drove steadily through the broken city, picking up speed as it moved away from the fires and the carnage of the riot. Beside her, Dean’s chest rose and fell irregularly, but he was breathing and that was all she could hope for right now. He was in good hands, and hopefully Mihai and her father were safe together at home. She would have to deal with her problems and face the aftermath of the night’s events, but not just yet. Now she should rest.
By the time they reached the hospital, sleep was settling over Liz. How she could sleep after so much had happened, she didn’t really know, but slowly and steadily it wrapped her in its healing cocoon. Even the bright lights of the hospital didn’t seem to bother her, and soon she was dreaming sweet dreams.
Chapter Eighty-Six
Upper Terrace, Richmond upon Thames, West London, New Year morning, full moon
Sarah hurried to made a cup of tea for Grandpa. He often woke in the night and asked for a hot drink, and Sarah was usually happy to oblige. But tonight the TV demanded her urgent attention. The news was bad, and with Melanie still missing it couldn’t have come at a worse time.
It had been days since she’d reported her sister missing. Mel had never disappeared for so long before without telling her where she was. Sarah had called her repeatedly, but the police said that her phone had been switched off since she’d gone missing. They’d checked their records, and the hospitals too, but had drawn a blank. The situation looked grim, but Sarah hadn’t given up hope. Melanie was out there, somewhere, and Sarah knew in her heart that she was still alive. She couldn’t say how she knew, but she trusted her intuitions. But where her sister might be was anyone’s guess.
And now the rioting had begun. And worse, giant wolves running wild on the streets of London. She could hardly believe it. Neither could the news reporters. Unprecedented, they said, but that didn’t begin to capture the true horror of the unfolding events. She’d never forgotten where she was when she’d heard about 9/11, and she would certainly never forget tonight. For the first time, wolves had been captured on live TV footage. Beasts. There could be no doubt any more. Wolves in London, and not just ordinary wolves. The experts were at a loss to explain what these creatures really were.
And apart from the horror of the wolves, there were dozens dead from the riots and fires that had swept the capital. Armed police, rioters and wolves in central London. The final death toll might run into hundreds.
She could only hope that Melanie wasn’t caught up in the bloodshed.
She glanced out of her kitchen window and saw a red glow on the horizon. Fires, all across the capital. Even here in leafy Richmond, well away from the rioting, she could hear the distant sound of fire engines and police cars racing across the city. Suddenly the events outside felt very real and close.
Grandpa had drifted back to sleep by the time she returned with his tea. She rested it on his bedside locker and turned the TV at the foot of his bed on quietly. Live aerial shots of the capital showed fires still raging out of control in areas south of the river. Then the scene shifted to recorded footage of armed police shooting at running beasts while looters scattered and ran for cover. She’d seen it already, but that didn’t diminish the shock.
Grandpa woke up again at the sound of the gunfire. ‘Barbara? Is that you, Barbara?’
Sarah gripped his trembling hand tightly. ‘Yes, Grandpa, it’s me, Barbara.’ She would be Barbara if it made him feel any better. They watched the footage together.
Grandpa didn’t seem particularly surprised by what he saw on the screen. ‘It’s war, you see, Barbara. This is what happens during wartime. There’ll be millions dead by
the end.’
‘Yes, Grandpa, here’s your tea.’
He held the cup in his hands and watched as police with guns patrolled the streets of London, the fires of burning cars and buildings clearly visible in the background. Shadowy figures moved in the firelight and sometimes the police raised their guns to fire. ‘There’s no reason for it, you know,’ said the old man. ‘War, I mean. The enemy soldiers, they were no different to us. We were all young men, just the same. But we had to kill them. It was either them or us.’
‘Yes, Grandpa, whatever you say.’
‘Sarah,’ he said. ‘It’s Sarah, isn’t it?’ His expression was suddenly more lucid than she’d seen in months.
She squeezed his hand gently. ‘Yes, Grandpa, it’s me, Sarah.’
‘Sarah,’ he repeated. Then he turned his attention back to the scene on the TV. ‘You’ve got to kill the enemy, you see? Before they kill you. It’s the only way to survive.’
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Queen’s Road, Harrow on the Hill, North London, New Year morning, full moon
Melanie Margolis was still alive. She had thought she was dead, but no, she lived still. Her eyes flickered open, and pain and light rushed in. She closed them again quickly, and darkness returned, but the agony remained undimmed.
Searing pain cut through her head. Her skull ached like it was split in two. So much pain, it was impossible to think of anything else. She let it lance through her skull for a minute, keeping her eyes tightly shut, trying to control it.
She tried to remember why her head hurt so much. After a while fragments of memory returned to her. The man had struck her with the cricket bat. She tried to raise her hand to the wound, but knotted rope cut into her wrist, sending fresh waves of agony down her arm to where the jagged mirror had sliced her palm.
More memories seeped back. She had tried to escape, had almost succeeded. She would have been out of here now, if it hadn’t been for the locked front door with its bolts, chains and padlocks. So many locks. Who knew that a paranoid psychopath would keep that many locks on his front door? She started to giggle at the thought, but the pain sliced through the mirth almost before she began.
Outside, a siren carved a swathe through the night. Beneath its piercing screech the dull thud of a helicopter grew steadily louder. She opened her eyes to see blue flashes outside the bedroom window. A sudden bright white light pierced the night sky like a searchlight.
They were coming for her. At last.
Her sister must have raised the alarm. Of course she had. Sarah would never let her down. A great rescue operation was underway. She struggled with the ropes that bound her to the bed, tried to cry out, but it was futile. The gag in her mouth made any sound louder than a whimper impossible. No worries. They would find her. Soon she would be free.
A cough alerted her to the presence of the man. He was here in the room with her. His dark form stood by the window, studying the activity outside.
The man became agitated. He turned away from the window and paced back and forth across the darkened room, eyes flicking from left to right with each step. She sensed his fear. He must have known that they were coming for her, that rescue was near.
She willed herself to remain calm, despite the urge to scream for help, to struggle desperately against her bonds.
The man returned to the window, watching. But now the siren was fading, receding into the distance. The lights came no closer. The helicopter moved away. ‘They’ve gone,’ said the man at last.
A new wave of realization swept Melanie in its cruel embrace. The lights, the sirens, and the helicopter had not been for her. She was alone, abandoned. The police would never find her and she would never see her sister again. She might have curled into a ball then in despair, but the ropes kept her arms and legs outstretched, defiant.
The man who had held her prisoner for so long crept over to the bed. ‘It’s all quiet now,’ he muttered. ‘All quiet outside.’
He had let himself go these past days. His unwashed hair stuck out at odd angles, and rough stubble crawled over his jaw and neck. Dried blood stained his hand where she had cut him with the broken glass. He still held the dagger he had used to threaten her so many times but he no longer bothered to use it. He simply clutched it to his chest like some kind of comforter.
A new thought seemed to animate him and he waved the knife toward her. ‘The end of the world is coming,’ he hissed, breathing foul breath in her face. ‘The four horsemen ride forth.’
Right, thought Melanie. Just when things didn’t seem like they could get any worse, it was time to bring on the apocalypse.
‘The signs were there all along,’ he cackled. ‘Everyone should have seen them. First came the Beast. They even called it the Beast on TV.’ He giggled again, waving the knife absent-mindedly before him. The flashing of the blade seemed to absorb all his attention for a while, and she thought he had stopped speaking. Then he started again as if he had never left off. ‘The Beast, numbered 666. What else? Seven seals, seven trumpets, seven angels. Or was it eight? Eight angels, perhaps. Seven bowls, a dragon, four horsemen ...’ He tailed off, frowning. ‘I don’t remember all the details. But the earth will burn, I remember that. London is burning now,’ he added with glee. ‘The people are dying. They deserve it.’
London burning. So that’s what the siren had been. A fire engine, not even a police car.
Could it be true? The boundary between reality and fantasy had blurred since he’d started feeding her the drugs, had become even more fluid since he’d struck her with the cricket bat. It was hard to tell what was true. But she was certain that her prison was real, and that her jailer was a nutcase.
‘The city will burn,’ he proclaimed triumphantly.
The mad emperor Nero had fiddled while Rome burned. And if London was burning, Melanie would have preferred some gentle string music to this insane ranting.
The man leaned back over her, his eyes darting from her feet to the tip of her head and away again. ‘I was going to kill you,’ he hissed, bringing the point of the knife into her field of vision. ‘Eviscerate you. But now I’ve had a better idea. I’ll let you watch the world end. We’ll watch it together. First the fires, then the plagues, and then the rivers of blood. We’ll die together, you and me. What do you think of that?’
Melanie grunted weakly. The tape that bound her mouth made words impossible, but she had learned that it was best to humour him when he asked his rhetorical questions.
He sat down next to her on the bed, looking at her quizzically. ‘Do you know why you’re going to die?’ he asked. ‘Because you’re a whore.’ He spat the word at her. ‘And I’ve done bad things too. Very bad. It’s not surprising that the world is ending. So much wickedness, we all deserve it.’ He lifted the knife to her throat and pressed its cold steel against her soft flesh. When he withdrew it, the tip was red. He lifted it to the light, turning it in his fingers, seeming to see some message in the way it moved. A drop of blood ran slowly down the edge of the blade and trickled over the hilt.
He laid the knife on the bed and looked into her eyes, his own eyes steady for once. ‘If I allow you to speak, do you promise not to scream?’
Melanie nodded, trying not to show too much eagerness. It was probably just a trick, some twisted game of his.
But it was no trick. He pulled the tape that had covered her mouth. It ripped away violently, leaving her feeling like her lips had been pulled off. ‘Open your mouth,’ he commanded. She obliged him, and he pulled out the wad of paper he had stuffed inside, discarding the soggy mess on the floor.
He held the knife to her throat again. ‘Don’t speak unless I ask you a question. Understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Melanie. It was the first word she had spoken for many hours.
The man stood up again and walked back to the window. ‘The end of days,’ he muttered. ‘So it looks like this. Well, well.’
It was still night, but the early light of pre-dawn was turning the s
ky a lighter shade of grey. The sirens and helicopters had stopped and a sense of calm seemed to be returning to the city. Whatever had happened overnight, the worst of it must surely be over. If she ignored the bindings that tied her hands and legs to the bed, and the throbbing of her head, the day might almost be normal. It was hard to imagine that the world was about to end.
Something new seemed to catch the man’s attention outside. He unlatched the sash window and lifted the lower half open. Cold, fresh air rushed inside. ‘What’s that?’ he asked. He stuck his head out, then leaned further, straining to see. He mumbled more words that vanished into the night air before she could decipher them. Then he drew back suddenly, ducking his head inside. His face was white. ‘The Beast,’ he said, pointing outside with one quivering finger.
The knife was up again in a flash and he ran to the bed, holding it before him. ‘The Beast has come for us,’ he wailed. ‘It knows we’re here.’ He slashed the knife through the air in wild arcs, his eyes following its path as it danced. ‘We will both burn in Hell!’
Melanie screamed.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
West London, New Year morning, full moon
James ran on all fours, iron coursing through his veins, paws pounding against the hard pavement, strong legs pumping like pistons. He ran until sweat poured down his flanks and foam frothed from his loose jaws. The moon followed him relentlessly, low in the sky now, but shining with a bright coldness that seemed to mock him.
The dark streets of the capital were mostly deserted, with just a few late night revellers still out. They fled when they saw him, or pressed themselves against walls or doors as he rushed past, their faces contorted with fear and astonishment, but he paid them no heed. From time to time police helicopters flew overhead, breaking the stillness with a sudden clattering noise, sweeping the streets with searchlights, searching for wolves. He hid from them in gardens, or behind bushes or low walls, a small dark shape amongst shadows, and they passed him by without stopping.
Lycanthropic (Book 1): Wolf Blood Page 32
