Destiny of the Last Wolf

by Amy Cross

  He stares at it, and I can see from the look on his face that he's as confused as I am. "Where did you get this?" he asks.

  "Do you remember it?" I ask.

  "Where did you get it?" he says again.

  "A police officer named Stuart Alexander," I say. "He's been investigating certain... phenomena. He gave me this photo. I don't know where it came from."

  "It looks like it's from a surveillance camera," Duncan says. To be honest, I was kind of expecting him to know all about the photo, but it's clear that he's as shocked as I am. I reach across to take the photo, and for a moment my hand brushes Duncan's. Another memory flashes back to me: this time, I'm standing in some kind of garage, with Duncan facing me.

  “I had enough blood to rejuvenate my body,” he says. “Doesn't always work quite this well, but it gets the job done. Let's just say it's better than being dead”.

  I look over at the door. “Frank's dead, though, isn't he?”

  Duncan nods. “He was dying anyway. He had no further use for his blood, whereas for me it means life itself. A fair trade, I think”.

  I nod, even though I don't completely understand. “You didn't kill my friend, did you?”

  He shakes his head. “That was Frank, trying to turn you against me once he realized that you were carrying my scent. I'm sorry. But I don't kill humans unless they're sick and dying anyway. In London, there are enough people dying every day for me to be able to get fresh meat without chasing after healthy people with full lives ahead of them. I never would have hurt your friend”.

  “So I have your scent on me?” I ask. I look down at my clothes, and I sniff the T-shirt.

  “You won't be able to smell anything,” Duncan says, smiling, “but trust me, us werewolves can pick it up across the city”.

  The memory fades, and I'm left sitting in the kitchen with Duncan. "I keep remembering things," I say. "Just... moments. Small moments of something that happened in the past. You're there. And I'm there. And there are other people. Names. Someone called Olivia, and someone called Frank. Do those names mean anything to you?"

  "Nothing," he says. "So..." He pauses. "Do you believe me now? Do you believe that there's something strange happening. Something about us?"

  "I don't know what I believe," I say cautiously, "but I can't deny the evidence that 's right in front of me, can I?" I smile faintly. "Do you get any kind of memory flashes?" I ask.

  He shakes his head. "It's all just a fog to me. I have clear memories of everything for the past month or so, but before that it's all kind of vague. It's like I have an impression of having had a life, but nothing quite makes sense. I couldn't tell you how I got my job, or how I got my apartment, or where the money in my bank account comes from. Whenever I try to focus on the details of my life, it all gets fuzzy." He pauses. "What about you? Do you remember much from your earlier life?"

  "No," I say. "It's like you say, I've got some kind of idea that I used to have a family, and that I used to do things, but it's all so vague. And then, about a month ago, suddenly I'm living in this apartment, with money in my bank account, and I'm starting a job at the local newspaper. It's as if there's some kind of block that's designed to stop me thinking back to what things used to be like."

  "We have to sort this out," he replies, clearly getting annoyed. "We have to find out about this photo, and we have to find out where we came from and why we're here. Right now, I feel like I know you, even though I don't. None of it makes sense."

  "We'd better start by talking to this Stuart guy," I say. "If he's got this photo, he must have other information that can help us. I've arranged to meet him tonight, maybe you should tag along."

  "Do you trust him?" Duncan asks.

  "Yeah," I say, but I quickly realize that maybe I shouldn't. After all, I don't know much about Stuart, and the little I do know suggests there could be trouble: a mentally-damaged man with a possible alcohol problem, who seems to be fixated on werewolves. Does he think I'm a werewolf?

  "I don't really like the idea of this," Duncan says. "Going and seeing a man who seems to know a lot more about me than I know? Explain to me how that's a good idea."

  Suddenly there's the sound of someone hammering on my front door. I stand up, but Duncan grabs my arm. "I have to answer it," I say.

  "Listen," he says, as the person continues to bang and bang. There's a vague sound of shouting outside as well. "Does that sound safe?"

  We hurry through to the front room and look out the window. Down in the street below, Stuart is staring at my front door. He looks drunk, and angry.

  "That's him, isn't it?" Duncan says.

  "I don't like this," I reply. "I don't like any of this. Why the fuck is this happening?"

  "It's okay," Duncan replies. "Just ignore him and he'll go away. For now, at least. We'll work out what to do later."

  "I guess," I say, reaching out to ease him away from the window in case Stuart looks up and sees us. But as soon as I touch his shoulder, I get another flashback, and this time we're making love.

  "Fuck you," I say, leaning forward and kissing him. I push him down onto the bed and climb on top of him, quickly pulling off my shirt and then unhooking my bra. I kiss the side of his neck, running my hands over his chest and finally unbuttoning his shirt. Maybe I was foolish to think that this could ever be an emotional relationship, or that he could ever actually love me. Maybe I should just accept that it's about sex. We're only here because we're good in bed together, in which case I might as well make full use of him while I still have the chance.

  We make love roughly, and noisily, like animals. Once we're completely naked, he throws me down onto the bed and climbs on top, entering me and starting to make hard, passionate love to me. I reach my hands around him and feel the sweat on his back as he takes me. With each thrust, it's as if he's reaffirming the idea that this is all about sex and that there's nothing more to our relationship. This is blank sex, driven by a pure desire to just fuck until we're both satisfied. Finally, after a few hours, we both climax at the same time and I feel him finish deep inside me. We remain tightly entwined with one another for a moment longer, and then he slowly withdraws.

  I want to say something, but there's nothing to say so I get up and go through to the cold little bathroom. The electric light is harsh and bathes me in whiteness as I grab some toilet paper and clean myself up a little. I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

  The flashback ends, and I look up at him. There's a look of complete surprise and shock in his eyes.

  "Did you..." I say, not sure what's happening. "Did you feel that too?"

  I can tell from the way he stares back at me that he did. We experienced the same memory, at the same time. This time, everything feels more visceral and more real than ever, and I'm filled with this overwhelming feeling that I know Duncan, that he's important in my life.

  We kiss. It's a sudden, passionate kiss that seems to come from nowhere. As he pushes me back against the wall, pressing his body against mine, it feels like a thousand kisses all at once, as if we're reminding each other of times in the past when we've been together. Without even thinking, I slip his jacket off and start running my hands across his muscular back and down to the back of his jeans, pushing him harder and harder against me. Finally, he reaches his hands down and unbuttons my shirt, opening it so he can reach behind and unhook bra. Once my breasts are free, he leans down and starts to kiss them, not just once but a thousand times until he starts to lick and then bite my left nipple. Again, it feels as if he's done this before, but at the same time it's totally new.

  We go over to the sofa. There's no time to get to the bedroom, not with the passion we're feeling. Once I'm on my back, I wait as he unzips my trousers and pulls them off, and then he removes his own shirt. I reach up and run my hands over his well-toned body as he pulls down his jeans and underwear. Naked, he climbs on top of me, kissing me on the mouth and then moving slowly down my body, between my breasts, across my belly button, and finally d
own to between my legs. I grip the sides of the sofa as Duncan begins to pleasure me with his tongue. This feels so right, as if something's finally happening that should have happened a long time ago.

  He's so good with his tongue, I unexpectedly reach an orgasm within minutes, my whole body shuddering as I lose complete control for a second. I let out three short, high-pitched gasps and he moves his tongue back up my body, wiping his mouth before kissing me again. I reach down and put a hand around his penis and guide him inside me, feeling him fill me deeper and harder than any man before. As I run my hands across his back, he starts making love to me, taking it slow at first but eventually getting faster and faster. Soon he's pounding away at me, and I start to feel a second orgasm building. When we cum, we cum together. I let out a scream as he grunts and I feel him fill me deep inside. At that moment, he bites my neck, just hard enough to draw a little blood.

  When it's over, we stay on the sofa, locked together like lovers. He stays inside me, his face buried in my shoulder, as I slowly run my hands across his back. Finally, I tense and un-tense the muscles in my vagina a few times, and he looks at me.

  "I can feel that," he says, smiling.

  "You're supposed to," I reply. "I..." I laugh, partly through embarrassment and partly through... I don't know what the other emotion is. Relief? Happiness? "Wow," I say eventually. "You're good."

  "You're more than good," he replies, and then he seems lost in thought for a moment.

  "What is it?" I ask. "Are you having another flashback?"

  He shakes his head. "I just feel like we've done this before."

  "Me too," I say. Despite the fact that I was feeling good a moment ago, now all I feel is apprehension. After all, Duncan and I clearly have some kind of shared history, and we've clearly been together for a while. The big question is: why the hell can't either of us remember?

  "We'll figure this out," he replies. "I don't know how, but we'll find out what's happening."

  I nod, though I'm not convinced. It just feels as if my mind is in a complete mess, like someone has switched all my memories around and hidden some of them behind a wall of fog. Just as I'm about to say something, my phone rings and I see it's Stuart calling. "Fuck this," I mutter, deciding to answer and tell him to go away. "Stuart, you need to stop calling me."

  "I'm sorry," he says, clearly drunk, "but there's been..." He pauses. Probably passed out. "There's been a development," he manages to add eventually. "It's about you."

  Jess

  Wednesday

  "All you need to do," the police officer says as we stand in the cold, bright corridor, "is take a look at the body and simply say whether or not it's Hazel. Do you understand?"

  I nod. I'm still in shock, not really understanding what's happening here.

  "Take your time," the police officer continues, putting a hand on my shoulder. She seems genuinely concerned for me. "There's no rush. I've seen the body, and she looks very peaceful."

  "I'm ready," I say.

  We go into a small side-room, and I immediately see a body under a sheet on the table. I pause, feeling my chest getting tight, but I'm determined to do this. Hazel's family live in Italy, and I'm the obvious choice to identify the body.

  "Remember," the police officer says, "you just have to say whether it's her, and then we can leave. Are you ready?"

  I nod, and she pulls the sheet away to show the face of the dead body. The first thing that strikes me is how different someone's face looks when they're dead: their facial muscles relax, and their skin color changes subtly.

  "It's her," I say. The sheet is quickly pulled over her face, and I'm led out of the room.

  The police officer talks to me for a few minutes, offering me leaflets that are designed to help me deal with the death of a friend. I take the leaflets politely, but I really just want to get out of there. Finally, I hurry along the corridor and soon I'm on the street again, taking deep breaths to try to calm down. Hazel's face looked so peaceful, but I know that her death was violent and horrific, and probably painful. She was found on the beach, her body ripped to shreds. Her head was one of the few parts that was intact.

  "I'm sorry you had to see that," says a voice behind me. I turn to find Stuart standing there. "I'm also sorry for my behavior yesterday. I should never have acted like that. I wanted you to know that I'm genuinely, truly ashamed."

  "Okay," I say. "Thanks." I turn and start walking away. The last thing I need right now is Stuart's drunken attentions, but I can already tell that he's following me. To be fair to him, he doesn't seem particularly drunk right now, but I'm pretty sure his mind's so addled and messed up, it doesn't make much difference.

  "I need to talk to you," he says.

  I want to tell him to fuck off, but the truth is: I need to talk to him as well. I need to know about that photo, and I need to find out everything he knows about Duncan and me.

  "I'm sorry about your friend," he continues, keeping pace with me.

  "You still think this is about a werewolf?" I ask, stopping suddenly and turning to him. "There's something, or someone, going around ripping people up, and instead of investigating it like it's a proper case, you're still convinced it's a fucking werewolf?" I can't hold my anger in any longer; this idiot is treating the whole thing like a joke, but people are dying. My best friend is dead.

  "The case is nothing to do with me any more," he replies. "I was taken off duty last night."

  I stare at him. Judging from his reddened eyes and the smell of alcohol on his breath, I'm pretty certain that his bosses must have realized he was out of control. "You need help," I say. "You should get it before it's too late."

  "Did you look at the photo I gave you?" he asks.

  "I did," I say, not really sure what to say.

  "And?" he asks. "Would you care to explain how you and the guy from the shop were prancing around on the roof of a building in London a few years ago, being pursued by agents from Greystone?"

  "Do you have any other photos?" I ask.

  "I asked first."

  I sigh, still not sure what approach to take here. "I don't remember anything about being in London, or being chased by these Greystone people, or even knowing Duncan before last week."

  He stares at me for a moment, as if he's trying to decide whether or not to believe me. "I have more photos," he says. "Mostly from security cameras, that sort of thing. I can place you at the Franklin Baum building a couple of years ago, with an unidentified female. Do you remember that?"

  I shake my head.

  "I can place you in Edinburgh a short time later, just around the time when a baby was stolen by a wolf. I can also place you in Herne last year. Each time, you were with this Duncan guy." He pauses. "Does any of this ring any bells?"

  "No," I say.

  "Then let me ask you another question," he says. "Do you think I'm insane, or do you think I'm right about where you've been?"

  I pause. "Both," I say eventually. "I think you're fucking insane, but I also think there are things I don't remember. I want to know what those things are, and I want to know why I don't remember them, because Duncan doesn't remember them either and that seems like it has to be more than a coincidence."

  "Let me help you," Stuart says. "Let me meet Duncan properly. Let me talk to both of you, and we can try to figure this all out."

  "I'll call you," I say, turning to walk away.

  "Have you heard of Thomas Lumic?" Stuart asks.

  I stop in my tracks, feeling a sudden flood of fear. I have no idea who Thomas Lumic is, but the name seems to have provoked a strong physical reaction. I remember something...

  "Thomas Lumic being down here is your fault," a woman says to me. "You and Duncan and your other friend. If you three hadn't come down here, Lumic wouldn't have followed you. This Flesh Weaver wouldn't be dead. How many other creatures do you think are dead because of Lumic?" She walks over to me, a kind of rage in her eyes. "Let me guess. You heard that there are monsters down here in the
Underworld, so you figured it wouldn't matter if you brought a few more down to join the party."

  "No," I say, stunned that she's blaming me.

  "Lumic isn't going to stop until he's killed Duncan and probably killed you too," she says. "Frankly, I can't help thinking it might be easier for everyone down here if we just turn you over to Lumic and help him find Duncan so he can get what he wants and leave." She leans close to me. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't do that."

  "You can't!" I say. "I'm here to save Duncan. Help me do that, and then we'll leave, and then Lumic will follow us and everything can go back to normal for you down here. I promise."

  "What's wrong?" Stuart asks.

  "Shut up!" I say, trying to remember more.

  "Is that all you care about?" the woman asks. "Duncan? All you talk about is Duncan. What's so damned special about him? Why do all these people have to die just so you can save your precious Duncan?"

  I take a deep breath. "All I want is Duncan," I say. "I need to find him and get him out of here alive. Everything else is secondary. I just have to rescue Duncan." I stare at her. "Please. I just have to find him. You've got to help me. I swear, we'll leave as soon as I've found him."

  "What about me?" asks a voice.

  I turn to find a girl standing behind me. She has a few cuts and bruises, but otherwise she seems to have healed from her earlier encounter with the Flesh Weaver. She's looking at me with dark eyes, as if she doesn't really trust me.

  The memory fades, leaving me standing on the street facing Stuart.

  "You're remembering, aren't you?" he says. "More and more of the past is coming back to you."

  "I need to speak to Duncan," I say.

  "Me too," he adds, following me as I start walking.

  "Get away from me," I say, starting to really panic.

  "I'm involved," he says, "whether you like it or not." He grabs my arm, and I turn to him, full of rage, and I... for a moment, I feel this overwhelming sense of power, as if I could rip him to shreds. At that point, another memory strikes: