Wolf's Blood

by Laura Taylor

  “Why should I be?” she objected. “I was scared, but not out of my mind. I’m not so weak willed as to faint at the sight of a little blood.” Okay, so she’d thoroughly panicked at the sight of a man turning into the largest wolf she’d ever seen, but… She glanced down, knowing there was plenty of blood still clinging to her. Despite her words, she was a little surprised that she was still able to hold a rational conversation. Especially when said conversation involved werewolves, mad scientists and macabre agreements to kill people.

  Baron raised an eyebrow at her protest. “Even in the best of conversions, if the human can’t accept the wolf, then the pair of them go mad. I’ve seen it happen.”

  Dee thought back over those terrifying moments, the surge of rage in her head, the cold terror as the spectre of death stared down at her. “But I did accept it,” she said, almost talking to herself.

  “What?”

  “I did accept it,” she repeated. “The offer to kill them. They were going to kill me, so I told the wolf that it could kill them.”

  In fitting with the inexplicable events of the day, both men suddenly relaxed, as if her admitting to being a killer bent on violent revenge made everything okay. What sort of company was she keeping here?

  “Makes sense,” the henchman by the door muttered, while Baron just breathed a relieved sigh.

  “We’ll need to talk about this more,” Baron said. “But for now, I have bigger problems on my hands. So let’s deal with a more urgent issue.” He fixed Dee with a steely look. “You’ve become a shape shifter. It goes without saying that we’re a rather secretive lot. Humans on the whole do not and cannot know about us. So, until we figure out just what happened to you, you’re going to have to stay here.”

  Dee nodded, having rather expected as much. And, in all honesty, it was something of a relief to know she would be kept here for a little while with more of her kind, where she could learn about what she was and how to control the wolf and what this all meant. “I’m happy to stay, but my mother and sister… I need to tell them I’m alive. And safe. Am I safe?” she asked, then went on without waiting for an answer. “I don’t have to mention the wolf thing. I know that’s off limits, and you could even listen in on everything we say if you like,” she added, as the frown on Baron’s face grew deeper. “But they’ll be worried sick, and I…” She trailed off.

  “You’ve asked this already,” Baron said softly, gentle and stern at the same time. “The answer is still no.”

  “They could be thinking I’m dead for all I know.” It came out quiet, defeated.

  “Perhaps that’s for the best.” Baron nodded to the other man, then headed for the door. “I’ll send someone up to look after you,” he said, closing the door behind him. Then he was gone, leaving her with a much less accommodating guard, a grim smirk on his lips and a dagger balanced on the tip of his finger.

  As Baron let himself out of Dee’s room, his mind traced out possibilities for the future, and the myriad of plans and good intentions that could go astray. Whoever had kidnapped her most likely wanted her back. From the sound of it, she hadn’t fully bonded with the wolf yet, which meant that madness was still a very real risk. And even if she chose to stay here, to comply with the rules of the Den and the Council, Caroline could still refuse to accept her. As alpha female, she had the absolute right to refuse new members and, if that happened, Dee would either have to find another Den to join or be put down.

  But aside from all that, there was the question of whether the girl even wanted to stay. Converts were usually chosen very carefully and spent several years being educated before they were converted. And they usually came with a very particular set of qualifications – they were loners, with few ties, no loose ends, minimal friends or family. The one absolute requirement of becoming a shifter was that the convert leave his or her old life behind. The estate became their home. The shifters became their family. There was no room for anything else.

  Dee came with connections and complications galore. She’d already mentioned a family back in London. She would probably have friends. A flat, maybe. A job, most likely. A boyfriend?

  Fuck, if she had a husband or children then they were in deep shit. In such cases, faking the convert’s death was the cleanest, quickest way to deal with all the loose ends, but Dee hadn’t chosen this for herself. And if the terms of her conversion were presented to her in such a cold, callous way, she could become a liability. She would agree to their terms, of course, because if faking her death wasn’t an amicable solution, then death was still the answer, but there would be no faking involved. And after she’d agreed to live by their rules, her dissatisfaction would eat away at her, and sooner or later she would seek to escape, maybe go public and risk exposing them all, and that could lead to the extinction of their entire species.

  It very nearly had done, several times throughout history, and was the reason they had the Council overseeing things now. The Italy-based control centre consisted of the wisest and most experienced shifters, and it governed all their interactions with human culture, decided the location and size of each Den, determined how many new converts could be made each year, and maintained a team of elite soldiers to deal with problems that got out of hand.

  One thing at a time, Baron told himself, heading down the wide stairs. First, he had to see Caroline about whatever this latest drama with the Council was, and then they could sort out Dee’s future, assuming Caroline didn’t decide to kill her on sight when he explained her unconventional conversion.

  Caroline was waiting in the sitting room, pacing, her every movement as sleek and graceful in human form as she was as a wolf.

  “What have the Noturatii done now?” Baron asked without preamble. For all his love of needling Caroline, the safety and welfare of the Den came first, every time, and the Noturatii were their closest and biggest threat. He was in no mood to play games when they were involved.

  “How’s the rogue?” Caroline asked, ignoring his question. For once, Baron wasn’t in the mood to lock horns with her.

  “Contained. For now. She says she was converted by force, but it seems she reached a preliminary agreement with the wolf, regardless. So she’s not insane. Yet. Silas is watching her.”

  Caroline seemed surprised by the explanation so easily given, her tightly defensive stance easing a little. It wasn’t very often that Baron missed the opportunity to push back when she decided to push him.

  “So what about this call from the Council?” Despite any grumbling that went on, every shifter had the utmost respect for the Council, any wolf more than a few years past their conversion having seen first-hand how many crises their guidance and wisdom had diverted. The Council’s rulings were absolute, and their requests for assistance drew immediate and violent action on their behalf.

  Caroline snarled, teeth bared. “The Noturatii have started a new campaign. They’re kidnapping wolves. France has reported two missing from its Den. Italy’s lost one, and so has Spain. And get this – the Grey Watch sent a politely worded letter to the Council warning them to be on guard.”

  As with all societies, shape shifters had their detractors, and not all wolves belonged to Dens or answered to the Council. The Grey Watch were a law unto themselves, wolves who roamed the few remaining wildernesses of Europe. Thankfully they were retreating further and further into Russia and Asia as humanity expanded to fill every corner of the globe, but England had its very own pack, in the Kielder Forest in Northumberland.

  “Fuck me,” Baron swore softly. “It’s a bad day in hell when the Grey Watch gets involved.” Reclusive to a fault, the Grey Watch embraced all manner of nature worship and shunned all facets of modern life, completely cutting ties with their past upon conversion. Wolves from Il Trosa – literally ‘The Pack’, the larger organisation to which the Dens belonged – were at least allowed to remain in human society. They drove cars, and some even had jobs. But members of the Grey Watch seemed to abandon all but the most primitive aspects
of their humanity. And of course, there were other… complications.

  But Baron had the sinking feeling that the Grey Watch was the least of their problems. “Dee – the girl upstairs – she said she was kidnapped. Held in a lab and tortured. She says the men who took her wanted to convert her into a wolf. And against all odds, it looks like they succeeded.”

  Caroline paced restlessly across the room again. “So you think she was taken by the Noturatii? That makes no sense. They’ve been on our tails for centuries, but they’ve always sought to preserve the ignorance of humanity as much as we have. Why the sudden change to kidnapping? It’s messy. Risky. If they’re taking wolves, that’s one thing, but snatching humans? People notice when people go missing. They make police reports. And then sooner or later, someone always escapes, and then someone talks, and the Noturatii don’t want that any more than we do. Besides, they want us all dead – hell, they’ve been trying to exterminate us since the Middle Ages. For them to be trying to create new converts makes absolutely no sense.”

  Baron glanced at the ceiling, imagining their newest recruit sitting upstairs, no doubt attempting to hold a fruitless conversation with Silas. “Nonetheless, it seems the most obvious conclusion. No one but the Noturatii have the knowledge or resources to be running experiments on shifters. We need to find out more about what happened to this girl. And get Simon to up security around the manor. I don’t want so much as a field mouse crossing this estate without us knowing about it.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Inside the small bedroom, Dee was feeling rather less confident than she had been earlier. Since Baron had left, the other man had stayed as her guard, but was proving himself to be far less amicable than Baron had been. He’d remained by the door, glowering at her constantly, hand never leaving the knife at his side. She’d tried asking his name, only to be told it was none of her business. She’d asked if she could wash the blood off her hands, a small, reasonable request which was met with a flat ‘No,’ and then she’d asked for a drink of water, to which he’d replied, “You’re not going to die of thirst in the next half an hour.” She’d thought of asking to see Baron again, but since he’d left in a hurry to deal with a crisis elsewhere, she had to assume that whatever his other business was, it was more important than her. And the silent, scowling man before her wasn’t likely to disturb his boss because of a little whining on her part.

  She went to the window and looked out. She tried to open it but found it locked. Glancing back at her guard, she saw a faint smirk on his lips. “Oh, give it a rest,” she snapped at him, running short on patience now. “I wasn’t going to jump out. I just want some fresh air.” It was a bit of a risk antagonising him, but she had also reached the conclusion that he was under orders not to kill her – assuming she didn’t do anything violent or unexpected – so a little verbal sparring was a risk she was willing to take.

  Odd how a few days of captivity had changed her perspective on such things. Not even a week ago, she’d have been curled up on the floor in a quivering heap if presented with captivity at the hands of this violent thug, but now all she could think was that his surly personality was more entertaining and less threatening than a white surgical mask and silent, gloved fingers.

  “You’re on the third floor,” the man said, sounding amused. “You could jump if you like. It would make my job a whole lot easier.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He’d probably get a kick out of it, watching her body splatter on the pavers beneath them.

  “I really would.”

  Sadistic bastard.

  Suddenly the door opened, startling Dee, but the man by the door didn’t even flinch. “I’m Tank,” the newcomer said, and Dee’s first thought was ‘Holy hell, yes, you are.’ The man was huge, taller even than Baron, narrower at the hips but wider at the shoulders, and his tight-fitting clothing showed off his physique in a more obvious way than Baron’s loose jumper had. A singlet shirt and tight jeans were finished off with combat boots and a variety of weapons secured about his body. Blond hair in a crew cut gave him a military look, but the grin on his face counteracted what could have otherwise been a most intimidating presentation. In his hands, he held a towel and a bundle of cloth. Clothes? Clean clothes?

  “I’m Dee,” Dee said unnecessarily, assuming Baron had already told him her name, but she was a little stumped for conversation starters. “Is everyone here so big?” It was a rather inane thing to say, but shock after shock today had left her off balance.

  Tank and the other man both laughed, but the two sounds were startlingly different. While Tank’s was a rich, genuine chuckle, the other man’s was a dry, sarcastic sound.

  “Size isn’t everything,” her guard said.

  Tank punched him amicably in the arm. “Don’t mind Silas. He’s got a perpetual case of PMS. Come on. Let’s get you showered and cleaned up. And I suspect you’re hungry by now.”

  She was, though she hadn’t noticed until he’d said something. A shower was the first order of business, though.

  Silas rolled his eyes at Tank. “Fine. You want to babysit the chit, then tag, you’re it.” He was gone in an instant, ghosting silently out the door, and Dee found it quite a relief to have him gone.

  Tank led her down the hall to another bedroom, this one larger, and then through into an ensuite. The manor had probably stood for hundreds of years, but it had obviously been renovated along the way. The bedrooms retained a charming, old-world feel, but the bathroom was one hundred per cent modern, with a large shower, ornate hand basin, and wide mirror taking up most of one wall. It was painted a delicate peach colour, and Dee wondered briefly just how many women they had in the manor. She’d heard only one so far, that dim, angry voice while she was still drugged. Everyone else she’d seen had been male.

  Tank dumped the clothes on the toilet seat and hung the towel on a rail. “The clothes belong to Skip, one of the female wolves. They’re probably too big, but…” He glanced down pointedly at her blood-stained scrubs, and Dee hastily assured him the clothes would be fine. “I’ll be waiting in the bedroom,” he added. “If you take more than fifteen minutes, I’m coming in to get you.” He closed the door.

  Dee glanced at the shower, longing to wash the blood off and get clean after three days of being strapped to a table. But with Baron’s refusal to let her contact her mother, other plans had suddenly become a higher priority. She went straight to the window, the only other exit to the room, and slid it open, trying to be as quiet as possible. It was narrow, and it would be a tight squeeze to get through – if she could even fit – but maybe it led onto a roof. Even though she was still on the third floor, maybe she would be able to climb down a drain pipe or use a balcony as a stepping stone. She stood on tiptoes and peered out the small gap. Maybe she would be able to…

  She sighed as she saw the long, vertical drop leading straight down. No luck there. Then she glanced in the mirror, and that did away with the last of her plans to escape. There was blood all over her face, her neck, even climbing into her hair, and she was horrified at the sight of herself. She’d been running around the streets of London like this? What must people have been thinking?

  The clock was ticking, and Dee had no intention of still being naked and wet when Tank came back, so she abandoned her escape plans for the moment, quickly stripped and dived into the shower. She washed her hair and scrubbed herself all over, checking in the mirror to make sure she’d got every last bit of blood off.

  She was pulling on the last of the clothes when a knock on the door startled her. “Time’s up,” Tank’s deep voice filtered through the thick door. “Come out, or I’m coming in.”

  “I’m coming out,” she called, trying to hide her apprehension. The clothes were indeed too big, but not too bad once she’d rolled up the bottom of the jeans and wrapped a belt around her waist. She hung up the towel, wishing she had a comb to run through her wet hair, and opened the door.

  Tank was standing in the doorway, a
rms folded. As the door opened, his expression changed from a tense frown to a faintly relieved smirk. “They make you look even shorter than you really are,” he said, running a glance over her makeshift outfit. She didn’t even come up to his armpits, so she supposed she must look rather ridiculous to him. “Come on. Let’s get you some food, and then Baron will want to talk to you again.”

  After no more than half an hour in his workshop, Mark threw down his tools in frustration. His job, such as it was, was making hand-crafted wooden furniture – one of the many small contributions the resident shifters made towards funding the estate – and he was working on a set of chairs that were to go with a long dining table, ordered by a wealthy customer from Glasgow.

  But after three attempts at getting the shape of the chair right, he had to admit he was wasting his time while damaging some perfectly good wood in the process. Every two minutes, his thoughts returned to the girl in the bedroom, seeing her lying there, the scientists’ blood on her hands and face. After gouging a chunk out of a chair leg by mistake, he finally gave up.

  Restless and irritable, he headed for the kitchen, making a sandwich even though he wasn’t hungry. Then he found a newspaper and pretended to read, the words blurring on the page when all he was really concentrating on was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, waiting for Baron to show up with news, or Caroline to start screeching about newcomers invading the estate.

  In the end, he gave up even that, folding the newspaper and deciding to head back upstairs. If anyone asked, he could tell them he’d been reading a book – not an uncommon pastime for him – and at least if he was in his room, he could be as restless as he liked without arousing any suspicion.

  But as luck would have it, just as he was crossing the foyer to the grand staircase, he heard footsteps at the top – Tank, with his heavy boots on the wooden boards, and another sound, the light, barely-there rustle of a small person in bare feet – and he felt a surge of relief and trepidation as he looked up and saw the girl standing there.