Wolf Island td-8

by Darren Shan

  “No way!” I roar.

  “Who is it?” Meera shouts, but I don’t stop to answer. Grabbing hold of the rope ladder, I throw myself from rung to rung. I’m dimly aware of Timas and Meera scrabbling after me, but most of my thoughts are focused on the man in the boat.

  As I draw close to the last few rungs, I turn to study the figure. A dark mood descends. I’m convinced I was mistaken, that I only saw what I wanted to see. Or if it’s really him, that he’s dead. But when he half-raises a hand to salute weakly, I know that he’s real and alive.

  “Shark!” I yell, jumping into the boat and grinning with open joy.

  “You look… weird,” Shark wheezes, running a dubious eye over me.

  “How?” I gasp. “The cave… the werewolves…”

  “What?” the ex-soldier scowls as Meera and Timas climb into the boat and stare at him like he’s a ghost. “You don’t think I can… take care of a few werewolves… by myself?”

  “But…” Meera shakes her head, smiling slowly.

  “I’d have been in trouble if… you hadn’t swept the rest of the pack away,” Shark mutters, sitting up, leaning forward and wincing. “But when I came out of the cave and found… the island deserted, it was simple to hobble over here and… lower a boat. I wanted to come and see what… was happening inside the compound, but that would’ve… been pushing my luck. Besides, I thought you might need to make… a quick getaway.”

  Shark’s bleeding all over. His left ear has been bitten off. I can only barely see his right eye— it’s a miracle he didn’t lose it, as most of the flesh around it has been clawed away. He’s missing the tops of all four fingers on his left hand, and the thumb and half his index finger on the right. As he leans further forward, I see a jagged hole in his lower back. Timas sees it too and bends over for a closer look.

  “Some of your entrails are poking through,” Timas says, reaching out to prod them back into place.

  “Leave my guts alone,” Shark growls, slapping the taller man’s hand.

  “You’re a bloody wonder,” I chuckle, then grab hold of the ladder. “Patch him up,” I tell Meera and Timas. “I’ll sort out extra boats for the werewolves.”

  “Werewolves!” Shark squints.

  “We’re taking some with us. I’m their leader now.”

  “I can’t wait to hear about it,” Shark says dryly. “Just keep them well the hell… away from me.”

  “You’re getting yellow in your old age,” I grin, then shimmy up the ladder.

  The last thing I hear, as I’m climbing out of earshot, is Shark asking Timas and Meera, “So, who’s good with a needle and thread?”

  TOODLE-PIPS

  I keep humming a tune to myself, one Dervish used to sing when he’d had a bit too much wine. “Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing.” But in my head I change it to, “Speed, bonny wolf.”

  I don’t like boats. Too slow. We could have taken the helicopter that was on the island when we arrived—we’d have found the missing parts if we’d searched—but we couldn’t have squeezed in all my werewolf buddies. Besides, I don’t think Shark is in any fit state to play pilot. Timas and Meera patched up the worst of his wounds, but he looks dozy and keeps drifting in and out of consciousness, slumping over, then snapping awake when a wave hits the side of the boat.

  Shark’s with me and thirteen werewolves. He’s covered in blood and smells like the juiciest steak in the world. I need to stay beside him to keep the werewolves in line or they’d fall on him and finish the job their brethren started.

  Timas and Meera are in separate boats, a dozen werewolves to each. Meera’s big-time edgy. Keeps checking over her shoulder to make sure the creatures aren’t sneaking up. Timas, on the other hand, looks as content as any seafaring captain. He sings jaunty songs to his hairy, bemused passengers, and calls for them to join in the choruses. Apart from a few coincidental howls, he’s not having much luck with that. I don’t think there’s going to be a choir of werewolves any time soon.

  “I don’t like the way they’re looking… at me,” Shark mutters, a minute or so after regaining consciousness from his latest blackout. “Like I’m lunch.”

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “They’ve already had lunch. Dinner too. You’ll be fine until supper.”

  “Funny guy,” Shark pants, then passes out again.

  I check that Shark’s OK, then focus on Timas in the boat ahead of me. He said he knows where he’s going, that he’s read lots of books about navigation. A while ago I might have been worried, but I trust the oddball now. If we were adrift in a snow storm in Alaska, I’d follow Timas Brauss before I followed an Eskimo.

  Timas guides us safely to dry land, and though we bump about a lot while docking, we come through unscathed. Unloading the werewolves, Timas looks pleased with himself, as he has every right to. An ambulance is waiting. We buckle Shark on to a trolley and roll him into the back of the vehicle. His eyelids flutter open as we’re settling him in place. He looks around, scowls and tries to get up.

  “Easy,” I say, pushing him down and tightening the straps around his chest.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he barks. “I’m coming with you to… help Dervish.”

  “You’re in no condition to fight,” I chuckle.

  “I don’t care. I’m coming whether you… like it or not.”

  “I thought you said you were going to retire when we got off Wolf Island,” Meera reminds him.

  “I said I was going to think about it,” he growls.

  “Well, think some more on the way to the hospital,” she snaps and slams the door shut. His curses turn the air blue until the driver switches the siren on and hits the accelerator.

  “I’m glad I won’t be there when they finish operating on him,” I note.

  “Me too,” Meera says, smiling at me. “How do you feel?”

  “Hungry,” I reply, then wink at her alarmed expression.

  “You really believe you can control them?” Meera asks as we herd the werewolves into the waiting trucks, which will take us to the nearest airport and a specially chartered plane.

  “Child’s play,” I smirk.

  Timas is waiting for us at the trucks. He says nothing as I usher in the werewolves, standing by in case I need him. When the last door has been locked, he clears his throat. “I should keep watch over Shark. He’ll want to return to action as soon as he’s fit—probably before—and he’s going to need help. I can do more for him than you.”

  “That’s fine.” I smile warmly and shake his hand, but lightly, aware that I could crack his fingers like twigs if I squeezed too hard. “Thanks, Timas. We wouldn’t have made it off the island without you.”

  “I know,” he says, then turns to Meera. “Time to make good on that promise.”

  “What promise?” Meera squints.

  Timas grabs her and bends her backwards, supporting her with one arm. “A kiss for your sweet prince,” he murmurs, smooching up to her.

  Meera pretends to struggle, but then grins and treats him to a kiss that’s even hotter than Shark’s curses. It’s an old-style movie kiss, except with more slurping and tongue action.

  “Break it up,” I growl.

  The pair come up for air, their faces red.

  “That was nice,” Timas gasps.

  “Very,” Meera agrees, and pecks his nose. “To be continued,” she purrs, then turns from him with the natural grace of a model and sashays away.

  “See you soon,” I mutter.

  “Extremely soon,” Timas nods and hits the road, clicking his fingers like a hepcat.

  Meera’s on her mobile for most of the trip to the airport, deep in conversation with some of her fellow Disciples. Her face is creased with worry when she cuts the connection.

  “Bad news?” I ask.

  “There are reports of three potential crossings,” she says. “All in major cities. The windows are due to open within the next forty-eight hours unless we can find the mages responsible and st
op them.”

  “Three at the same time,” I mutter. “Hardly coincidence.”

  “No,” Meera snorts. “One’s in the city where Dervish and Bec are.”

  “So Juni must already know that Antoine’s troops failed.”

  “I hoped we’d have more time, but apparently not.” Meera sighs. “I’ll arrange to have them moved as soon as possible.”

  “No.” My face is stone. “Let the demons come. I’ll deal with them. It’ll be a good opportunity to test my pack.”

  “Are you sure?” Meera frowns. “Juni and her masters want the pieces of the Kah-Gash. If you and Bec are in the same spot, they’ll have a double shot at it. Maybe you should stay away from her until—”

  “No,” I growl. “No more running. They want a fight? I’ll give them one they won’t forget in a hurry.”

  “Juni beat you once,” Meera reminds me.

  “She won’t again,” I whisper. Not because I believe I can turn the tables on her, but because she doesn’t want to. She needs me to destroy the universe.

  “Grubbs?” Meera says softly. “Why didn’t Juni finish you off?”

  I don’t answer. Thinking about what the mutant monster predicted. Wondering, not if it might be true, but rather how it will happen and when.

  “Grubbs?” Meera says again.

  I shake myself. “It doesn’t matter. Are you coming?”

  Meera sighs. “No. I want to, but I’m needed elsewhere. I can be of more use in the other cities, either help find the mages and kill them, or try to drive back the demons if they cross. I think we’re all going to have to work very hard over the next few days to prevent a massacre that makes the losses on Wolf Island look like a drop in the ocean.”

  “I’ll come when I can,” I promise. “Tell the other Disciples that if they fail—if demons break through—I’ll mop up. Once I’ve dealt with those coming to attack Dervish and Bec, I’ll go wherever I’m needed and I’ll bring my werewolves. We can fight them now. We don’t need to be afraid.”

  “You idiot,” Meera chuckles. “Of course we do.” She hugs me tight, then stands on her toes, hauls my head down and kisses my coarse, hairy cheek, ignoring the bits of human flesh caught between my fangs and the stench of blood on my breath.

  She releases me and I draw back to my full height. Part of me wants to plead with her to come with me. We can pick up Dervish and Bec, then fly to a deserted island like the one we just left. An apocalypse is coming. It would be easier to sit it out, enjoy what time we have left and face the end with a resigned laugh.

  But I’m Grubbs Grady. Magician. Werewolf. Kah-Gash. I don’t do retreat.

  “Give my love to Dervish,” Meera sniffs, then leaves me to make my own way to the plane. The last I see of her, she’s climbing into the front of an army jeep, talking on her mobile, looking lovelier than ever as she prepares to go to war.

  With a self-mocking smile, I offer up a quick prayer to whatever gods might be listening. “If reincarnation is real, and I die soon, let me come back as Timas Brauss’s lips!”

  Then I head off in search of my half-dead uncle, hoping he doesn’t croak before I have a chance to bid him goodbye.

  THIS IS THE END, BEAUTIFUL FRIEND

  Dervish refused to be admitted to a hospital. If demons attack him and Bec again, he doesn’t want to be in a public building, where innocents might catch the crossfire. So the team set in place by the Disciples swiftly established a temporary medical base in a derelict building in a rundown part of the city where he, Bec and the other survivor were taken.

  Antoine Horwitzer’s soldiers are waiting for me when I arrive. They line the corridor, heavily armed, exchanging dark glances with several troops in different uniforms who are working for the Disciples. The air bristles with tension when I walk in. The commanding officer of the Lambs’ group steps forward and runs a cold eye over me.

  “Where’s Horwitzer?” he growls.

  “Dead,” I say bluntly.

  “You killed him?” the officer snarls.

  “No.” I whistle and the werewolves lurch into view. “They did.”

  The officer’s face blanches. His men raise their weapons defensively. The other soldiers raise theirs too, even more alarmed than the Lambs.

  “You have a choice,” I say calmly. “Fight and die, or lower your arms and walk away. Horwitzer’s reign is over. The Lambs are back under the thumb of Prae Athim. Surrender now and we’ll call it even.”

  The officer licks his lips. “I’d want safe passage for my men,” he mutters. “And I’ll have to confirm it with—”

  “No time for confirmations,” I bark. “Drop your weapons and run, or stand, fight and die.”

  The officer studies the slavering werewolves and comes to the smart conclusion. He lowers his gun and gives the order for his men to follow suit. I growl at the beasts behind me and they part, affording the humans safe passage. Once they’ve filed out of the building, I bring my werewolves in, line them up in the corridor and ask to be escorted to Dervish’s room. The soldiers are uneasy—I can smell their fear—but they do as I request. One takes me, while the rest remain, eyeing the werewolves anxiously.

  I find Dervish relaxing on a bed in a large room, clothed in a T-shirt and jeans, no shoes or socks, hooked up to a drip and monitors, staring reflectively at the ceiling. Bec’s in a chair nearby, head lowered, snoozing. She’s also hooked up to a drip. In a bed further over, another man, swathed in bandages, is sitting up and entertaining a gaggle of wide-eyed nurses. A couple of fingers on his left hand have been cut or bitten off, reminding me of Shark.

  “—but I wasn’t afraid of a few stinking zombies,” the man—it must be Kirilli Kovacs—is saying dismissively. “I laid into them with magic and fried them where they stood. If there hadn’t been so many, I’d have waltzed through unscathed, but there were thousands. They overwhelmed me, and the others too. It looked as if we were doomed but I didn’t panic. I gathered Dervish and the girls and ploughed a way through.”

  “You saved their lives,” a nurse gasps.

  “Pretty much,” the man says with a falsely modest smile.

  I clear my throat. Dervish looks over and beams at me. Bec’s head bobs up and she studies my twisted body with a frown. Kirilli Kovacs scowls at me for interrupting, casts a sheepish glance at Dervish, then lowers his voice and continues his story.

  “Sorry I didn’t bring any chocolates,” I tell Dervish, walking over to the bed and taking my uncle’s hands. He squeezes tight. I squeeze back gently, not wanting to hurt him. He squints as he studies me.

  “There’s something different about you,” he says.

  “I’ve started styling my hair differently,” I laugh.

  “Oh. I thought it was that you were a metre taller, a hell of a lot broader, look like a werewolf and are naked except for that bit of cloth around your waist. But you’re right—it’s the hair.”

  “There’s something strange about yours too,” I murmur, staring at the six punk-like, purple-tipped, silver spikes that have appeared on his head since I last saw him. “The tips are a nice touch. Very anarchic.”

  We grin at each other. Dervish looks like death and I guess I don’t look much better. We must make some pair.

  “How’s the heart?” I ask, letting go and taking a step back.

  “Fine,” he says.

  “It’s not,” Bec disagrees. She stands, taking care not to dislodge the drip. “We heard about your transformation. Meera said you’d be bringing others with you.”

  “They’re waiting outside. What about his heart?”

  “I need a transplant,” Dervish says. “Care to volunteer?”

  “He needs to return to the demon universe,” Bec says, ignoring Dervish’s quip. “The doctors have done what they can, but if he stays here…” She shakes her head.

  “Can you open a window?” I ask.

  “Not right now. I’m not operating at full strength.” I formulate a quick plan. “Juni knows you’re here. A w
indow’s being opened somewhere in the city. Demons will pour through. The air will fill with magic. I want you to tap into it, open a window of your own and get him out of here.”

  “Don’t I have any say in this?” Dervish asks.

  “No.”

  My uncle chuckles, then lays back and smiles. “I won’t go,” he says.

  “Take him somewhere safe,” I tell Bec. “If I survive, I’ll come—”

  “You didn’t hear me,” Dervish interrupts. “I won’t go.”

  “Of course you’ll go,” I snap. “You can’t stay here. You’ll die.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t,” I snarl. “We haven’t time for this self-sacrifice crap. You’re hauling your rotten carcass out of here and that’s that.”

  Dervish’s smile doesn’t dim. “I’ve been thinking about it since we were rescued. Do you know that Beranabus and Sharmila were killed?”

  “Yeah,” I mutter.

  “We’re not sure about Kernel,” Dervish continues. “He disappeared. There was a lot of blood and scraps of flesh, but they mightn’t have been his. Maybe he’s dead, maybe not.” Dervish shrugs, grimaces with pain, then relaxes again. “I want to choose my place and manner of death. Beranabus and Sharmila were lucky—they died quickly, on our own world. But they could just have easily suffered for centuries at the hands of the Demonata and been butchered in that other universe, far from home and all they loved.”

  “Those are the risks we take,” I say stiffly.

  “Not me,” Dervish replies. “I’m through. I served as best I could, and if this body had a bit more life in it, I’d carry on. But I’m not good for anything now. I’m tired. Ready for death. I’ll fight when the demons attack, but if we repel them, I want to find a peaceful spot and give up the ghost in my own, natural time.”

  “Don’t be—” I start to yell.

  “Grubbs,” he interrupts gently. “I think I’ve earned the right to choose how I die. Don’t you?”