Her rapid rise from intelligent but unproven small-town lobbyist, to a central government position within a few short years had taken many political commentators by surprise. It was no surprise to those who knew her well. She was driven, ambitious, single-minded and ruthless. The environmental lobby had championed Dietricha’s career early on. She was an outspoken advocate of green policies, refusing to give an inch on her principles, even when under pressure from big business. She spoke well, she looked good, and, best of all, she intimidated the opposition. It didn’t hurt that she was six feet tall, but it was really the force of her will that took people aback when they met her. She didn’t so much negotiate as demand, and her utter self-belief convinced many an opponent to concede more than they had planned. She was formidable, and the media loved her. All who worked with her professed great respect and admiration for Dietricha Strennbourg. No one had a bad word to say about her, on or off the record. Journalists marveled at this rare universal approbation for a politician. Not one of them guessed the real reason for it: fear.
In Dietricha’s opinion, fear was an underused, undervalued concept in public office. In her opinion, politics was all about power and power was all about fear. Respect, love, they might get you a few rungs up the ladder, but keeping opponents terrified was a far more effective tool for advancement. Dietricha knew she would be Chancellor some day. Every other politician she’d had dealings with knew the same. The Chancellor herself certainly knew it, and had quickly agreed to move Dietricha’s office from its traditional home in Bonn, to Berlin, the political heart of Germany. The only reason Dietricha was still content to remain—in the view of the public, at least—an underling, was the fact that her network was still growing. As she moved through the ranks, she met more and more influential people from all parts of Germany. She also met senior figures from other European countries and superpowers like America, Russia and China. She contrived reasons for private meetings with as many of these people as possible. Once she had spent some time alone with them, they were hers. All in all, the plan she had first begun to conceive during those pagan rites in the Oxfordshire countryside had fallen into place with barely a single hitch. Because the newspapers had been right about the paganism after all. Although she had thought of herself as more of a Druid at the time. Now that she was more self-aware and less self-deluding, she was perfectly happy to call herself by the most fitting epitaph, with no sense of shame at all. Quite the opposite. Bou-Dietricha was proud to be a witch.
She woke at 5:29am, turning off the alarm before it sounded. The young man beside her, Johann? Jonathan? stirred briefly before resuming snoring. No one seemed to be able to match her sexual stamina or appetite, so she had taken to satisfying herself with two visitors a night. She wasn’t a fan of group sex - too many options, but she was never satisfied with one or two orgasms and had yet to find a single man who could give her what she needed. She approached her sexual needs with the same kind of thorough determination and detailed planning as she had embarked upon her political career. In practice, this meant two lovers a night during the week, three on Saturdays. She took alternate Wednesdays off so she could watch Friends box sets. For some reason, it was the only show that could make her laugh, despite the fact that she felt no empathy at all for any of the characters.
Dietricha got straight into her running gear. It was Saturday morning, cool and clear on the deck outside her weekend chalet at the foot of the Harz mountains. She stretched and sipped water, looking up at the majestic giants, densely wooded, ancient geological marvels that must have looked much the same for thousands of years.
Tying her hair back as she set off, she quickly settled into an easy loping rhythm that looked lazy to a casual observer, but was actually faster than it seemed, her long strides taking her quickly out of sight.
The light was improving every minute as Dietricha ran. She followed a rough track that would take her a few hundred feet higher before looping back along the side of the lake. The trees at this level were primarily wood-rush or common beech. Further on, when she came to the lake, there were a few sycamores, then the real reason Dietricha had chosen to build her chalet here: English oaks. A ring of them, ancient, silent and watchful. A place of power. The place she visited weekly to be filled with the ancient energy that enabled her to pursue her ambitions. She had also found a place in Grunewald, closer to work, that could provide the same power, but the oaks lent gravitas to the ritual. She quickened her pace, longing to be there.
She felt more at home, more herself, running in these woods, than at any other time. An animal amongst other animals in the forest. Her mind cleared. Firstly, details of work she had scheduled for the following week lost their urgency and drifted away. Any thoughts of the people in her life were next to go. Finally, with a pure sense of excitement thrilling through her like a potent drug, language itself vanished along with the last vestige of logical thought. Dietricha was simply running, a graceful, dangerous beast in its natural habitat. Anyone who’d ever seen her immediately after one of her morning runs instantly understood why she had chosen to champion the wild, making the environment ministry her political vehicle: she seemed barely human, unable to speak until she’d had a long shower and a large coffee. She felt no particular kinship with her fellow humans at the best of times. But in the mountains, humanity started to look less like family, more like a parasitic growth.
When she rounded the corner before the lake and the reassuring bulk of the seven oaks was finally in sight, she allowed herself to break into a sprint, her powerful legs pounding the soft earth, her lungs full of sweet mountain air. She felt joyous, alive. She emitted a noise that was part-shout, part-roar of satisfaction.
Then, suddenly, she slowed, her brow furrowed. She had seen movement ahead, between the trees. She slowed again, to walking pace, took a gulp of water from her canteen and squinted, shading her eyes. She hadn’t been mistaken. There were two or three figures moving in the natural hollow surrounded by the ring of oaks. She experienced a rush of rage. It seemed like desecration that others should dare enter the sacred space. She felt cold logic and reason returning as she neared the grove. They were probably hikers. They’d be moving on soon enough. She’d stay out of sight and wait. She certainly didn’t want to have to speak to anyone.
A strange, unfamiliar sound came from up ahead, along with a flare of light. Dietricha frowned at the combination. It seemed familiar, she’d heard such a sound before. But where? When? The sound came again, a kind of harsh rush of air, some crackling, accompanied again by a flash of illumination. She stopped and thought. Her memory was usually exceptional, but this was something unusual, something out of the ordinary. Then she remembered. It had been a demonstration of confiscated or banned weapons four years previously. She knew that sound. She started sprinting.
Dietricha burst into the clearing to have her fears immediately confirmed. Three young men were walking slowly around the ring of oaks. They might have been taken as hikers at first glance, but Dietricha knew better. On their backs, instead of backpacks, were tanks of high pressure propane and natural gas designed to be released in white hot jets of fire from the nozzles carried by the men. The use of matches and cigarette lighters was banned in the area: flamethrowers would guarantee a significant prison sentence for these idiots.
She cursed her habit of leaving her cell phone in the chalet. Then she shrugged and smiled grimly. If she couldn’t take care of three men armed with flamethrowers on her own, she might as well retire now and take up watercolor painting.
“Take the weapons off and put them on the ground,” she shouted. “You will answer to the police for this.”
The three men seemed unsurprised by her sudden appearance. No, it was more than that. They were expecting her. What was going on? She had little time to speculate as all three men swung toward her with practiced movements, squeezing their triggers as they moved, sending three superheated jets of flame straight at her. She had less than half a second to react, b
ut Dietricha’s instincts were honed to a very rare degree indeed. She jumped fifteen feet into the air, flipping backward as she did so. She landed in the oak tree behind her and immediately sprang forward, over the heads of the men, who had yet to react to her first move. As she flew through the space over them, the flames reached the tree behind her and the three-hundred-year-old wood began to crackle and burn immediately. Dietricha screamed with frustration and drew on her power. She chose a template she had constructed with years of practice, meaning she could transform quickly.
Her shoulders thickened and widened as her neck, chest, arms and legs grew great slabs of muscle covered in thick hair. Her head became slightly bigger, the mouth becoming snout-like, filling almost instantly with hundreds of sharp, serrated teeth. Her ears were now those of a wolf, her eyes the predatory amber of a panther. Even as her paw-like feet touched the earth, she sprang, her fangs laying open the neck and shoulder of the nearest man, his life blood pouring out fast enough to render him unconscious before he started to fall. He would be dead within a minute. The second man was beginning to turn, so Dietricha simply slashed a taloned paw across his face, ripping out one eye and temporarily blinding the other as it was filled with blood from the gash in his forehead. She spun toward the third man. She knew he’d had time to react and could feel the heat already as the flame came closer. She gambled he would go for maximum damage and aim at her upper body and face. She dropped to a crouch and sprang low. He was as predictable as she had hoped. The flames passed over her, singeing a few hairs, nothing more. As her outstretched fingers reached his feet, she brutally ripped out the tendons from the back of both legs simultaneously. He made a choking, agonized sound and dropped, bleeding to death.
The second man was still flailing around, his flame the only one still ignited. He was turning in a circle, trying to hit Dietricha. She stayed behind him, then brought her hand up to the tank on his back and twisted the nozzle anti-clockwise. The flame died and the man swung around to face her. She bit his face off. He fell without a sound.
Breathing heavily, she surveyed the scene quickly. The only oak to have suffered had lost a few branches, but some rain the previous night had ensured the fire didn’t spread. Dietricha felt the rage start to subside a little. She glanced at the bloody mess around her. She was going to have some cleaning up to do.
Then she heard it. Someone was clapping. She turned in disbelief. A red-haired woman almost as tall as herself, wearing a long black cloak, dropped down from a thick branch on the other side of the clearing and walked toward her, applauding and smiling.
“What a display, Fraulein Strennbourg,” the female said as she got closer. “I’d heard rumors, of course, but seeing your work at first hand…well, it’s an inspiration. Bravo.”
Every hair on Dietricha’s body rose and she snarled involuntarily. Her animal instincts were telling her plainly that danger was approaching, that it was fight or flight time. She had never been one for flight. But her brain fought her instincts. What possible threat could this woman represent, despite her confidence and seeming lack of fear?
“Oh, you’re right to be scared,” said the woman. “I am here to kill you, after all.”
Dietricha decided that was probably enough talking. She had to get this over with and destroy the evidence, before a vacationing walker stumbled across the bloody scene and raised the alarm. She crouched slightly, then sprang at the woman, swiping a taloned claw at her unprotected head. She missed. It had never happened before. Although it had rarely come as far as this, as one look at her in wolf form was enough for most people to decide they would rather be her friend than her enemy.
Dietricha hit the ground, rolled and came straight up again, lips drawn back from her vicious incisors. The red-haired woman hadn’t dodged, she had simply melted into the air. Now she was in front of her again. Dietricha didn’t hesitate, just sprang a second time. The woman reached out, caught her by the throat, slammed her to the ground, then straddled her. Dietricha’s yellow eyes widened in disbelief. How could this woman have strength like this? She tried to move, but the woman’s knees pinioned her. She thrashed, but it was like being held down by iron manacles.
“Did you think all this power was just for you?” said the woman, shaking her head. She held out the hand that wasn’t gripping Dietricha’s throat and one of the flame-throwers slid across the soil into her grip. She pointed it directly at Dietricha’s face. “Shame,” she said.
Dietricha made one last attempt to free herself, putting all her strength and power into the effort. She could feel the ancient magic of the oak circle entering her body, increasing her power. The woman above her faltered for a moment, and Dietricha felt the balance of power shift suddenly in her favor as her strength seemed to double, then double again. But even as she began to push the woman off her, the flame ignited, white-hot burning gas was released full into her face, devouring hair, skin, muscle, tissue, bone and finally brain, and suddenly it was all too late.
5
Los Angeles
Present day
The sun rose at 5:43am that summer morning. Unusually, Bob Geller didn't have his labrador with him as he climbed the path. That may have saved his life. Marcie had been kept overnight at the animal clinic after a minor operation, but Bob was a man of rigid habits and nothing would keep him from rising at 5, showering, downing the first of many coffees then heading up into the Verdugo hills.
Bob had spent the best part of his life in the military, only leaving when an Iraqi land mine left him with one leg shorter than the other and a lifetime of nightmares. His career had cost him his marriage. His grown-up daughter had stopped even the pretense of staying in touch nearly a decade ago. Now in his late fifties, he kept his life simple. Healthy eating, exercise, a few nips of the hard stuff every day to distract him from the dull pain in his leg. He had never been a romantic - the first time he'd bought flowers for his ex-wife was when she died. He knew he lavished more time and affection on his dog than he ever had on another person, but Marcie just loved him whatever mood he was in, never asked him if he wanted to talk about it and never gave him that look. Even when he came home late twice a month after his regular visit to a semi-retired call girl.
“Don't even know if I can call her that,” he said to Marcie one morning. “Can I call her a call senior?” Marcie had wisely kept her own counsel.
The only regular human contact he had other than the prostitute was Seb - the young guy he met regularly on his morning hike. Seb liked his own company, too - wary, reserved. Bob knew a fellow loner when he met one. It had taken months for them to get beyond the nod and grunt greeting and on to a conversation of sorts. But there was something about Seb - a kind of dreaming, thoughtful quality combined with a grounded down-to-earth nature that Bob couldn't help but warm to. He often met Seb on the weekends, after the younger man had been playing with his band. It gave Bob another reason to get outdoors on the occasional days when the whisper in his head asked why he bothered getting up at all.
Seb had been spending weekend nights walking the mountain trails more often lately, but he'd been quieter, paler. There was obviously something on his mind, but Bob knew better than to ask. Seemed like it was what you were supposed to do these days, talk it through, talk it out, communicate, even—God help you—reach out to someone. But Bob knew the value of a friend who let you talk when you wanted to talk and didn't ask questions. Seb was just happy to walk, throw sticks for Marcie and share a few warming sips from the flask.
Bob was a little surprised when Seb wasn't around that morning. And he was even more surprised at the figure he found walking ahead of him on the trail. She was short, slim, Asian, her hair a slow-motion explosion of black, purple and bleached white. She was wearing a denim jacket with the words ‘Crushed Asians’ on the back. A flicker of memory stirred in Bob and he stopped short, watching the woman as she pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and peered at the screen.
Just as he decided to call out to her,
a flash of light briefly flickered over the whole scene, as if sheet lightning had suddenly decided to break all the rules of physics and start manifesting at ground level.
"What the f-!” yelled Meera and dropped her phone. As she bent down to find it, Bob took a step toward her.
"Meera?" he said. The woman straightened, brushed her hair away from heavily made-up eyes and glared back at Bob.
"Who the hell are you?" she said. Bob gave her a measured stare and took his time replying. Underneath the horror-show makeup, fright wig and up-yours attitude was just another scared kid hoping a show of bravado would keep the bad shit away.
"Name's Bob," he said. Meera made it obvious she was unimpressed by this information by raising an eyebrow and chewing ostentatiously.
"I'm a friend of Seb's," he said. Meera grinned - it transformed her face and suddenly Bob understood what Seb had seen in her. She looked like a cat who had not only got the cream, but had discovered a permanent source of free cream and was about to get started on it.
"Well, ok then," she said. "How'd you know who I am?"
"Seb mentioned you," said Bob. Meera raised an eyebrow and Bob colored slightly.
"Nothing, um, personal," he said. "But he told me about the band - and about the original name." He waved his hand at her jacket. She snorted.
"Yeah, Clockwatchers turned out to be a bigger crowd puller than Crushed Asians. Who'd a thunk it, eh? Thought a name like that would have 'em lining up around the block." Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Bob, her head on one side. Looks a lot like Marcie when she does that. He resisted a sudden urge to throw a stick and see if she'd fetch it.
"Not like Seb to talk about the band," she said. "Not like Seb to talk about me either." She sighed. "Not much like him to talk at all, really. He must like you. Guess I'll give you the benefit for now. So. Any clue at all what the pyrotechnics were all about just then? I'm no weather expert, but that was pretty weird, right?"
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 3
