The first glimmering light of dawn shone through the cracks in the curtains, and she became increasingly aware of her aching bladder and dry mouth. She tried to ignore the sensations, wanting nothing more than to stay in the warm bed and pretend that John still lay there beside her, or that he was downstairs. To hold onto the fantasy for just a little longer. It was no use. The more she tried to ignore it, the more insistent the ache became. She put a tentative foot out from under the duvet, wincing at the frigid air against her toes, then forced herself to get up and scurry to the en-suite bathroom to relieve herself. After that, she resolved to spend the rest of the day in bed. Michael and Daniel could go fuck themselves.
Marie grimaced as her bare backside made contact with the ice cold toilet seat, then sighed with relief as the pressure dissipated. Her senses instinctively reached out to take in the sounds of the house, a fact that surprised her a little. She’d almost gotten used to the muted, crippled, human awareness that she’d been stuck with for the past six weeks. Now, it was as if someone had turned the dial up to 11. She could hear not only Michael’s rhythmic snoring along the hallway, but could also make out the steady beat of his heart through the solid stone walls. She stretched out further, listening to the sound of a mouse scrabbling about in the attic. The sound of the back door to the cottage opening and being very carefully closed. The unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked. The smell of sweat against metal and gun oil, with an undertone of fear.
Oh shit!
She knew it was Daniel holding the weapon. His scent was unmistakable. The lingering after-tones of that terrible aftershave he wore wove through the other aromas like a tapestry. She tried to extend her senses further, to identify some external threat that would justify him entering the house with a cocked and loaded firearm, or explain the sour tang of fear in his odour, but the only sounds and scents from outside were those of the world coming back to life.
That only left one explanation. He was coming for her and Michael.
She tried to remember where her own pistol was, then realised it was still downstairs in the hallway where she’d left it last night. Her eyes darted around the bathroom, looking for something she could use as a weapon, but there was nothing more threatening to hand than a toilet brush. She shook her head, disgusted at herself. Had she forgotten so quickly? She didn’t need a weapon to deal with Daniel. She was a weapon.
She eased herself from the toilet and silently crouched on the freezing linoleum floor, then closed her eyes and willed the change.
Nothing happened. And she could hear Daniel’s first tentative footsteps on the staircase. There wasn’t much time.
She plunged into the darkness of her mind, following her instincts, searching for the animal presence that lurked deep within. That familiar, other part of herself that she’d lived with since she was eight years old.
It wasn’t there. Not her wolf, anyway. What she found was newborn. Little more than a whimpering puppy. Immature. Still gestating until the light of the full moon gave birth to it. It made sense then. The werewolf side of herself had been killed by Steven Wilkinson back in High Moor. She had been human, but the teeth and claws of Anya re-infected her during the battle in Scotland. She was a werewolf, but she was a different werewolf, and not yet a mature one. Her emotional state last night had brought on the change prematurely, and she’d been left with some residual capabilities, such as the enhanced senses, but she wasn’t certain if she’d be able to fully transform, or what the attempt would do to her.
Fuck it. It’s not like I have a choice.
She dug deep, dredging up every scrap of pain and anger she could muster. Reliving the sight of bullets tearing into John as he fell to the tarmac and lay still. Drawing on the pain and loss, not only of John, but at her exile from the pack. The terror she’d felt when Connie hunted her in the woods, or when Oskar, Anya and Leonid had come for them at the cottage in Scotland. The fury at Daniel for turning on them after they’d been through so much together. The thought of his traitorous flesh tearing under her fangs, and the taste of his hot blood as it gushed across her muzzle.
Her skin prickled and itched as thick brown fur burst from her pores. The bones in her back shattered and reformed in an instant. Vertebrae popped and cracked along her spine as it arched, twisted and contorted. Vicious, black talons burst through the ends of her fingertips in a spray of blood. Sharp bone shards split her gums while her skull warped and her jaws elongated.
She could sense Daniel outside the bathroom door. Of course he would dispose of her first. As a trained, experienced field operative, she was far more dangerous than Michael. He hesitated, hand barely grazing the door knob, his sweat reacting with metal. A surge of fear flashing through him, releasing pheromones into the air. He must have sensed that something was wrong. Marie didn’t intend to give him time to react. She bunched her muscles and launched herself at the wooden door, shattering it into a cloud of ragged splinters that carved grooves in her flesh, only to heal again in an instant.
Daniel tried to bring his pistol up, but she caught his arm in her mouth and bit down, feeling satisfaction as the flesh parted and bones crunched. The gun went off, blowing a hole in the ceiling, raining plaster dust down on them like snowflakes. Marie ignored it. Her senses were aflame with a glorious bloodlust. She snarled, released her grip on Daniel’s arm, and darted her head forward, her fangs seeking the exposed throat of her enemy.
“Marie! Stop!”
Michael’s voice rang out, and she paused, delaying the killing blow. Just. Her fangs rested upon Daniel’s throat, drawing pin-pricks of sweet blood. She could feel his heart hammering beneath her, the nervous gulp of his Adam’s apple against her tongue. It would be oh-so-easy to end this treacherous German bastard and feast on him. And she wanted to. She wanted to more than anything in this world.
“Marie. Let him go. Now.”
She angled her head towards her brother, bringing a small yelp of pain from her prey. Marie snarled in frustration then slackened her hold on her enemy, allowing his head to fall back against the carpet. She remained on top of him, however. Pinning him to the floor. She gave her talons the tiniest flex, allowing them to dig through his clothing and pierce his flesh. Just a little. Enough to make the prey cry out.
“Marie. I mean it. Get off him. Let me handle this.”
She gave her brother a look of utter contempt, but removed herself from Daniel’s shaking body and backed away. Just far enough to allow him to breathe. If he tried anything. If he tried to transform, or if the hand holding the pistol so much as twitched, she’d tear the bastard’s head off and damn what Michael said.
Michael made his way along the corridor and removed the pistol from Daniel’s hand. “So. It happened, then? Lukas and Krysztof took over the pack and ordered my death?”
Daniel spat blood onto the carpet. “Yes. I wasn’t happy about it, Michael, but my loyalties are to the pack. Not to any individual. You know that.”
Michael pointed the pistol at the German’s head. “I know, and believe me, I’m not taking any of this personally. The question is, I suppose, what do we do with you now? If we let you go, will you leave us be? Or will you come after us again?”
Daniel shook his head. “You may as well kill me. Lukas was very specific in his orders. If I don’t send back photographic evidence of your death, they’ll consider me a rogue and send enforcers after me.”
Michael rubbed his chin, then smiled. “Not necessarily a problem. Have you never heard of Photoshop? However, you still didn’t answer the question. If I let you live, am I going to regret it?”
“That all depends, Michael, on what you intend to do with your freedom. Will you and Marie disappear? Or will you simply show up again in a few weeks? If so, then all you are doing is delaying my death sentence.”
“I’m sorry, but I need to get back to Moscow and prevent Krysztof and Lukas doing something stupid. No matter what they say, or what Krysztof decrees, I still have support within the pa
ck.”
Daniel raised an eyebrow. “So you would throw the pack into civil war? While we are being hunted by the entire human race? Michael, what on earth gives you the right? This mess is as much yours and Marie’s fault as it was Connie’s. Can you honestly say that you are still fit to lead?”
Michael slumped against the wall and lowered the pistol. “Honestly, I don’t know anymore,” he raised his head and fixed Daniel’s gaze, “but let me ask you this. What are your orders once you’ve disposed of our corpses?”
“The humans escalated things last night and attacked every pack family living in the United Kingdom. More than half of them are dead or captured. My orders are to meet up with the survivors and co-ordinate the retaliation.”
“Retaliation? Are they fucking insane? That will just escalate things further. Daniel, please, don’t do it. Put them off until I can get back to Moscow and try to talk some sense into them.”
“I can’t. The best I can do is buy you some time. A few days at most. But I won’t try and stop you from escaping. Just consider what you’d be walking into, and what the consequences of a civil war will be.”
Michael nodded. “Fair enough, but I have to do something, Daniel. I can’t just walk away from this. There’s too much at stake here.” He turned to Marie. “Come on, little sis. Put your fangs away and get your shit together. We’ve got to be in Folkestone by nightfall.”
Marie let out a small whine. Folkestone could only mean one thing. They were going to attempt a tunnel-run.
Chapter 9
25th December 2008. Underhill Military Base, Sub-Level Two. 11:37
Phil flattened himself against the wall as a squad of soldiers hurried past him with a trolley piled high with cardboard boxes. He clutched the bottle in his hands tighter, bringing it close into his chest to protect it. He doubted anyone would oblige him with a visit to the nearest off-licence given the frantic activity taking place around him, even if any of the local shops were open on Christmas day. Crickhowell, the closest town, was hardly a bustling metropolis, and even Abergavenny was still small by most standards. That he’d persuaded one of the soldiers to pick up a bottle for him the day before was surprising. Now, after everything that had happened, there was no chance at all of replacing it if it was knocked from his grasp onto the hard, concrete floor.
He made his way as quickly as he could through the maze of corridors towards Paul’s room, passing offices that were being hastily packed into plastic crates by solemn-looking troops. This place was being emptied in a hurry, although after last night’s werewolf incursion, he couldn’t really say he was surprised. There had been remarkably few casualties in the base. Three men dead, one of those shot by his own squad mates – a miniscule body count when you considered that four werewolves had been loose in the place. But each of the dead men had been known and liked by the other soldiers stationed here, and even a single death would have weighed heavily on those that survived. Of course, he’d heard rumours that those three weren’t the only casualties of last night. No one seemed willing to talk about it, but he got the impression that the operation against the werewolves had not quite gone to plan. He just hoped that Paul had come out of last night’s events with more than just his body intact.
He knocked twice on Paul’s door, then opened it, not quite knowing what to expect. Finding Paul Patterson reclined on his bed, watching cartoons on the small portable TV had not been one of the options that immediately sprang to mind.
Paul raised a hand in greeting. “Alright, Phil. Merry Christmas!”
Phil closed the door behind him and pulled out a metal framed chair. “Erm… Merry Christmas, mate. You seem… better.”
“The Doc’s got me on a shitload of happy pills. Apparently, I’m fucking depressed. Not that it takes a bloody medical degree to work that out. Still, the little beauties seem to be doing the trick. And they’re making these cartoons a load better. Sam used to watch this crap all the time and it bored the piss out of me. Now, it’s fucking hilarious. I wish I’d been on these things years ago.”
“Well, go easy on them. I managed to scrounge up a bottle of wine for us, but I’m not sure if it’s such a good idea if you’re on medication.”
“Bollocks. I’d love to, but I’d better not. I’m off my tits as it is. Nice thought, though, Phil. I appreciate it.”
Phil pulled the chair a little closer. “How are you doing, mate? Seriously? I heard that things didn’t go so well last night.”
The other man laughed. “Oh, it went fucking brilliantly. The dumb bloody squaddies charged in there like it was some embassy siege and got their arses handed to them. The cleanup crew are probably still scraping bits of the daft bastards out of the carpet. I told them. I fucking warned them, but they thought they knew better.”
“Jesus… how many…?”
“Three from our squad. Me and that Sergeant were the only ones that got out, and she was lucky. Her Kevlar was the only thing that stopped her guts from decorating the kitchen wall. Still, we got the bastards. Three werewolves bagged and motherfucking tagged. I tell you, Phil, when I blew one of those cocksucker’s brains out, I can’t remember feeling happier. Shit, I probably didn’t even need the pills today. Natural fucking high. But I thought, bollocks to it. It’s Christmas.”
Phil shook his head. “Three? Jesus Christ!”
“Pff. That’s nothing, mate. Some of those other squads… the poor bastards without the benefit of my experience… total wipes. Every last one of them turned into chew toys. Maybe next time the dip-shits will actually listen.”
Phil took a long, hard look at his friend. “Paul, you don’t seem all that bothered. Come on, man, it might be just the drugs talking, but people died. People that you knew. Didn’t Private Raines have a wife and a kid? The lieutenant too? Try and show some respect, for Christ’s sake.”
Paul’s mouth curled into a sneer. “Respect? They were a bunch of gung-ho fuckwits, Phil. They charged in and they got killed. Boo-fucking-hoo. Maybe the ones that survived will learn their lesson and next time we’ll get to do those bastard monsters over properly. Now, if you’re done giving me shit, would you mind fucking off? You’re making me miss my cartoons and you’re spoiling my good mood.”
Phil got to his feet, picked up the unopened bottle of wine and walked to the door. He pulled it open and turned back to Paul, but the other man was already engrossed in the television once more. He was about to say something when Paul looked up. “Phil?”
He forced a smile. There was still enough of his friend left to know when he’d crossed a line. “Yes, mate.”
“Close that fucking door behind you. You’re letting all the heat out of the room.”
Disappointment washed over him, but he tried not to let it show. Not that Paul would have noticed in his current state. He wasn’t sure whether it was a side-effect of the drugs they’d given him, the psychological hangover from combat or something more fundamental, but he hardly recognised his friend anymore. In every respect that mattered, the Paul Patterson he’d known had died with his family. He shook his head, stepped out of the room and let the door click closed behind him.
With Paul effectively shutting him out, he realised that he didn’t have many friends left in the base. He wanted to talk to Sharon desperately. Just a quick telephone conversation so that he could hear her voice. Unfortunately the Colonel had ordered a complete communications blackout in the wake of last night’s attack. She’d be around her sister’s house, watching the kids open their presents and helping prepare the Christmas dinner. The thought brought a small smile to his face, even though his heart ached with loneliness. At least she was safe and surrounded by her family, and with any luck, the Colonel would turn him loose before much longer. If last night’s debacle had proven anything, it was that his limited knowledge of werewolves was next to useless. The surviving members of the assault teams now had as much exposure to the things as he had. He just had to count the days until they let him go back to his wife and t
ry to put this nightmare behind him.
Still cradling the bottle, he made his way back through the maze of corridors until he reached the elevator and hit the call button. After a few seconds, the door pinged open and four soldiers hurried past him, pushing a trolley. They didn’t give him a second look. Everyone was much too busy to pay any attention to a middle aged copper wandering about, apparently. Good. If that was the case, then no one was likely to object to him paying a visit to Steven. At this point, all he wanted was to spend some time in the presence of another human being, even if that wasn’t strictly true in Steven’s case. The old man was still the only friend he had left in this place.
He stepped into the elevator, hit the button for Sub-level Four, and made his way through the bustling corridors to Steven’s room. He could tell something was wrong as soon as he turned the corner. The door to Steven’s room hung open, and everything had been removed. The monitoring equipment, the commode, the bed, and Steven himself were missing. The floor was wet and the room stank of disinfectant. He felt a pang of concern for his friend. He’d seemed fine earlier, but he was an old man who’d sustained some grievous injuries. He grabbed the arm of a passing medic. “Excuse me, but what happened to Steven Wilkinson? Is he alright?”
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