by Ian Thomas
HEARTLINES
By Ian Thomas
Book 3 of The Accords Triptych
Text copyright © 2017 Ian Thomas
All Rights Reserved
www.ianthomasbooks.com
Also by Ian Thomas
THE CUPS TRIPTYCH
Building a Mystery
How to be Dead
The Space Between
RED RAIN
THE ACCORDS TRIPTYCH
Wolves Without Teeth
Bloodstream
Heartlines
To my favourite Irishman, Shane
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Shane for giving James a voice.
Ben and Lucas, who continue to put up with my questions about NYU and college life, thank you. Looking forward to your efforts in the film world.
Thanks always to JT for his constant support. Discovering you were an RA explains a lot and helped where it needed to.
Thanks to my friends, family, and support crew. You help more than you’re possibly aware.
Chapters
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
Epilogue
I
Mouth waited to die.
The shrieking siren shredded his nerves.
Through the downpour he couldn’t see the rest of the bathroom. But hiding in the shower stall, water running, had saved him. So far anyway.
Jason.
Wolf Jason.
Jason…no, the large wolf that used to be Jason…had prowled the bathroom already. When the dark shape had first loomed before him, Mouth flattened himself against the formica, almost choking as water rushed into his mouth.
While Rebecca’s idea of hiding under the water had saved his ass, he was all but trapped. Werewolves being afraid of running water was possibly the dumbest thing he had ever heard. He knew Matteo showered. He didn’t know why that was important, but in his mounting panic his brain had turned to the ridiculous. There goes Jason’s fall back option of being a plumber.
Those thoughts distracted him from fixating on his impending death. He didn’t know what was worse: seeing the shape prowl or dreading its whereabouts.
Thankfully the water hid his scent. And the fact that he may or may not have wet himself.
What if the water ran out?
He didn’t want to think about it. Watching every horror movie ever made hadn’t prepared him for his own deat…his own demis…his final scene. Wes Craven had a lot to answer for. Fanboy nerds usually bought it in the third act. Not this early. Though as an intermittently sexual active white male there was little to no chance of him surviving to the last reel.
Suddenly, the wolf loomed into view again. Closer than before. Blinking against the water, his vision cleared.
He saw the fangs first. Inches from his face, the maw was open, teeth long and shining white. The beast breathed through its mouth unable to catch Mouth’s scent.
Closer.
Wild eyes burned gold and hungry.
Closer still.
Scarier than…well, all of it, was seeing Jason amid the wolfen features. He was still there just changed, hungry, enraged, lethal. Could he reason with him? Plead for his life? Try to save the others? Or was Mouth kidding himself? So much was monster that he’d be dead before he got a word out. Spluttering, he splashed the wolf and it recoiled violently. Eyes clenched he waited for pain. Would it be the claws? The fangs? But nothing came. Peering through the deluge, he saw the emptiness of the bathroom. With the wolf out of sight a familiar panic kicked in. Where was he? Between the torrent and the siren, he wouldn’t hear the door open or close. Convinced the wolfman was waiting, Mouth shook fearfully.
Time was irrelevant. All he knew was running water, a wailing siren, and just the hint of his former dignity. Had it been a minute? Ten? Twenty? Any longer and the building would be given the all clear. Other students would be walking into a slaughterhouse.
When the shape appeared again, Mouth closed his eyes. He didn’t need to witness this.
Then he was dragged from under the water, blue eyes mirrored his panic.
“Come with me if you want to live,” Hayley exclaimed quietly.
“What?!”
“Shh,” she hissed. He hoped she put his shaking down to the water and not fear. “He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Gone not here,” she said. “You want I should go find him?”
“No,” Mouth replied. “What’re you even doing here?”
“Asking myself that same damn question.” She leaned around the bathroom door, looking into the hall. “Bex called.”
“She called you?”
“Trust me I wasn’t her first choice,” Hayley snapped. “Or second. Or third. Possibly not even fourth but here I am.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re not gonna be all bummed that her first three rescuers never showed, are you?”
“Not if we make it out of this alive.”
“Good point.” Hayley started into the hallway, but Mouth pulled her back.
“Careful. He can smell you.”
“I’m gonna take that as the warning as it was intended and not as a slight against my personal hygiene.”
“Worst rescuer ever.”
“Hey, I’m here aren’t I?”
“True.”
Checking to see if the coast was clear, she jerked her head at Mouth. They crept out of the bathroom and along the wall. The emptiness was eerie. With the siren blaring it felt like some post-apocalyptic nightmare. And here was Mouth. With Katniss. Which sucked, he thought, because Katniss lived. She got to make sequels. And Oscar-bait movies. And be friends with Amy Schumer. And he…well, he’d be torn apart, his death driving her to push on and take down the evil monster, corrupt government, or whatever metaphor science fiction was using for the ills of society.
Behind them, a howl drowned out the siren.
And his mad thoughts.
Turning they saw Jason, now a large wolfman, in the hallway, body heaving with hunger and adrenaline.
“Run!” Hayley shouted, pulling him after her.
Mouth slipped in his wet sneakers, crashing into Hayley and sending them to the floor. Sopping, they detangled and struggled to get up. But Jason was moving. Fast. Claws raking the wooden floor, he was almost upon them.
Scared, they made it a few steps before a larger shape appeared before them.
Matteo.
Wolfed out beneath a fireman’s coat.
He howled at Jason, the sound stopping the wolf in his tracks. Almost. Instead Wolf-Jason leapt at Mouth and Hayley. Hoping to feed before messing with the older wolf.
Matteo moved faster. Smacking the freshly turned wolf back with one hand, he drew a gun with the other.
“No!” Mouth yelled.
But the words went unheard. The gun went off several times, rounds driving Jason back and down onto the ground.
Only when he was lying still, did Mouth scramble across the fl
oor to him. Blood was pooling in the wounds and spilling onto floor.
“They’re not silver,” Matteo said.
“Like fuck!” Mouth pushed at Matteo, barely moving the large wolf.
“They’re not silver,” Matteo repeated. “Tranq’ rounds wouldn’t have stopped him. You’d be dead.”
“You get this totally undermines my feminist rescuing the male bit, right?” Hayley asked.
“Like I said,” Matteo replied, not warming to her levity. “You’d be dead.”
“I get that. I just don’t want to be the one who tells Rebecca.”
Without a word, Matteo handed her the weapon. That’s when the alarm stopped.
“Shit,” Mouth said. “They’re gonna be coming back in any minute.”
“Get your bedding,” Hayley said, shoving the gun into the back of her jeans. “Matteo, you take him. That was the plan after all, right?”
Scooping up the wounded wolf, Matteo slung him over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold.
“You get there isn’t any actual fire, don’t you?” Hayley asked.
“I figured piggyback was going to be a little awkward.”
“Good point.” Mouth returned with a bundle of bedding his arms. Hayley freed a sheet and wrapped it around Jason’s body while Mouth mopped the blood and water off the floor.
“I’ll take the roof,” Matteo said.
“And I’ll…” Hayley looked at Mouth.
“Hide in my room until this place quiets down?”
The thought didn’t seem to appeal to her much. More for the dorm room part then his company, Mouth decided.
“He’ll be okay?” Mouth asked as Matteo started to leave.
The large wolf looked back at him, his expression hard to read.
“Shit, the radio show.” Mouth shut the door behind them as chatter started to babble through the hallways outside.
“Uh, Bex can handle herself. Surely you know that?”
He thought for a moment. “True. Of course. Can you just let me panic for a little while longer?”
In a deadpan tone, “she’ll be lost without you. How will she ever cope? The world will end unless you’re there to sit on chair and push buttons. Feel better?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Gingerly, Hayley looked for a place to sit. After laying a paper bag on a chair, she sat down and looked at Mouth pacing back and forth.
“So…” she said. “Jason’s a werewolf, huh? Guess I called that one.”
II
Meanwhile downtown, Mills was running.
Clothes torn, skin cut and bleeding, he’d sprinted through streets, down alleys, all the while feeling his former mentor-turned-werewolf at his heels.
“Fucken city,” he swore, running into another dead end. This time he moved faster, his memory of the wolf’s claws all too painful. Swinging himself up onto a dumpster, he jumped for a fire escape and onto the roof of a shorter building.
Behind him, Somerset cleared the dumpster and made it to the rooftop quickly. Wolves covered more ground jumping than they did running. They covered that day one, he berated himself. Less moping, more learning, faster running.
At the end of the building he shot into the air, unsure where he would land.
The ground came up fast, his ankle buckling painfully beneath him. Scrabbling to his feet, Mills knew he was done for. His ankle couldn’t take any weight and he was on the street. No cover. Places to run but no ankle to carry him.
Looking up he saw the wolf on the roof. A horrific sight. Especially considering an hour ago the man had been at least eighty years old, reasonably frail in body, and ferocious only in mind. Now, the reverse was true.
Mills tried to move but his ankle gave out and he hit the ground. He was wounded. Easy prey. Surely, the wolf would move on. But he’d knew his optimism was futile.
Hardly a fatalist, Mills realized he was going to die on the cold sidewalk. Six months of rage, grief, and an impotent search for revenge and the supernatural was going to claim him as well. Just as it had taken his wife, family and friends, he too would succumb to unholy forces. Would there be anything left of his body in the cold street to identify him?
This very cold street.
As in really cold.
His breath had started to freeze before his face.
“You’re not going to die,” a woman said, walking out of the shadows.
A siren.
As the wolf leapt from the roof, she stood before Mills, the air frozen.
Purple light emanated from her hands as she caught the wolf, both of them tumbling across the hard street. She came out of the tussle better, landing in a low crouch. The wolf yelped, injured by her touch. Mills knew she could do a lot worse. In fact, he was surprised she hadn’t. Sirens on a full moon were deadlier to werewolves than silver.
“Finish him!”
“I don’t kill wolves,” she replied, her attention on Somerset. “Not anymore.”
Enraged, the wolf howled then turned and ran.
“People will die,” Mills said.
“That’s what people do,” she replied coldly, walking over to him. She extended her hand to him. “Let’s get you looked at, shall we?”
Mills accepted her hand, the skin cool but not unpleasant to his touch.
III
Beneath the borrowed coat Somerset was naked, skin still caked in blood.
He was also much younger than he had been…yesterday?
How? H-how did he know that? Fragments of memory clung to him with no weight or reality. All Somerset knew was he was hungry, cold, and naked.
“You must be quite disoriented,” the white man said as they rode the elevator upward.
“Yes sir,” he replied quietly, head low.
“Call me Henry.”
“Yes, Mister Henry.”
The man sighed heavily. He’d said something wrong. Words though were the least of his crimes, Somerset thought, remembering the alley. Henry had been crouching amid the carnage when he woke. Body parts, blood, and bone littered the dead end around his naked body. Recoiling from the man, he felt sure he was to be lynched this time. Killing white people would get him hanged.
“Easy,” the man said, holding a hand out, palm down. “You’re okay now.”
Somerset hadn’t spoken then. And he struggled to speak now. Wasn’t his place to speak.
He looked at his hand, flexing the fingers. Something was wrong. Something…missing. The hand was his, different though, and not just because it was younger. Or caked in blood and…brain. There was a scrap of white skin beneath his fingernails. Suddenly he remembered ripping open the man’s throat, the welcome splash of blood warm in the cold night.
Cold.
Something.
No. Someone. A woman. Beautiful. Evil.
Someone else. A man. Friend? Escaped.
His mind was in turmoil. On one hand – the one caked in blood and human tissue – he was a monster. A violent beast that had killed and fed on at least two people. This was new to him. But also old. From a time, long ago. Something he’d put away. Pushed down. Hidden.
On the other hand, free of savagery, he was something else. A gentleman. A scholar. A leader. A…father? Grandfather? Names and faces swam into his mind, vague recollections of feelings other than rage and hunger threatened to overwhelm him.
“Did I…”
“Kill those people?” Henry finished. “Yes, yes you did.”
“Good,” Somerset said, finding a morsel of something in his mouth and savoring the coppery flavor.
“And here we are,” Henry announced as the elevator slowed. The doors opened and Henry led him to an apartment. He stepped aside and ushered Somerset in. Not how this works, the younger black man thought, suspicious of the gesture and unsure of what was to come. Wondering if this was a sex thing, he entered the dark apartment. He didn’t swing that way but given how hot his blood was running, he’d consider it.
“Welcome to your new home,” Henry said, s
hutting the door and flicking the lights on.
“H-home? I have a home.”
“And where’s that?” the man asked, playing with him. Henry seemed to know the answer – in fact he probably knew more than Somerset did – but was making a game of it.
“Uh,” Somerset paused. “Fuck you, I’m not homeless.” The anger had exploded before he knew what’d he’d said. Shocked, he waited for the hit. But it never came. When Henry did move, Somerset jerked back.
“You haven’t seen yourself yet, have you?” Henry asked, taking the coat and pulling it off the young man. “Go ahead, take a look.”
Ahead of him, the whole wall was a mirror. Somerset shrugged off the coat and stepped forward nervously. In the mirror was a young, muscled black man in his early twenties. He was powerful, strong. Thick corded muscles swollen beneath ebony skin. The nervousness disappeared and he stood strong, preening this way and that as he took in the potent physique.
“The body of a hunter.”
“The body of a panther,” Somerset corrected, hands running over his body. “But this isn’t right, is it? I should be…older?”
“Not at all,” Henry said. “This is the real you. Oppressed, enslaved, denied for too long. This is who you were meant to be.”
“Hell yeah,” he breathed, entranced by his own vitality. “And you want a piece of this?”
“No,” Henry said with a slight chuckle. “But I know someone who might.”
Knocking on a door, Henry smiled at the younger man. “I only want to see you fulfill the potential that has wasted away for so long.”
“You want me to kill again?”
“You have a problem with that?”
“Do I get to feed?”
“Of course.”
“Then no, I got no problem with that.”
“What?!” a young blonde woman demanded, opening the door. While the t-shirt read ‘Daddy’s Little Princess’, the way it clung to her breasts and hips suggested something else.
“We have company,” Henry said.
“Yes, we do,” she replied, her eyes lighting up as she took in the sight of young Somerset. She smiled when she saw his cock harden.
