The Wereling 1: Wounded

by Stephen Cole

  Suddenly loud footsteps rang out in the passageway: Rodman. She felt Jed’s warm hands, firm on her shoulders. He nodded, and gently pushed her outside.

  She paused in the darkness. She wanted to go back inside, just for a few seconds.

  ‘You hit me,’ she heard Rodman hiss. ‘And you let her go. What’s up, the girl bewitch you or something?’

  ‘Maybe once,’ Jed answered. ‘But that was years past. C’mon, let’s go check on your friends.’

  Kate released the breath she’d been holding as Jed led his brother away, and she crossed to the pick-up he’d left for her.

  She got inside and closed the door. Turned the key already in the ignition.

  She drove jerkily away, down the track and out on to the main road for a quarter of a mile. Then she parked at the mouth of the footpath she’d mentioned to Tom, switched off the headlights, and waited.

  The landscape was dark beneath the sky’s starry static. She checked the luminous face of her watch. It would be a few minutes yet before Tom got here. She was alone. Free to do as she wished. She should cherish this time.

  Hugging herself, Kate rested her forehead on the cold plastic of the steering wheel and sobbed.

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  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Kate and Tom passed most of the four-hundred-mile journey in silence, both lost in their thoughts. But it was a comfortable silence. They drove through the night to reach Salt Lake City as soon as possible.

  ‘We can pick up the Amtrak there, and also the library has free Internet access,’ Kate explained. ‘We went on a field trip to Salt Lake when I was twelve. Had to look up our family trees.’

  ‘Oh yeah, the Mormon Family History Library, right?’ Tom replied. ‘I read about that. The place to go if you’re into that kind of stuff.’ He frowned. ‘But your kind of family isn’t logged there, surely?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Under W for Werewolf,’ Kate deadpanned. ‘Stupid. Birth registrars don’t screen for freaks of nature. There’s nothing to mark out my family name as any different from yours. And I traced my family back to sixteen-oh-something.’

  Tom nodded. ‘Purebloods, of course. Nice clear family line.’

  ‘We were known as Phelans back then. My ancestors came over from Europe.’

  ‘I kinda wish they’d stayed there,’ said Tom. ‘Remind me why we want free Internet access again?’

  Kate glanced at him. ‘So I can e-mail my contacts and get them busy. See if we can find a warm trail for our medicine man Jicaque when we hit New Orleans.’

  ‘I guess he’s not likely to be in the phone book,’ sighed Tom.

  ‘It’s rumoured he’s retired,’ Kate confessed. ‘He was pissing off too many ’wolves, so they gave him an ultimatum: stop, and you can live.’

  ‘Terrific.’ Tom scowled. ‘So even if we find him, he’s not going to risk his life for my sake, is he?’

  ‘I told you, werelings are rare. You’ll arouse his professional interest.’ She shot him a glance. ‘Besides, who could resist you, huh?’

  ‘Funny,’ Tom snorted, and turned away to hide his flushing cheeks. He didn’t speak for the rest of the journey, staring out of the window as the Wasatch Front grew larger, and turning Kate’s compliment over and over in his mind.

  Kate sent a myriad of e-mails from the library while Tom bought Amtrak tickets.

  ‘We can’t get there sooner than Thursday,’ Tom told Kate once they’d met back up outside the Mormon Tabernacle. ‘The next train to Chicago doesn’t leave till four in the morning, so we won’t get there till late Wednesday afternoon. Then the connecting train to New Orleans leaves at eight p.m., getting us in about four in the afternoon the next day.’

  ‘Did you swallow that schedule?’ Kate chewed her lip. ‘Jeez, this is going to be a long day. Still, hopefully by then we’ll have some leads to follow up when we arrive.’

  ‘How do you know we can trust any of these contacts of yours?’ Tom asked worriedly.

  ‘They’ve been my friends for three years,’ said Kate.

  ‘But you never met them!’

  ‘Mom and Dad can’t know about them. I wiped my Net cache each time I logged off, I have about a squillion e-mail addresses—’

  ‘OK, OK!’ Tom sighed. ‘Guess I’m just paranoid.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why,’ Kate smiled.

  They passed the time drifting in and out of coffee bars, and when everything closed up they laid low in a mission hall, living it up on free pea soup.

  The train pulled away bang on time at four a.m. They had a sleeper compartment, small but clean.

  Tom tried out the bottom bunk. ‘Me and my brother had bunk beds when we were kids and shared a room,’ he said. ‘Joe always whined till I let him take the top.’

  ‘So you’ll let me have it without a fight. Excellent.’ Kate swung her lithe body up on to the top bunk with little difficulty. She bounced around a bit.

  Tom lay back and pushed his feet against the underside of her bed, rocking it. Kate yelped and hung her head over the edge to frown at him.

  They held each other’s gaze for a few seconds. Long enough for it to maybe mean something.

  Then Kate bobbed back out of sight. ‘I can’t imagine what it’s like,’ she said quietly, ‘having a brother you love. A brother who doesn’t want you dead.’

  ‘We threatened to kill each other enough times, believe me,’ Tom replied. ‘All this is probably some kind of punishment for taking my whole family so much for granted.’

  ‘Probably,’ Kate agreed, ‘you gloomy bastard.’ She paused, suddenly serious again. ‘My punishment’s still waiting for me.’

  ‘You don’t think being on the road with me is punishment enough?’ Tom ventured.

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Kate swiftly. ‘But I doubt if my dear mother will see it that way.’

  The train raced on along the tracks, keeping pace with Tom’s heartbeat at the thought of Kate stretched out above. His bunk was narrow, but he wished Kate was sharing it with him.

  With a sudden chill, he imagined Marcie Folan would just love that.

  He had never spent this much time alone with a girl in his life. And maybe he was feeling the way he did because he was scared, lonely and vulnerable – and admittedly, because he was a sixteen-year-old virgin and lusting after good-looking girls came with the territory – but that didn’t make the situation any less real. Maybe chasing him and Kate cross-country, driving them together, making them more and more dependent on each other was part of Marcie’s plans. Because if by some miracle there ever could be something between him and Kate, that would be it: the Folans, the ’wolves, would win.

  Unless they could find Jicaque. Unless Jicaque could heal him and drive out the ’wolf. Kate had told him that if she slept with someone human it would make her less susceptible to …

  He reined in his thoughts. Was that how he’d put it to her? ‘Let’s do it – it’d boost your immunity and give me a hell of a rush, whad’ya say?’

  He had to smile despite himself. Above him he could hear Kate pulling off her sweater and wriggling out of her jeans, oblivious to all his muddled thoughts.

  Or maybe lost in a few of her own?

  She yawned noisily. ‘Never mind werewolves. All this sleeping all day and staying awake all night – we’re becoming vampires.’

  ‘Not me,’ Tom whispered. ‘Once bitten, twice shy.’

  In the cramped little cabin, listening to Kate’s rhythmic breathing, Tom felt safer than he had for days. Sleep came easily.

  But then the old nightmare of the dark beast with yellow eyes that ran like the wind returned. Tom’s only comfort upon jolting awake, slimy with sweat, was that the beast had been chasing after him and Kate together, and that they hadn’t stopped running.

  The journey passed slowly.

  They changed at Chicago, and Tom had wished he could change his clothes too. His split jeans weren’t exactly ideal gear for keeping out the cold September rain as they kille
d five hours in the windy city. Their sleeper compartment on the new train was identical to the last one, but this time Kate took the lower bunk.

  Tom tried reading Kate’s dusty werewolf book to pass the time, but it was all too depressing. Instead he flicked through the guide to New Orleans they’d picked up from a Barnes & Noble in Chicago, trying to file away some local knowledge for when they arrived. But his concentration was severely affected by Kate’s bra, sticking out from a pile of her discarded clothes. It wasn’t lacy or anything, just plain and chewing gum-grey. But the damned thing seemed to be magnetising his eyes.

  He checked the watch Kate had given him for about the zillionth time, and realised with relief that within the hour they would reach their destination.

  They were going to make it.

  ‘Fifty minutes!’ Tom called.

  Kate gave an ironic whoop of joy and began dressing again on the bunk. Tom caught a sweet trace of her scent, and breathed in discreetly to taste a little more.

  ‘Are you trying to smell me, you perv?’ she demanded.

  Ouch. ‘I bet they can smell you in the next compartment,’ he covered languidly. ‘You stink. Go take a shower.’

  ‘That’s a plan.’

  Tom bade a mental farewell to her bra as it was grabbed from the pile, and waved a real one to the fully-dressed Kate shortly after, as she vanished off to the bathroom in the next carriage to freshen up.

  When she didn’t return within fifteen minutes, he was puzzled.

  By the time twenty minutes had gone by, he was getting worried.

  Tom was about to go looking for her when someone tapped loudly on the door. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked, uneasily.

  ‘It’s the porter, sir,’ said a Midwestern-sounding voice. ‘I have a message from your friend.’

  Tom threw open the door. A freckle-faced man in his twenties, his long blond hair stuffed up in a peaked cap, nodded in greeting.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Your girlfriend has been taken ill, sir.’ The porter looked grave. ‘She’s in the restaurant car, along there.’

  ‘She’s not my—’ Tom broke off and frowned. ‘But she went to use the bathroom. What’s wrong with her?’

  The porter shook his head worriedly. ‘I wish we knew, sir.’

  They hurried along the passageway. Tom noticed a red nick on the porter’s cheek where he’d cut himself shaving. The blood didn’t look long dried. Maybe he’d just come on shift, in a hurry. Which could also explain why his shirt wasn’t tucked properly into his trousers. But how come the trousers were a good inch too short for him?

  With a sinking feeling, Tom knew this had to be a trap.

  They reached the restaurant car. The door was closed, a curtain over the window.

  The porter was now blocking his way back, a patina of sweat on his face. ‘Quick, sir. She’s been calling for you.’

  Tom hesitated. What choice did he have? He had to know what had happened to Kate.

  He pushed the door open.

  To his relief, the car was half-filled with ordinary diners, Mr and Mrs Average chatting and laughing as they shovelled down steaks and fries. And he could almost feel Kate, somewhere close by.

  ‘Look at the back of the car, sir,’ whispered the porter discreetly.

  Tom could see someone under a blanket on the couch at the far table – that must be her. He made his way there, still uneasy, glad that the porter wasn’t following.

  The figure on the couch was completely covered by the blanket. But it wasn’t Kate. He could tell that from here. It was too short, lacked any real form. It was obviously just a couple of pillows or something.

  He dropped to one knee, pretending to tie his shoelace to buy some time. Beside him were two businesswomen, sitting together in smart suits.

  ‘That porter’s a fake,’ he whispered to them. ‘I think he might’ve hurt my friend. Please, if I play him along, can you get some help?’

  The women stopped eating. They looked first at him, then dubiously at each other.

  ‘I think he stole his uniform, look at it!’ Tom hissed. ‘If I’m wrong, then it won’t matter, but … please, get someone.’

  ‘I’ll go, Mary,’ said the older of the two, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t be long,’ hissed her friend with a nervous look at Tom.

  The older woman got up and left the carriage. Mary looked embarrassed and returned to her meal.

  Tom rose to his feet with a sigh of relief. He looked again at the lumpy body bundled on the seats. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ he called to the porter.

  ‘Goodness, no, sir,’ the porter replied innocently.

  Tom yanked back the blankets. ‘Oh, come on, it’s obviously just a … ’ His voice died away in a dry retch.

  It wasn’t a pile of pillows. The body under the blankets was real enough.

  It was just in pieces.

  Tom saw a staff photocard on a bloodied chain. This must be the real porter. He threw the blankets back over the bloodied mess, his other hand clamped over his mouth.

  ‘Anything wrong, sir?’ the fake porter called. ‘I’m here to help.’

  ‘You killed this man,’ Tom accused.

  ‘Killed him?’ Mary jumped up from her table in terror, backed away from the porter and clutched hold of Tom for support.

  The fake porter looked at Tom, his eyes wide. ‘I most certainly did not, sir,’ he said. Then he smiled, and pointed at Mary. ‘But she did.’

  Mary’s horrified expression changed into a smirk as she sank her long fingernails into the flesh of Tom’s arm. ‘He’s right,’ she said softly. A gleam of yellow spun through her eyes.

  ‘Help me!’ Tom shouted at the other diners, his arm burning with pain. They looked uncertainly at each other, as if all this might be some big joke.

  Tom tore his arm free of Mary’s grip and ran for the door. But Mary’s friend stepped through it and blocked his way.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said with a bashful grin. ‘The staff seem to be … indisposed.’ She held a knife in her hand. Both blade and handle were sticky with blood.

  Tom backed up against Mary. She looked at him and licked her lips.

  The fake porter took a step towards him. ‘See … if I deliver you and the girl to Papa Takapa, I’ll have proved myself worthy.’

  Tom stared at him. ‘Papa who?’

  ‘Papa Takapa,’ the man repeated, his voice reverent. ‘If I please him, he will turn me himself.’

  ‘And you actually want that?’ Tom asked him shakily.

  The older businesswoman nodded. ‘Why shouldn’t we? He’s promised me too,’ she said proudly. ‘As humans we serve him devotedly, and our labours will not be wasted. We will share in his power. His bite will place us above the rank and file. It is his blessing.’

  ‘No. No, it’s not!’ Tom stared wildly round at the other passengers. There were eight or nine of them, just staring. ‘Please, won’t any of you help me?’

  ‘Depends what kind of help you want, sweet lips,’ murmured Mary.

  The diners began to twitch and shake. Tom stared round in horror as the air was suddenly filled with the cracking of bones, hoarse whimpers, low, threatening growls and hisses of pleasure.

  They were ’wolves. All of them.

  The porter moved towards him, entranced as all around sickly yellow eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, clothes ripped open and tore free. Skin stretched like rubber over protruding jaws and lengthening, strengthening limbs, then sprouted thick hair all over.

  ‘I don’t think that meal was quite to my friends’ liking,’ whispered Mary, as her features began to shift and blur too. ‘They’re still hungry.’

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  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Tom’s mind raced through possible courses of action. He could try to bring on his own change, pit ’wolf against ’wolf. But what chance would he stand against an entire pack of lupines?

  Before him, Mary opened her j
aws and laughed, perhaps hoping to scare him with the horror of her transformation.

  But Tom was getting used to horror. He pushed her aside as he turned back to the advancing porter. ‘You really want to join the ranks of these freaks? Here!’ He kicked the man in the groin, as hard as he could.

  With a groan of agony the porter fell back into the laps of two ’wolves mid-change. On instinct, ignoring his protesting shrieks, they bit and snapped at him.

  ‘Don’t forget to write,’ Tom muttered.

  He turned back to the door. The older woman, still blocking his way, slashed at his face with the knife. He dodged aside, and she sliced into her friend’s arm instead.

  The creature – what was left of Mary’s human form, doubly macabre in the tattered remains of the business suit – howled in pain as blood spurted out of the wound. On reflex she lashed out at her friend’s face with her huge, club-like paw. The woman collapsed on to a table, wiping frantically at her eyes, spitting the blood from her mouth, unable to see Mary’s wide jaws closing on her whole head.

  Tom turned away, lunged for the door. The sound of flesh tearing made a part of him sick and another part salivate. He wanted to join them, to feed on warm flesh. And he hated himself for it.

  But it wasn’t just him. The smell of so much blood in the small restaurant car was driving the transforming werewolves into a frenzy. One of them stabbed at Mary’s chest with raking claws, another at her leg, then another, until she keeled over.

  The fake porter’s long blond hair had come free of his cap and now spilled over his face, hiding his wounds from view. ‘It’s him you want!’ he gasped, trampled beneath the heavy beasts as they milled about in the confined space. ‘The boy! Get the boy!’

  Tom hit the ‘open’ button on the door. It swished lazily aside. He shot through and prayed it would close again swiftly. But it didn’t matter – the ’wolves were still in disarray, snapping and snarling. Feasting. Tom imagined that Papa Takapa wanted him alive – but he knew how powerful the urge for blood could be. If the ’wolves fell upon him with that lust unsatisfied he might end up being delivered in pieces.