“Yes. She said a new strain of the disease had developed and spread. We couldn’t tell which were infected. If left to mutate and evolve, the strain might be passed to ordinary humans. She wanted to remove them to a secure area of her choosing, where they’d be safely disposed of.
“Nobody believed her.” Antoine’s face is grave. “There were too many holes in her story, no facts to support her theory. She argued fiercely, threatened to resign, called in every favour. But we weren’t convinced. We insisted on more time to conduct our own experiments. Prae was allowed to continue in her post, but I was assigned to monitor her and approve her decisions.
“Just over six weeks ago, Prae Athim disappeared. She left work on a Thursday and nobody has seen her since. That night, operatives acting on her behalf subdued regular staff, tranquilised the specimens, removed them from their cells and made off with them. We’ve no idea where they went. We’ve devoted all of our resources to tracking them down but so far… nothing.”
Antoine smiles shakily. “I hoped she’d followed through on her plan to destroy the specimens. That would have been a tragic loss, but at least it would have meant we didn’t have to worry about them. Now it seems my fears—that she had an ulterior motive—have been borne out. If some of them were sent to attack Dervish Grady, we’re dealing with a far greater problem. We have to find the missing specimens as swiftly as possible. The consequences if we don’t are staggering.”
“I’m not that worried about the werewolves,” Shark sniffs. “They’re secondary to finding Prae Athim. I mean, how many are we talking about? A few dozen?”
Antoine laughs sharply. “You don’t understand. I told you earlier—Prae Athim has worked in this unit for twenty-six years. But this is just one unit of many. We have bases on every continent and have been running similar programmes in each. Prae didn’t just take the specimens from this complex. She took them from everywhere. There’s not one left.”
Shark’s expression darkens. “How many?” he croaks.
“I don’t have an exact number to hand,” Antoine says. “Some of the projects were under Prae’s personal supervision, and records have been deleted from our system. It’s impossible to be accurate.”
“Roughly,” Shark growls.
Antoine gulps, then says quietly, so that we have to strain to hear, “Somewhere between six and seven hundred, give or take a few.” And his smile, this time, is a pale ghost of a grin.
TIMAS ON THE JOB
Six or seven hundred werewolves on the loose, in the hands of a maniac most likely in league with Lord Loss. Nice! Demons rarely have time to kill many people because they can only stay on this world for a few minutes, while the window they crossed through remains open. But hundreds of werewolves, divided into groups of ten or twelve, set free in dozens of cities around the globe…
If each only killed five people, I make that three and a half thousand fatalities. But it’s more likely they’d kill ten times that number, maybe more.
We’re in Antoine’s office on the eleventh floor. It used to be Prae Athim’s. It’s a large room, but with twelve of us it’s a tight fit. Nobody’s said anything since we came in. We’ve been looking through photos of the specimens which Antoine gave us, studying the data that he has on file.
I know from my own brush with lycanthropy that werewolves are strong and fast. I felt like an Olympic athlete when it was my time of turning. But I’m still seriously freaked by what I’m reading. I never knew they were this advanced.
I shouldn’t let it matter. The Shadow must remain the priority. If it succeeds in uniting the demon masses and breaking through, the world will fall. The damage a pack of escaped werewolves might cause is nothing in comparison.
But how can I ignore the possibility of tens of thousands of deaths? Beranabus could. He’s half-demon and has spent hundreds of years subduing his human impulses. We’re statistics to him. He’d take the line that a few thousand lives don’t make much difference in the grand scheme of things, that we have to focus on the millions and billions—real numbers.
I can’t do that. Even if we find out that the attack in Carcery Vale has nothing to do with the demon assault at the hospital, that Prae Athim isn’t working with Lord Loss, I have to try and stop her. I won’t let thousands of people die if I can prevent it. Especially not when the killers are relatives of mine.
Perhaps crazily, I still think of the werewolves as kin, even those bred in cages. They’re part of the Grady clan. That makes it personal.
“We have to find them,” I blurt out, without meaning to. All heads in the office bob up and everybody stares at me. I’m sitting by one of the large windows, the city spread out behind me. Any of the people on the streets, eleven floors down, could fall victim to the werewolves if Prae Athim unleashes them.
“We have to stop this.” I get to my feet, discarding the photos I’d been mutely studying.
“Maybe there’s nothing to stop,” Meera says unconvincingly. “Maybe Prae was telling the truth about a new disease and took them to dispose of safely. Perhaps the few who were sent to attack Dervish were simply being used to settle an old score, and were then executed along with the rest.”
“Bull!” Shark snorts. “If she’d wanted to kill them, she’d have slaughtered them in their cages. It would have been a lot simpler than smuggling them out.”
“Probably,” Meera sighs. “I was just saying maybe…”
“What will she do with them?” Marian asks.
“I guess she’ll drop them off in a city somewhere,” Shark replies. “Let them run wild. Maybe collect them at the end and take them on somewhere else.”
“But why?” Marian frowns. “Why not build bombs, poison a city’s water supply or develop chemical weapons? Hijacking hundreds of werewolves to use as crazed assassins… it’s like something out of a Batman comic!”
“Crazy people don’t think the way we do,” Meera says glumly. “They have all sorts of warped ideas and plans, and if they gain enough power, they get to inflict their mad schemes on others.”
“Like Davida Haym in Slawter,” I note.
“There’s another possibility,” Terry says. “She might have done this for humane reasons. Maybe she suffered a moral crisis. Decided they’d been mistreating these creatures. Took them somewhere isolated, to set them free.”
“Unlikely,” Antoine says with a cynical smile. “Her people killed seventeen of our staff during the breakouts. Many more were seriously injured. Hardly the work of a good Samaritan.”
“I’ve seen fanatics who think animals are nobler than humans,” Terry says. “They’d happily kill a human to save a dog or cat from abuse.”
“Prae Athim isn’t an animal rights activist,” Antoine says firmly. “I refuse to entertain the notion that she did this to free the specimens, that she stood waving them off as they returned to the wilds, happy tears in her eyes.”
“He’s right,” Shark says. “We have to assume this was done with the intent of creating maximum havoc.”
“So let’s track her down and stop her,” I snarl. “We can’t just sit here and talk about it. We have to… to…” I throw my hands up, frustrated.
“We all know how you feel,” Meera says sympathetically. “But until she makes a move, there’s nothing we can do. The world’s a big place. You could hide seven hundred werewolves just about anywhere. We can’t—”
“I could find them,” Timas interrupts. “If I had access to your mainframe,” he adds, smiling at Antoine.
“I told you—the records have been wiped,” Antoine scowls.
“It’s virtually impossible to wipe a mainframe completely clean,” Timas says. “That’s one of the reasons I was surprised you still used one. I can perform at the very least a partial restore.”
“We’ve had experts working on it for the last six weeks,” Antoine says sharply.
“I’m sure you’ve employed some of the best people in the business,” Timas says earnestly. “But I’m the ver
y best.”
“Even assuming you could restore it,” Shark rumbles, “how would that help us? She’s unlikely to have outlined her secret plans on a work computer.”
“You can’t move that many bodies around without leaving a trail,” Timas says. “If I find out more about the creatures, I can use that information to fish for clues on the web.”
“What do you mean?” Shark asks.
“They didn’t take the cages,” Timas notes. “That means they transported them in cages of their own. Once I know what the cages are made from, I can search for companies who specialise in this type of construction and find out if they’ve filled any large orders recently. If they have, I’ll learn where they delivered the cages to.
“If I can determine how the werewolves were tranquilised, I can track the drugs back to where they were manufactured, then trace them through delivery records.
“How did they transport the creatures—aeroplanes, articulated trucks, trains, boats? I’m assuming they moved at least some of them across international borders. There will be a trail of red tape, no matter how surreptitiously they went about it. I’ve followed such trails before and enjoyed a large measure of success.
“Do you want me to continue explaining or shall I get started?” Timas addresses this question to Antoine Horwitzer.
Antoine’s torn. “Is he really that good?” he asks Shark.
“Yes.”
“If he can do what he says… he will have access to confidential information. He’ll have to sign a privacy clause. We need absolute affirmation that he’d never reveal—”
“You present the forms, he’ll sign them,” Shark cuts in.
Antoine struggles with the idea for a couple of seconds, then sighs. “Very well. I’ll log you in and provide you with the relevant security codes.”
“No need,” Timas says, sliding on to Antoine’s plush leather chair. “I can crack them. The exercise will serve as a useful warm-up.”
“How long will it take?” Shark asks as Timas’ fingers dance across the keyboard.
“A few days, I imagine,” Timas replies absently. “Quicker if we get a lucky break. Longer if she’s hidden her trail artfully. I’ll need complete privacy. And my equipment from the helicopter.”
“I’ll have it sent down,” Shark says and ushers us out.
“Perhaps I should stay and keep an eye on him,” Antoine says nervously.
“No chance,” Shark responds firmly and pushes out the suave chief executive, ignoring his spluttering protests.
Some of the rooms on the uppermost floor have beds, or couches which pull out into sleeping cots. Members of the higher echelon move around a lot between buildings owned by the Lambs. Given the secretive nature of their business, they often prefer to stay onsite rather than check into hotels.
I’m sharing a room with Spenser and James. They don’t speak to me much. They know I’m part of Beranabus’s world of magic and demons, but they’ve had little first-hand experience of that. They find it hard to think of me as anything other than an especially large but otherwise unremarkable teenager. I’m not too bothered. I find most of their conversation pretty boring—weapons, planes, helicopters, war, battle tactics. I’m happy to be excluded.
I spend my spare time experimenting, testing my powers. I don’t know how much I’m capable of doing on this world, in the absence of magical energy. I want to find out what my limits are, so as not to exceed them and leave myself exposed.
I’m pretty good at moving objects. Size doesn’t seem to matter—I can slide a heavy oak wardrobe across the floor as easily as a telephone. I spend a couple of hours moving things around. I’m pretty beat by the end, and not back to full fitness until the next morning. It’s reassuring that I can recharge, but worrying that it takes so long once I’ve been drained.
Other manoeuvres are more demanding. I can heighten my senses—to eavesdrop on a conversation, or view a scene from a few kilometres away—but that takes a lot of effort and quickly eats into my resources. I can’t change shape, but I can make myself partially invisible for a very short time. I can create fire and freeze objects, but again those demand a lot of me. I can shoot off several bolts of magical energy, but I’m good for nothing for hours afterwards.
There are all sorts of compensating spells which I could make use of if I knew them. But I refused to dabble in magic when I lived with Dervish and I didn’t need spells in the Demonata universe—if a spell was required there, Beranabus took care of it. He wasn’t interested in training Kernel or me, just in using us to bully and kill demons.
I wish I’d demanded more of Beranabus and Dervish. Mages can do a lot with a few subtle spells. As a magician I could do even more. I get Meera to teach me some simple incantations, but we don’t have time to cover much ground.
I worry about my uncle constantly. What’s he doing? Where is he? Time moves differently in the other universe, usually faster or slower than here. Years might have passed for him, or only minutes. Is he alive or dead? I’ve no way of knowing. Beranabus taught me how to open windows, so I could go and find them. But I couldn’t guarantee how long that would take.
I have to remain here until our mission’s over. I’m the reason the others are involved, the one who vowed to track down Prae Athim and uncover the truth. I can’t cut out early. That would be the selfish act of a child, which I’m not. I’m a Disciple. We see things through to the end. No matter how scared and alone we feel.
Four days pass. Everyone’s impatient for news, but Timas refuses to provide us with partial updates. On the few occasions that Shark barges into Antoine’s office and demands answers, the reply is always the same. “I’ll summon you promptly when I’ve concluded my investigations.”
Timas finally reaches that conclusion shortly before dawn of the fifth day. Shark hammers on our door, waking us all, then sticks his head in and shouts, “The office! Now!”
Five minutes later we’re all huddled around Timas and his computers. We’re bleary-eyed, hair all over the place, typical early morning messes. Except Timas. As far as I know, he’s worked almost non-stop since I last saw him, sleeping only two or three hours a night. But he looks as perky as an actor in a TV advert.
“I’ve found them,” he says without any preliminaries. “They’re on an island. It has no official name, but the Lambs nicknamed it Wolf Island. Prae Athim purchased it through a fifth-generation contact several years ago.”
“What’s a fifth-generation contact?” I ask.
“A contact of a contact of a contact of a contact of a contact,” Timas intones. “She conducts most of her business that way, making it almost impossible to trace anything back to her personally. Almost,” he repeats with a justifiably smug smile.
“Where’s the island?” Shark grunts.
Timas passes him a stapled printout of about twenty pages, then hands copies around to the rest of us. The small sheaf is crammed with all sorts of info about the island, its history, dimensions, wildlife, plant life, natural formations. There are several maps, most of the island, but also of the surrounding waters, noting currents, depth, temperatures, sea life.
“They’ve built a base,” Timas points out. “Page nine. They constructed it on the island’s largest crag, so they need only face an assault from one direction if the werewolves get out of control. That extra measure wasn’t a necessity—the fortifications are sound, with more than six separate security systems in place, powered by a variety of independent generators. The werewolves might have the run of the island, but the people inside the compound are quite—”
“The beasts are running free?” Shark interrupts.
“Yes. That’s on page four. They were set loose once delivered to the island, though they can be recaptured, singly or in small groups, using a variety of equipment provided for such a purpose.”
“Maybe Terry was right,” Meera says dubiously. “Perhaps Prae took them there to let them live naturally.”
“I think not,” Timas pu
rrs, “and would refer you to page fourteen, appendix Bii, in support of my opinion.”
Antoine and a few of the others flick forward. Shark tosses his copy of the report aside and snaps, “Don’t play games. Just tell us.”
“No games,” Timas says mildly. “The appendix outlines everything concisely. But if you would prefer an oral report…”
“I would,” Shark snarls.
“No!”Antoine gasps, turning a shade paler beneath his tan. He must be a speed-reader because he’s already flicking from page fourteen to fifteen, eyes scanning the lines super-fast. “This can’t be right. I would have known.”
“The figures are accurate,” Timas says. “Nothing is speculative.” He faces Shark. “A third have been genetically, surgically and electronically modified by Prae Athim and her team. She found a way to corrupt their metabolisms. This allowed her to do two things. First, using steroids, implants and a variety of drugs, she created faster, stronger animals. Second, by operating on their brains and using other implants, she was able to train them.”
“They can’t survive at those levels,” Antoine says, glancing up from his report. “Their bodies can’t hold, not subjected to such degrees of abuse.”
“Their long-term prospects are grim,” Timas agrees. “But they can last a few years, or so the scientists believe.”
“What have they been trained to do?” Shark asks.
“Nothing too complex,” Timas says. “They can hunt in small groups, in pursuit of predefined targets—like hounds, they can be given a person’s scent. They’re not as reliable as hounds. In a crowded environment they might be distracted and chase others instead. And they’ll turn on their handlers afterwards unless subdued. But that’s a huge step forward.”
“I’d no idea she’d advanced to such a stage,” Antoine whispers. “We’ve been trying to install control mechanisms for decades. We could have done so much good if we’d known about this. We still could.”
“The Lambs are finished,” Shark says, “at least as far as werewolves are concerned. Do you really think people will trust you with their young once word of this gets out? And it will—have no doubt about that.”
[Demonata 08] - Wolf Island Page 6
