High Moor 2: Moonstruck

by Graeme Reynolds

  “No. When you find them, you keep them under observation until I arrive.”

  “You are coming here? Michael, are you sure that…”

  “I don’t believe that I asked for your opinion, Gregorz. Now, what about Troy and Gabriela’s bodies? Did Oskar at least manage to do what he was supposed to?”

  “Yes, he simply walked into the hospital and amended the paperwork to show the bodies as being for disposal. They were incinerated first thing this morning.”

  “Good. At least something went right. Report back to me when you find where my sister is hiding out. I’ll be there with another team in a few days.”

  Michael didn’t wait for Gregorz to respond and terminated the call. He leaned back in the leather office chair and massaged his temples. “Marie, you stupid fucking cow. What have you done?”

  He had no idea how to put this right. Marie had gone too far, and there was nothing he could do to save her. The law was clear. The penalty for harbouring a moonstruck is death. There really wasn’t any choice. Even if he ordered her spared, the Council would remove him as alpha, condemn him to the same fate and then send the death squads after Marie anyway. He groaned. He’d forgotten about the Council. He’d promised a report once he heard from the teams in England. He reached over to the phone and dialled Steffan’s number.

  “Michael, have you news?”

  “Yes, bring the car around to the front. It’s time for me to talk to the Council.”

  ***

  The ZiL limousine wove its way through the slow moving traffic, out of the city. The roads in Moscow were hell at the best of times, but the near−blizzard conditions that had set in a few days before made the going even slower than usual. The limo’s wipers struggled to clear the windscreen, and a pile of dirty ice had begun to accumulate at the bottom of the windscreen. Michael didn’t know whether to be grateful for the delay, or to curse it for dragging out the unpleasant task before him.

  The Council had been formed hundreds of years ago, after an insane alpha wolf declared war on humanity and slaughtered entire villages before the rest of the pack decided enough was enough. They were elected from pack members and advised the alpha on crucial matters. They also held the power to remove an alpha from his position, should the need arise. In Michael’s opinion, they were nothing more than a bunch of squabbling old fools, but at the same time, he would have to watch his tongue and proceed carefully. More than one of them had objected to his appointment, believing that only the moonborn, children born to werewolf parents, should be eligible for alpha. They had nothing but disdain for turned werewolves like himself. Every single one of them was a scheming, devious bastard with their own agendas. Every one of them was also a pitiless killer. Fools they may be, but they were, nevertheless, very dangerous fools.

  He looked out of the window, while Steffan drove in silence. The towering concrete blocks of flats were barely visible through the blizzard, but he felt their presence looming through the white blanket. Hundreds of people, crammed into tiny, damp apartments with little in the way of heat or sound insulation. They reminded him of the old prefabricated estate in High Moor, where he’d sometimes played as a child. The stairwells and elevators had stunk of stale urine, and once he’d spent two hours trapped in a lift with David and John before the fire brigade rescued them.

  He shook his head to force the memory from his mind. David was long dead, and John soon would be. There was nothing he could do about that. He had to focus on somehow saving his sister, without condemning himself in the process.

  The ZiL turned into an industrial estate in the southern part of the city. Most of the units appeared to be empty, with only the occasional warm glow of artificial light from office windows breaking up the bleak landscape. The limo passed the isolated signs of life and proceeded deeper into the industrial park until it arrived at an empty factory unit. Steffan pulled up outside, getting out of the car to pull open the chain−link gate so he could drive the big vehicle inside. In the car he turned to face Michael and put a hand on his shoulder. Michael nodded and patted his friend’s hand before opening the door and stepping out into the driving snow.

  The frigid air made him gasp, so he brought his wolf up to the surface, relishing the warm glow as his body temperature began to rise. The strong wind made it difficult to pick out individual scents, but as far as he could tell, there were only five people in the building. Even with the Council members away on field duty, like Oskar, there should have been more than five of them present. Unless the Council members within wanted to keep the details of what was about to happen hidden from their peers. The thought didn’t do much to settle his nerves. He strode to a rusted, metal door, pulled it open and stepped inside.

  The office had long since been emptied. Sections of carpet tile had been removed, along with virtually everything else. Even the wooden interior doors had been stolen. Such was life in Moscow these days. He left the office and proceeded down the corridor, enjoying the click of his shoes on the concrete. The others would hear him coming long before he reached the boardroom. It would show them that he was not intimidated by their summons. And if things were to go bad, then he always had the Beretta in his pocket to back him up.

  By some miracle, the heavy wooden doors of the boardroom still stood, although the scratches on the walls around the hinges showed that someone had tried to remove them at some point. Without pausing, Michael pushed open the right hand door and entered the room beyond.

  The once−grand room had been stripped bare. The wooden panelling on the walls had been torn off, leaving only cracked plaster behind. The carpet was thin and threadbare, not even worth stealing apart from the long dark rectangle that showed where the boardroom table had once been. Five men stood in the far corner in conversation. They attempted to look surprised at Michael’s entrance and stepped forward to meet him. It was as bad as Michael had feared. The Council members here today were all moonborn.

  Krysztof Balazs, a hulking Armenian with grey flecks in his once jet−black hair extended his hand. “Alpha, it is good to see you. What news of the operation in England.”

  Michael took Krysztof’s hand and suppressed a wince as the huge man tightened his grip. He looked into Krysztof’s eyes and smiled. “The news is mixed. We are not in as precarious a position as last night. The moonstruck is no longer in police custody, but he escaped from Oskar’s team, and Troy and Gabriela were killed. He’s on the move, but Gregorz is tracking him. Once he gets to wherever he’s going , we’ll set up surveillance on him and then strike when the time is right. He won’t get away again.”

  Lukas Kassik, one of the oldest members of the pack, and one of the most influential, stepped forward. The old man tilted his head and fixed Michael with his piercing green eyes. “And what of your sister’s involvement in Simpson’s escape?”

  Michael’s heart sank. Of course they would know about Marie. Oskar would have made sure of it. “I’m hoping that my sister can be taken alive, so that she can explain her actions before judgement is decided.”

  Lukas shook his head. “Alpha, you know the law as well as us. From the reports I have received, not only is your sister guilty of harbouring a moonstruck and attacking her pack mates, but it would appear that she’s also become human. We have considered the matter, and have decided that the death penalty is the only way to proceed.”

  “Lukas, I understand what you are saying, but think about this for a moment. If Marie has lost her wolf side, then we need to understand how this happened. It could be something that could be used against us in the future.”

  The old man huffed. “It is irrelevant. Your sister has broken pack law and must be held accountable. The Council’s judgement stands.”

  Michael raised an eyebrow. “And is this the view of the entire Council, or just its moonborn members?”

  Krysztof bristled at this. “And what exactly are you implying, Alpha? We speak for the entire Council. That some of them were unable to attend this meeting is beside the
point. Now, how do you intend to resolve the current situation?”

  Michael held Krysztof’s gaze. “As I said, Gregorz is tracking Simpson and my sister. When they finally go to ground, I will fly over with another team and we will make sure that the job is finished.”

  Lukas gave Michael a sly smile. “I sincerely hope so, Alpha. For your sake, and ours.”

  ***

  13th December 2008. Naver Cottage, Kinbrace. 21.45.

  The snow had started to fall an hour ago. Large white flakes danced in the headlight’s beams, obscuring the road ahead, although calling the track a road was, in John’s mind, stretching the definition. They’d driven in an uneasy silence after Marie had completed her tale. John felt like he should have said something, but the events of the past twenty−four hours rushed through his mind and he struggled to think of what to say to the woman beside him. He understood the risks she’d taken to save him, but still didn’t understand why. Truth be told, based on what Marie had told him, he realised that he didn’t know this woman at all, and he found it difficult to relax in her company.

  As if sensing his train of thought, Marie turned her head to him. “You’ve been quiet for a while. Are you okay?”

  John nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just been a hell of a couple of days, you know? I’m just trying to sort it all out in my head.”

  Marie’s eyes searched his face for a moment, as if trying to discern the truth of his statement, then, apparently satisfied, she relaxed and gave a weak smile. “You aren’t fucking joking. Well, we’re almost there now. Then you can wrap your head around it after a hot shower, some hot food and more than a few bottles of cheap wine. Sound like a plan?”

  John returned her smile, this time with genuine feeling. “At this moment in time, that sounds like my idea of heaven. It feels like we’ve been in this car forever, although it’s a lot better riding up front, instead of in the boot.”

  “You aren’t going to let that go, are you?”

  “What? I didn’t say a word.”

  Marie arched an eyebrow, then leaned forward in her seat, as if to get a better view of the road ahead. “Oh, hang on, I think this is it.”

  John had no idea how she’d even noticed the side track. A small sign stood by the side of the road, its white surface almost invisible against the falling snow. The surface of the road, the lane and the surrounding moorland was covered in an even flat, icy blanket. Marie seemed to know what she was doing, though, and turned onto the track. They followed the road through a small copse of fir trees and across the open moors until John noticed the dark shadow of a building through the blizzard.

  Marie parked the car at the front of the building − an old stone crofter’s cottage with glimpses of blue slate tiles just visible beneath the covering of snow on its roof − got out of the vehicle and lifted the doormat to retrieve a set of keys. Her face lit up and for a moment, John saw a glimpse of the little girl he used to know, instead of the killer that she’d become. She waved at him, and he followed her out of the car and into the dark cottage, wincing at the stiffness in his sore muscles

  The rush of warmth that greeted him as he crossed the threshold was both unexpected and welcome. He’d been convinced that he’d have to spend at least an hour messing about with an antique boiler before they had any heat, but the owner had obviously been round to make sure the cottage was warm for his guests. The oil boiler rumbled away in the kitchen, and the log burner in the living room popped and crackled. The cottage was clean and had been well, if cheaply, renovated. The kitchen looked to be fairly recent, but most of the furniture was made of cheap, varnished pine, which matched the cladding on all of the downstairs walls, and the garish floral pattern on the sofas hurt John’s eyes. On the positive side, in what must have been a workshop adjoined to the house before the owner had extended into it, John found a pool table, a table football game and an Xbox 360, complete with a pile of games.

  John stepped back outside to retrieve their bags from the car. He turned to Marie, who’d followed him to the doorstep. “Do you want this metal box bringing in?”

  “Yeah, but don’t worry. I’ll do that.”

  “It’s no trouble, honestly.”

  “No, I think I should take care of that one. I don’t want you dropping it and setting off one of the grenades.”

  John felt the colour drain from his face. “Grenades? Where the fuck… oh, never mind. I don’t want to know. You’re right. You handle the explosives. I’ll take care of the clothes.”

  John hefted the two canvas bags containing their supplies and carried them into the house. He strode upstairs to find two bedrooms, one with a double bed and the other with a pair of singles. He deposited the bag containing Marie’s things in the double room and put his own bag on one of the single beds. Marie struggled past him with the metal box, and put it at the foot of the double bed. She gave him a sideways glance when she saw that he’d taken the other bedroom, but didn’t say anything. They both filed downstairs and retrieved the remaining bags containing the food from the car.

  Marie rubbed her arms as the door closed, and she applied the deadbolts. “Why don’t you go freshen up while I sort us out something to eat.”

  John nodded and went upstairs once more, grateful that she didn’t seem to have picked up on his discomfort. The bathroom, like the rest of the cottage, was clean and adequately equipped. An electric shower was bolted onto the wall above a white porcelain bath, and John smiled as a stream of scalding hot water burst from the showerhead when he turned it on.

  John stayed in the shower for longer than he should have. The act of washing was a painstaking process, as he washed around the edges of his wounds. Nevertheless, the water that collected in the bath was stained a light pink by the time he finished, and watery rivulets of blood trickled from in between his stitches. He padded himself dry, reapplied dressings to the worst of his injuries, then got dressed into a loose fitting t−shirt and pair of jogging bottoms.

  He smelled the food as soon as he started down the stairs. The aroma filled the cottage, setting his stomach growling in anticipation. He’d hardly eaten anything that day, just a limp tuna sandwich and a chocolate bar Marie had picked up in a service station, and the smell made him realise just how hungry he was.

  Marie beamed at him as he entered the kitchen. “I was starting to think that you’d drowned up there. Dinner’s not much, I’m afraid. Just some soup and crusty bread. I figured you’d want something quick, instead of fancy.”

  He pulled a chair out from under the dining room table, and flopped into it. “Soup sounds great. Thank you.”

  Marie ladled the liquid into two bowls and took a pair of baguettes out of the oven, finally joining John at the table. “Feeling a bit better after your shower?”

  John tasted a mouthful of the soup, and despite it being from a tin, couldn’t remember anything tasting better. “Yeah, lots. I made a bit of a mess of the bathroom, though. I’ll clean the blood up after I finish dinner, so that you can use it.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You just need to unwind a bit. Chill out in front of the TV or something while I sort myself out. Here, this might help.” She reached into the bag and produced a bottle of red wine.

  John shook his head. “No, not for me, thanks. To tell you the truth, I’m shattered. Once I finish eating, I think I’m just going to have an early night.”

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself. After the last few days, I’m going to need a bit of sedation before I can relax enough to sleep. Are you sure you won’t stay up for a glass? I’d quite like some company tonight.”

  John finished the last of his soup, and mopped up the traces with the bread, then got up and rinsed his bowl under the tap. “No, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’d be very good company. My head’s still spinning from everything that’s happened in the last twenty four hours. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight, Marie.”

  Marie’s face fell, and John felt a pang of guilt, but steeled his resolv
e. He glanced backwards as he left the kitchen, to see Marie pouring wine into a mug. She didn’t look up.

  “Marie. We’ll talk in the morning, OK?”

  Marie looked up then, but wouldn’t meet his gaze. She took a long swig from the porcelain mug, lowered her eyes once more. “Yeah, sure, whatever. See you tomorrow, John.”

  Chapter 12

  14th December 2008. Castle Hill, Folkestone. 00.50.

  Connie got out of the car and stared across the busy motorway at her destination. The tunnel’s entrance was obscured behind rows of chain−link fences, each topped with rolls of razor wire and adorned with warning signs. Floodlights blazed down on the entire area, casting stark shadows across the concrete buildings, while CCTV cameras seemed to cover every square inch of the approach to the tunnel. Getting past that security without being seen was not going to be a simple task. If one of the people monitoring the cameras saw her enter in her wolf form, then there would be an animal control team dispatched to try and catch what they would believe to be a stray dog. Despite her mood, Connie grinned at the thought. The poor bastards would have no idea what hit them.

  Another car pulled in beside Connie, and a young couple got out. They paid her no attention, simply heading off to the health club at the far end of the car park, laughing and joking together. It made her sick to her stomach; she considered transforming there and then, if only to remove the smug, self−satisfied expressions from their faces. The couple’s happiness only served to remind her that she would never experience anything like that again.

  Her capacity for happiness had died with her daughter and, rather than wallow in self−pity, she’d taken that gaping chasm within and filled it with hate. She hated Marie, who should have been watching Megan that night. She hated her alpha, for ordering her back to Russia, when her vengeance was so close. And more than anything else, she hated Steven Wilkinson. The bastard who’d looked into the eyes of a crying, eight−year−old girl, and then shot her in the face.