High Moor 2: Moonstruck

by Graeme Reynolds

  Phil’s computer had finally managed to start up. He entered his login details, drumming his fingers against the table as the decrepit machine tried to process his request, while keeping one eye on the double doors at the end of the office. Once the desktop appeared, he opened his web browser and searched for a list of car rental agents that were located in Newcastle Airport, smiling to himself when a list of only three companies was returned. He dialled the first number, barely daring to hope.

  The call was answered on the second ring by a cheerful young woman with a broad Newcastle accent. “How can ah help ye today?”

  “This is Detective Inspector Fletcher, of Durham Constabulary. I’m investigating a serious criminal matter, and wondered if you could search your rental records for anything under the name of Pawlac in the last few months?” He spelled out the surname, and waited while the woman keyed the details into the system.

  “Yes, I have a rental under that name on 15th November of this year, for an initial two week period, which was then extended by another month.”

  Phil felt his stomach flutter, and a smile spread across his face. “Were there any other rentals that day, at around the same time?”

  The sounds of frantic tapping came from the telephone. “Only three other vehicles were let that day. To a Mr Daniel Braun, a Mr Oskar Lassen, and a Miss Connie Hamilton.”

  If the woman had been standing in front of him, Phil would have planted a kiss, square on her lips. There was one more question he needed to ask, but he almost didn’t dare. He took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds to calm himself. Then he asked, “I don’t suppose your company fits GPS tracking devices to your cars?”

  ***

  Rick forced himself to walk across the car park when all he wanted to do was run. It wasn’t just his theft of ammunition from the evidence storage that bothered him. He felt as if predatory eyes watched from behind every tree. A dog barked somewhere in a nearby housing estate, and he was very aware that his home, and the last known location of Connie Hamilton, was less than half a mile away from where he stood. She could be out there right now, and he wouldn’t know a thing about it until he felt those awful fangs tear through his flesh.

  He pushed the thought from his mind. Connie Hamilton would be long gone by now, and even if she were hunting them, the chances of her turning up here were remote. Nevertheless, he breathed a heavy sigh of relief when he reached the car and slid into the back seat behind Mark.

  The other man twisted in his seat, so that he was facing Rick. “How did it go?”

  “It could have been better. Most of the ammo was 5.56 or 7.62. There were only two boxes of the nines.”

  Mark considered this, and nodded. “It’s still a hundred rounds. As long as we don’t start spraying and praying, we should be fine. That’s what? Two mags for the MP5s and one each for the Glocks?”

  “Yeah, but I’d feel a lot better if we had something with a bit more poke. Like a bazooka or something. Phil’s not back yet, then?”

  Mark motioned to the building with his head. “This looks like him now.”

  Phil burst through the glass doors and hurried across the icy tarmac towards them, clutching a manila folder to his chest. He reached them in moments and flung open the passenger door, flopping down in the seat.

  Rick put his hand on Phil’s shoulder. “Did you get it all? Everything alright?”

  Phil shifted in his seat and when he turned to face Rick, his eyes shone. “Oh, it’s better than alright. I’ve found them. I know where the bastards are.”

  ***

  14th December 2008. Paul’s House, Chester−le−Street. 19.00.

  Paul hit the siren and accelerated through the red traffic light, barely taking the time to check if the oncoming traffic was making way for him. He played the conversation he was going to have with Emma over and over in his mind. She would be confused, and scared, but he needed to make sure that there were no questions or arguments. Not something that came easily to his wife at the best of times.

  He turned off the light and siren as he entered the outskirts of his home town. The roads were relatively quiet, for which he was grateful. Only a few other vehicles were on the road, mostly churchgoers returning from the evening service or people heading out to the local pubs. He drove as fast as he dared. While the urgent need to get to his family dominated his thoughts, he couldn’t forget his training. Having an accident at this point could be disastrous. He reached the junction to the road where he lived and slowed the squad car down. There was no point in arriving home like a lunatic and alerting the neighbours to the potential peril in their midst.

  His home, a three bedroom semi−detached house half way along the street, came into view and he breathed a sigh of relief. The curtains were drawn and lights burned in the living room window. Emma’s Volkswagen Golf sat on the driveway, with the first spidery fingers of frost beginning to form across the bonnet and windows. She couldn’t have been home for long. All the other parked cars were covered in a layer of glistening white diamonds that glinted under the beam of his headlights. He parked the car on the road outside his house and rushed inside.

  “Emma? Emma, are you here?”

  There was no reply. The entire house was silent, with the exception of the noise from the neighbour’s television coming through the adjoining wall. He would have expected the TV to be on in the living room, with Sam watching one of her Disney DVD’s, while Emma was preparing the evening meal in the kitchen, but the house seemed to be deserted.

  Paul’s stomach felt like it had fallen into his shoes. He fought to control his rising despair, while his mind frantically tried to come up with an explanation for his wife and daughter’s absence that didn’t involve werewolves. He walked cautiously down the hallway, and pushed open the living room door.

  “Emma?”

  “She’s not here right now. Ah can take a message, if ye’d like?”

  Paul felt as if he was about to throw up. He grasped the door frame, and turned to face the owner of the voice. He wanted to scream. To throw himself at the monster that sat in his armchair. To tear her apart with his bare hands until she told him where his family were. Instead, with a wavering voice, he simply asked. “Where are my wife and daughter? What have you done with them.”

  A smile played across Connie’s lips. “Ah, dinna ye worry. They’re fine. For now. And they’ll stay that way, as long as ye play nice.”

  The strength leeched out of his legs, and he gripped the door frame harder. “If you’ve done anything to hurt them…”

  The half−smile on Connie’s face vanished. “Ye’ll what? Kill me? Avenge them? Well, Paul, it looks like we have something in common after all. Ye see, ah had a family, once. A husband called Isaac who ah was devoted to, and a beautiful little girl called Megan. And when they were murdered, ah made the same vow that you just made. Ah swore that ah would stop at nothing to put the evil, murdering cunt that killed them in the ground.”

  Paul’s mind could not process the information. Adrenaline coursed through his system, screaming at him to fight or run, and his panic−stricken brain felt as if it were on the verge of shutting down. “I don’t understand. What do you want?”

  “Ah don’t care about ye, ye’r mates or ye’r family. The only thing that ah want is the bastard that shot my eight−year−old daughter in the face while ah watched. Ah want Steven Wilkinson’s head. If ye help me, then ye ah’ll let ye’r wife and little lassie go. Ye fuck me around, or try ta set me up, and they’ll die.”

  “I want to speak to them. I need to know that they’re still alive.”

  Connie shook her head. “Not gonna happen. Ah ken ye’r pals will be along in a while, so ah’m gonna make this quick. There’s a number on that table. When ye find out where Wilkinson is, ye call and leave a message on the answer phone. When he’s dead, then ah’ll let your family go. Understood.”

  Paul shook his head. “No. I can’t trust you. Not after what you did to Olivia.”

&nb
sp; “Ah was just following orders. The pack wanted you lot silenced, and the job fell to me. Lucky for ye, ah’ve since parted company with ma old friends, or we’d be havin’ a very different sort of chat. Besides, it’s not like ye have much of a choice. Refuse, and ah’ll rip ye’r throat out where ye stand, then go and chow down on ye’r two lovely ladies for dessert. Try an’ stitch me up, and ah’ll do the same, only ah’ll make ye watch me eat them before ah kill ye. The only chance that ye and ye’r family have of getting out of this alive is ta dae exactly what ah say.”

  ***

  14th December 2008. Naver Cottage, Kinbrace. 19.12.

  “I feel like an idiot.”

  John sat cross−legged on the floor in the centre of the room with his eyes closed. They’d been doing this for hours, and the only difference that he felt so far was a numbness in his buttocks.

  Marie’s voice had a reproachful tone. “You need to stick with it. I said it wasn’t going to be easy, but you need to get yourself under control. In case you hadn’t noticed, this place doesn’t have anywhere that we can lock you up in come the next full moon. And if the pack find us, we need you to be able to fight them, because frankly, you can’t shoot for shit. Now, let’s try it again. We are going to bring your wolf up to the surface of your mind and hold off the change. Got it?”

  John sighed and shifted position in an attempt to get comfortable. “Okay, I’ll give it another go.”

  “Right, same as last time. Clear your mind, then count, slowly from one to ten. Feel yourself becoming more relaxed with every breath you take. With every number that you count, you are getting sleepier. You can feel the tension draining out of your body, into the ground. Your mind is quiet, except for the sound of my voice and your slow, even count.”

  John felt the world fade away, leaving him floating in a dark void. He was not alone. Somewhere, in the darkness, something terrible lurked. John could sense its presence, a hot coal of fury burning in the abyss.

  Marie continued to speak in a low monotone. “Are you aware of the other presence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, I want you to try and find it. Imagine it as a cosy fire you can’t see, but can feel its warmth on your face. Can you feel the warmth, John?”

  “Yes, but it scares me.”

  “There is nothing to be scared of, John. It’s a part of you, like your ear, or your foot. It can’t hurt you. Now, imagine yourself moving toward it. Feel the warmth filling you up, as if you were lying in a nice, hot bath. The closer you get, the more comfortable you feel.”

  John drifted through the darkness, guided by the radiant heat that beckoned him. He could feel it now. Its anger and misery gave off palpable waves of aggression, like an abused, chained dog straining to reach its tormentor. Blood−soaked images flashed through his mind. A steel box, filled with the stench of fear. Prey packed in tightly around it, screaming and gibbering. The need to escape fighting with the overwhelming desire to slaughter the creatures trapped in here with it. Then only blood. John realised that he’d just seen the death of his parents through the creature’s eyes and the shock sent him spinning away from the malevolent presence, until Marie’s voice broke through his panic and revulsion.

  “I want you to slow down, John, and focus on your breathing. Notice how each breath you take is a little deeper and a little slower than the last. After you’ve taken five more breaths, you will feel calm and relaxed again.”

  John felt the anxiety drain out of his body. The terrible images still flashed across his mind, but as he reached the fifth breath, they faded into the background.

  “Now, start moving towards the warmth again, and remember that nothing here can hurt you. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Let it wash over you, fill you up, until it is you, and you are it. Then I want you to bring it up to the surface of your mind. Not all the way. Not yet. We don’t want you to change, so just bring it up until it’s just below the surface, and then keep it there.”

  John felt the warmth flare into a supernova. The beast snarled and thrashed against his will, but John held it tight.

  “I’m going to count backwards, from five to one. When I reach one, you will wake up, and your wolf side will stay with you. Just under the surface of your mind. Five…”

  John moved through the void, towards a glimmer of light far above him, like a drowning man struggling to reach the surface.

  “Four.”

  The light grew brighter. Beckoning him. The wolf snarled, working itself up into a frenzy, but John managed to keep the savage presence under control.

  “Three.”

  The world began to seep into the darkness: a myriad of strange scents filled his nostrils; the pungent sweat on his own body; the sweeter female scent of Marie, mixed with a faint after−tone of soap; the oily stink from the central heating system; the mingled aromas of food from the dirty plates in the kitchen.

  “Two.”

  Waves of sound flooded John’s mind. The low rumble of the oil burner in the kitchen; the soft fluttering of an owl outside, searching the cold night for prey; the thumping heart and rushing of hot blood in the woman beside him.

  “One.”

  John’s eyes snapped open, but the world was no longer the same. Everything in the room appeared in an incredibly sharp monochrome, with the smallest detail brought into stark focus. The pounding heartbeat of the female increased in pace. The pungent stench of fear billowed from her, and when she opened her mouth to speak, her voice had a tremble to it that called to ancient, long−buried instincts. Prey.

  The woman stumbled to her feet, and backed away from him, just as the last vestiges of rational thought were submerged in a tide of glorious agony. His limbs burned with strength and energy, even as his bones flowed like molten lava into a new form. As the change tore through him, John threw back his head and howled.

  Chapter 15

  14th December 2008. Naver Cottage, Kinbrace. 19.27.

  “One.”

  Marie couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement. This time they’d really made progress. God knows, the preceding hours had been painful, but it would have been worthwhile if John managed to pull this off. His eyes snapped open and her heart fluttered at the sense of awe that was ingrained on her friend’s face.

  “John? How do you feel?”

  He didn’t reply. His eyes scanned the room, fixating on random objects as if he were seeing them for the first time. Marie remembered the sensation. The utter clarity. The feeling of connection with the world and everything in it. She felt a twinge of loss, but quickly suppressed the emotion. This was not the time to dwell on the past. More important was the here and now.

  John cocked his head to one side, sniffing the air. When he turned to face her his eyes had become flat, green disks, and Marie realised that something had gone terribly wrong.

  “John, you’re going too far. Push it back down or you’ll change.”

  As the words left her mouth she realised that it was already too late. The beast was too close to the surface and John had lost control. His body seemed to pulse with power and his lips curled up into a bloody half smile as the change began.

  She scrambled to her feet and backed away, not daring to take her eyes from the creature that had been John Simpson. The fabric of his T−shirt stretched, eventually tearing apart. His muscles swelled, his bones shattered and reformed. John’s mouth opened as if to scream while his face elongated into a muzzle with razor sharp fangs tearing through the gums. Thick brown hair raced across his skin, while savage claws burst through the flesh of his fingertips in a spray of blood.

  Marie realised that she had only seconds left to act and her next choice would dictate whether she lived or died. None of the doors in the cottage would withstand an assault by a werewolf for long. The car was half buried by the still falling snow outside, and even if she managed to start it, she’d never be able to pick up enough speed to escape on the icy track. Attempting to escape on foot was likewise futile. The werewolf wou
ld be on her before she’d even made it ten feet. That only left her one option. If she wanted to live she would have to fight.

  The beast got to its feet, shaking off the last tattered remnants of the T−shirt, opened its dripping jaws and howled. Marie’s legs almost buckled under her weight as an ice−fist of pure terror grasped her heart. Any hope she had that John could retain some measure of control of the monster evaporated when it turned its head to face her, wrinkling its snout into a vicious snarl that displayed its bared, blood−soaked fangs, then leaped across the sofa to where she stood.

  For the briefest moment, she tried to call on her own wolf, an instinctive reaction to the threat she faced that almost cost her life. Realising her mistake at the last second, she hurled herself into a side roll, feeling the breeze from the werewolf’s slashing talons as she passed beneath them. She came out of her roll and regained her footing in a single movement, while the werewolf readied itself for another attack.

  “John, please. I know that you’re in there. You have to fight it.”

  Her pleas seemed to have no effect. The beast’s muscles tensed, then it hurled itself at her once more. Her body felt as if she were moving underwater. Every action seemed painfully slow, and her once−sharp reflexes were dull. She grabbed a glass pot of steaming coffee from the percolator and smashed it into the werewolf’s face. The glass shattered, embedding long shards into the creature’s muzzle, while the scalding liquid splashed across its nose and eyes. The werewolf howled in pain and confusion and slashed at itself in an attempt to fight off the burning liquid. She’d bought herself a couple of seconds at most. She pushed through the crippling fear and urged her leaden limbs into action, sprinting for the staircase, taking the old wooden stairs two at a time. A crash from behind her, mingled with the sounds of splintering wood and an enraged snarl told her that John had shaken off his momentary confusion. Not daring to turn around, she bolted for the bedroom, slamming the door behind her and shoving the double bed against it to form a makeshift barricade.