The Wereling 3: Resurrection

by Stephen Cole

‘What did I do?’ Walker started sobbing pathetically. ‘I did everything Marcie told me to. She promised me … promised me it would be all right …’

  Kate balled her fists. ‘I said, what did you do?’

  ‘It wasn’t him!’ protested Sunday. ‘Tell her, Dad.’

  He shrugged. ‘Stuck in the needle, pulled things out.’ He scowled. ‘And still the bitch gives me nothing.’

  ‘Dad, you don’t know what you’re saying!’ Sunday rubbed at her bruised arm. ‘We’ve got to get out of here, come on …’

  While Sunday spoke to her father in a low, coaxing voice, Kate noticed some phials in a steel tray in the corner of the room. There were little grey and pink shavings floating in fluid inside them; a clue to whatever the hell Walker was working on, perhaps. If Stacy ever showed up, she might be able to make something of them.

  As she slipped one into the pocket of her black trousers, a menacing growl started up. She swung around, looking for the source of the sound, and saw a cage under the table behind her. A snow-white wolf was crushed inside, staring out at her with narrowed eyes. At its feet, an identical wolf lay prone on its side.

  Kate turned on Walker. ‘These poor animals …’

  ‘I only do what I’m told,’ he said wretchedly. ‘Funny, isn’t it? We’re just the same, under the skin … both locked up, both helpless …’

  ‘Dad?’ Sunday reached out for his hand. ‘What … what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until I get some of that drug,’ shouted Walker. ‘So just leave me alone.’ He shifted in the chair, trying to turn his back on them.

  Kate saw the dark scab that clung to Walker’s neck.

  ‘That wound,’ said Sunday, slowly, her eyes glistening. ‘They … have they …?’

  Kate nodded. ‘I’m so sorry, Sunday,’ she said, hugging the girl as she dissolved into tears. ‘This is what Takapa’s ’wolves do. How they make people act for them.’

  ‘No,’ moaned Sunday. ‘No, no, no, no …’

  ‘You’d better get in here, you two,’ called Blood.

  With a last pitying look at Walker, curled up in the chair and lost in his own nightmare world, Kate steered Sunday back out to Blood.

  He was looking at a dark, sunken lump in a wheelchair.

  Kate recognised the uniform through the gore smeared over it. Saw the wisps of ginger hair sticking up from the mulch stuck to the back of the chair.

  She turned and retched, clutching her stomach. ‘The security guard from the gallery.’

  ‘It would seem Tom got off lightly,’ said Blood quietly.

  ‘I can’t stand any more of this,’ said Sunday, wiping tears and snot from her face. ‘This isn’t happening. None of this can be happening.’

  ‘I’m so pleased to hear that,’ said Blood dryly. ‘Maybe we’ll all wake up safe and sound at the Drake, any moment now. But just in case …’ He grabbed a medical case filled with scalpels and other nasty-looking medical instruments and placed them on Tom’s chest. ‘In case we run into trouble on our way out of here.’ Seeing Kate’s shocked expression he flashed a bleak smile at her. ‘Help me with the trolley, Trolly.’

  Kate nodded, took hold of the feet end and helped Blood steer Tom out through the double doors.

  Sunday hesitated in the doorway, her eyes red and puffy. ‘I can’t just leave Dad here!’

  ‘Look,’ Kate said, trying to stay calm. ‘We’ll get Tom out first, then come back for your dad, see if we can convince him to—’

  But even as she spoke, Walker jumped up from the chair and turned to face them. ‘It’s a test, isn’t it?’ he said, staggering closer. ‘I have to earn the stuff – that’s what Marcie keeps saying.’ He stared at them blankly, his voice rising with desperation. ‘Well, all right, then. I’ll earn it.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, no!’ shrieked Sunday.

  Kate saw Walker’s form begin to shift, saw his haggard face sprout thick hair and twist into something alien, bestial. He gave a choking, guttural roar and hunched forwards, his lab coat splitting into tatters, his hands splaying out and sprouting fearsome claws. In the cage behind him, the remaining white wolf began to whine and bark. Disturbed, it clawed against the wire.

  ‘Great Gorgon buttocks,’ breathed Blood. Darting back, he grabbed the wheelchair that held the security guard’s remains and charged at Walker. The heavy chair crashed into the scientist, sending him sprawling. He cracked his head against the workbench. The pile of human remains upended over him, burying his changing shape.

  ‘Out of here!’ ordered Blood, shoving the trolley with all his force. ‘Now!’

  ‘You killed him!’ yelled Sunday.

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Blood. ‘But he’ll do a better job on us if we don’t move it. And keep your sodding voice down!’

  They turned the corner, heading for the exit at the end of the corridor. Still the place seemed silent and empty.

  But it wasn’t.

  As they neared the stairwell door, a slim, haughty figure detached itself from the shadows and stood in front of them, barring their way.

  ‘Stand very still, please,’ said Araminta Black, pointing a gun at Blood’s head. ‘You were right – you really should have stayed quiet. You’ve made enough noise to wake the dead.’ She smiled slyly. ‘And that’s our job.’

  Kate was all for taking a chance and running the skinny bitch down, but Blood had frozen as requested, looking at the gun barrel apprehensively. Kate saw that Araminta was quite collected and calm, fixing him with an unnerving stare. She knew with sick certainty that this woman would not hesitate to kill them.

  Behind them the caged wolf’s whining grew louder, more frantic.

  ‘I suppose it’s too late to apologise about my behaviour in your gallery yesterday?’ enquired Blood. ‘It really has been on my conscience.’

  ‘Your conscience won’t be bothering you much longer,’ said Araminta. She jerked the gun and advanced on them. ‘I’m glad I came now. I wanted to watch the festivities out there … I didn’t think I’d get to take part in some fun of my own.’

  Blood and Sunday led the slow retreat back up the corridor. Kate brushed her fingers against Tom’s pale, clammy face as she was forced away from the trolley. After all they’d been through, it had to be the lousiest goodbye in history.

  Araminta was herding them back towards the theatre, and now she stood between Kate and the trolley, blocking her last view of Tom’s prone body.

  Always the ’wolves, coming between them.

  A howl of anguish carried from the theatre. Not the white wolf this time.

  Walker.

  Sunday started to sob. Kate heard the sharp scrape of claws scrabbling against a tiled floor.

  For a moment Araminta frowned in confusion. Then she smiled. ‘Why, you must’ve made Dr Walker cross,’ she said, her frog-like eyes shining with an unearthly gold light. She indicated to the doorway with the gun. ‘Perhaps you should go back inside. Kiss and make up?’

  Blood slipped his arms protectively around Kate and Sunday, as the ’wolf behind the doors scuttled closer.

  g

  g

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kate saw Araminta’s grip on the gun tighten as she opened her mouth to speak again. But the words never came. There was a loud thud and the spindly woman jerked forwards, collapsing on the floor at Kate’s feet. Kate looked up in disbelief.

  Tom was still lying prone on the trolley. But he’d picked up the box of medical instruments that Blood had put on his chest and swung his arms backwards over his head. The sharp corner of the box had smashed against Araminta’s skull.

  ‘Tom!’ Kate cried, and ran to his side. He looked like death warmed up, but he was smiling at her.

  ‘Paralysis wearing off,’ he croaked. ‘I can move my arms.’

  ‘Your aim is good too,’ beamed Blood. ‘Miss Black is out cold.’

  But Tom didn’t answer. The box fell from his grip with a noisy crash as he lapsed again into sleep, his face as
white as the shroud that covered him.

  Sunday shrieked suddenly as a dark, rangy shape burst out through the double doors and turned to face them. Its jaws and muzzle were wet and black with detritus from the guard’s corpse.

  ‘Which reminds me,’ added Blood. ‘We were in the middle of a daring escape before we were so rudely interrupted. Shall we?’

  Kate was already grabbing the tail end of Tom’s trolley and pulling it away back towards the stairwell. Blood lent his weight and they set off down the corridor. Sunday raced ahead of them, still sobbing, and threw open the door.

  Kate turned around to see if Walker was following them. But he was hunched over Araminta’s limp body, trying to tear off her jacket.

  ‘He doesn’t give a shit about us,’ said Sunday savagely. ‘He’s just hoping she’s got some of that damned drug.’

  Kate could find no comfort to offer her. ‘Help me with Tom,’ she muttered, as she and Blood fought to find an angle that would allow the trolley through the doorway. There would be time for tears and sympathy later.

  If they actually got out of this place alive.

  g

  Tom was aware of his deliverance from Takapa’s lair only in snatches.

  His back jarred and hurt as the trolley juddered down the stone steps. He felt sick. Heard an echoing crash, then he was looking up at a grey wintry sky. The cold felt good on his hot face. Wetness. A fine rain was falling; yesterday’s snow would melt.

  The trolley sped along uneven ground, the wheels catching on stones. A tall fence loomed out of white mist. He was being lifted from the trolley. Blood’s cologne in his nostrils, too strong. Blood was carrying him over his shoulder. He heard raised voices but the sounds were distorting. Hands were pulling at him, pushing at him, he was jerked up through the air. His body felt like it was on fire, and the spinning world went black.

  When he woke again he was in the back of a car, propped up and shivering on the back seat. Kate was beside him.

  ‘Tom? Tom, are you OK?’ Kate sounded worried.

  Tom kind of liked to hear that concern in her voice over him. He felt maybe he should tell her, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Words. The old man’s voice filling his head. Blocking off sights and sounds, the pain of Walker’s knife—

  He clutched at Kate, yelled out. Felt the car lurch as someone stamped on the brakes.

  And suddenly the world was clear again. He saw Mike from the Dark Chapter slumped beside Kate in the back seat. He looked sick and stern, there were three deep red scores in his pale neck and his white T-shirt was soaked with blood. Sunday was in the passenger seat, her hair hanging down over her blotchy face, her eyes swollen and puffy from crying.

  Tom realised Blood was looking at him, searchingly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sinking back into the car seat. The stiff white smock he wore chafed against his skin.

  ‘Don’t be,’ Kate said, running her hand through his damp hair. ‘I think you just came out of your fever.’

  ‘Good job too,’ said Blood with mock severity, ‘because we’re almost back at the hotel, and I’m damned if I’m going to carry you another step. Getting you over that fence was bloody murder …’

  Blood pulled back out into the traffic. Tom’s gaze settled again on Mike. ‘So what’s he doing here?’

  ‘Getting the hell away from Takapa’s place,’ Kate said, ‘just like the rest of us.’

  ‘It was a massacre,’ said Mike hoarsely. ‘They killed Zac … killed so many of us …’

  ‘What were you expecting?’ enquired Blood. ‘Fisticuffs by Queensberry Rules?’

  ‘There was no need for it,’ Mike shouted, smashing his fist against the door. ‘No need to lay into us like that.’

  ‘I guess the people you’ve hunted and killed thought something similar,’ said Sunday, quietly and coldly.

  Kate briefly explained to Tom what had happened in the yard.

  ‘Someone must’ve told Takapa exactly what Chung was planning,’ Tom realised.

  ‘Gee, do you really think so?’ Kate deadpanned, giving his hand a squeeze.

  ‘Bullshit,’ muttered Mike, clenching his fists. ‘None of us would ever do that.’

  ‘I wonder where Chung and Fayn are now,’ muttered Tom.

  Mike shrugged. ‘Still inside, I guess … I was knocked out for a while. When I woke up, the ’wolves were too busy chewing bones to notice me sneak off.’

  ‘Guess they exceeded their kill quota, huh?’ Tom said without much sympathy. ’Wolves weren’t his favourite people right now.

  ‘They must need Chung for something,’ Kate mused, ‘or else they would’ve killed him out in the yard.’

  ‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ said Mike. ‘This is my business, not yours. I’ll work it out my way.’

  ‘I think you made it my business,’ snapped Sunday, ‘when you decided it would be OK for Tom to eat me like a goddamned steak.’

  ‘I said stop the car,’ shouted Mike, ignoring her. ‘I need some air … space to think by myself.’

  Blood slowed down, and Mike launched himself from the back of the Merc, striding out into the horn-blaring traffic like he just didn’t see it.

  Kate reached across and pulled the door shut.

  Blood sighed. ‘You know, I actually feel sorry for the poor sod.’

  A smothering silence descended on the car. Tom looked out the window at the shops’ festive window displays, at the twinkling fairy lights stretched across the street, at the last-minute Christmas shoppers bustling busily by. It felt like they were a million miles away, in another world.

  ‘What did they do to you, Tom?’ whispered Kate.

  ‘I don’t know.’ His eyes were growing heavy again. As his thoughts spiralled back down into sleep, he was barely aware of Kate’s fingers as they intertwined with his own.

  g

  Wanted criminal or not, Kate was too tired to care a damn about the funny looks she got – staggering through the hotel reception with a boy in a surgical smock, a girl in tears and a man with a gleaming smile waving at surprised onlookers like he was some film star gracing them with his presence.

  In the elevator, the smile dropped from Blood’s face. ‘We need to get out of here,’ he said. ‘Your mother and Takapa must know we’re here by now.’

  Sunday nodded. ‘Chung will have told them if nothing else.’

  ‘We’re too vulnerable,’ Kate agreed, her arm tightly around the barely-conscious Tom. ‘Especially with Tom like this.’

  ‘We’ll leave a note in reception for your friends,’ said Blood, as the elevator reached their floor. ‘With strict instructions they only hand it over to an old Native American medicine man …’

  The doors slid smoothly open and Blood helped Kate support Tom for the short walk to their door.

  But the door stood ajar.

  ‘We’re too late,’ whispered Sunday.

  ‘Back the way we came,’ mouthed Blood, and Kate nodded. She turned, and gasped.

  An old man was standing behind them.

  A short, scruffy Native American whose silver hair hung down to his shoulders in straggling braids. His face was lined, his nose like an eagle’s beak, his cleft chin strong and jutting. His amber eyes sparkled as he held out his arms to Kate and smiled.

  ‘Jicaque,’ Kate breathed, ready to collapse with relief.

  ‘I hope you will forgive us not waiting in reception,’ he said in his warm, halting voice. ‘But we thought we’d better keep a lower profile, away from prying eyes.’ He frowned as he took in the scene. ‘What has happened to Tom?’

  ‘We’re hoping you can tell us,’ said Blood, lapsing instantly into posh mode as he always did with newcomers. ‘How’d you get behind us like that? The coast was clear a moment ago.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Blood,’ said Jicaque, relieving Kate of Tom’s deadweight and helping him inside the hotel suite. ‘I am guilty at times of showing off.’

  ‘Jeez, what happened to him?’ came a familiar voice w
ith a Bronx twang to it.

  They turned back to face the open door. Stacy Stein was standing there.

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Blood, raising an eyebrow at this latest newcomer. ‘Stacy Stein?’

  ‘You got it.’ Stacy flashed him a crooked smile as she helped Jicaque lay Tom down on the bed and checked his pulse. She was in her early thirties, her cute-but-careworn features framed by coppery shoulder-length hair, and dressed in black trousers and a grey sweater. ‘Hey, Kate. What the hell has Tom been doing?’

  Kate gave her a brief explanation and a hug, then made hurried introductions to Blood and Sunday.

  Jicaque didn’t respond to the pleasantries, applying delicate pressure with his fingers to Tom’s skull. It was obvious he was worried.

  ‘His pulse is weak,’ noted Stacy.

  ‘And his heart is erratic,’ Jicaque observed. Gently he rolled Tom on to his side. ‘And there is an … energy surrounding him.’

  ‘You worry about his aura,’ said Stacy dourly, raising the smock and studying some livid cuts on Tom’s bare back. ‘I’m more worried about these wounds. And look at this mark on his spine. Lumbar puncture, I’m guessing.’

  Sunday frowned. ‘Then they extracted cerebrospinal fluid?’ When Stacy gave her an approving glance, she shrugged. ‘My dad used to be a doctor.’

  ‘He’s ’wolf now,’ Kate told Jicaque. ‘You have to help him.’

  ‘There is much I have to do,’ said Jicaque coolly. ‘But first I must minister to the boy.’

  Stacy rolled her eyes. ‘And do what? Give him a herb to chew on?’

  Her sarcasm seemed lost on Jicaque, who was now dangling some kind of charm over Tom’s chest. ‘My medicine is best for him now. Great power has been exerted on his nervous system to stop him struggling.’

  ‘Magic?’ asked Sunday timidly.

  ‘Give me a break, there are needle marks on his arm,’ said Stacy. ‘Anaesthetic, maybe? Blood samples?’

  ‘Back in New Orleans,’ said Blood, ‘Takapa tried to have Tom operated on, to find out more about what makes him a wereling.’

  ‘I remember,’ Kate said with a shiver.

  ‘Well, this time … I reckon he’s done it.’