The Wereling 3: Resurrection

by Stephen Cole

  ‘I guess you’d live longer that way,’ Tom observed.

  ‘But all that sun-drenched luxury … what kind of life would it be?’ said Blood wryly.

  Suddenly Jicaque jerked into life, making them jump. ‘The time draws near,’ he muttered, his voice hoarse.

  ‘I could’ve told you that, you old duffer.’ Blood passed him a half-empty bottle of water. ‘Six hours’ meditation and that’s the only nugget of wisdom you can come up with?’

  ‘Long ago, the shaman of my people would heal the sick by going into a deep trance. They would then travel to the spirit world in search of a cure.’ Jicaque drank from the bottle, then smacked his lips. ‘Stubbe’s soul festers in the atmosphere around that building like a disease. His presence – the spark of life preserved in the fetid depths of the bog – is reaching out even now. Gloating … anticipating his becoming.’

  ‘So did you find it?’ Tom asked. ‘The cure, the way to stop him?’

  ‘I know what I must do,’ said Jicaque cryptically. ‘And I have cleansed myself in readiness.’

  ‘Well, I hope you didn’t mark the upholstery,’ said Blood.

  Tom didn’t smile. ‘I don’t see how we’re even going to get in there. The whole place is tight as a drum. There are guards everywhere.’

  ‘We will gain access,’ said Jicaque simply. Then he opened the car door and eased himself outside. ‘Takapa’s pureblood guests will be arriving soon. We must be prepared.’

  ‘That’s us,’ called Blood after him. ‘Regular boy scouts.’

  But Jicaque was already walking off purposefully down the quiet street.

  Blood seemed indignant. ‘Is the old bugger skiving off, or something?’

  ‘Who, him? Our very own shaman?’ Tom forced a wry smile. ‘Just pray he doesn’t get mugged on his way back from wherever the hell it is he’s going.’

  g

  Kate had been thrown back in the cleaner’s closet to cool off. Zac’s body had been cleared out. She didn’t know whether to be sorry or relieved.

  That had been some hours ago. Now she was feeling sick with fatigue and worry. Her eyes felt sore with crying, and she had turned off the light in the hope that the darkness might soothe them.

  She started when keys jangled and the door was opened. But she recognised the shadow framed in the bright doorway.

  It was her father.

  Kate swallowed, pushed her hair back from her forehead. ‘Dad?’

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ he told her softly, closing the door behind him.

  She heard the click of a switch, then the lights flickered on. His deep, dark eyes were fixed on her.

  ‘Dad, please don’t do this,’ she begged him.

  He hushed her. ‘Kate, please. This has been a difficult decision to reach, but having done so … I am at peace.’

  ‘Well, that’s just peachy for you, isn’t it,’ hissed Kate, twisting away from him as he approached.

  ‘I want to help you,’ he said. ‘We don’t have long, so listen.’

  She half-turned her head, feeling sick with nerves at what he might mean. Her body felt freezing cold inside.

  ‘I will not have my daughter branded a common criminal,’ Hal said firmly. ‘Your mother doesn’t know, but I got hold of evidence that can clear both your name and Tom’s.’

  She turned fully to face him. ‘How?’

  ‘You know that Takapa was using a webcam to transmit images of the experiment the surgeon and his assistant attempted to perform on Tom in New Orleans. It kept recording long after things went wrong. The images clearly show your mother was responsible for slaughtering those men.’

  ‘Well, that’ll sure convince the world,’ Kate scoffed. ‘You don’t think the police might just raise an eyebrow at footage of Mom slitting some werewolf’s throat?’

  ‘You know that lupines hold positions of authority in both the police force and the FBI,’ he said calmly. ‘I’ve prepared a letter to an acquaintance of mine who has helped cover for your mother’s bloodlust before. Once they receive that, and the evidence, I’m confident you’ll be exonerated from blame.’

  ‘So where is this evidence?’

  ‘Our house in Seattle. I thought it safest to mail it to myself.’

  ‘Great,’ Kate said lightly. ‘So what, now you can go kill yourself with a clear conscience? For a cause you don’t even believe in?’

  ‘I believe in the old ties,’ muttered Hal. ‘It is my duty … my honour to serve the Great Wolf as my ancestors did.’

  Kate knew there was nothing she could say that would make any difference to him. The silence grew heavy as the two of them regarded each other.

  ‘I had such hopes for my family …’ Hal looked away, shook his head. ‘And yet look at you. You helped kill your own brother.’

  ‘He was going to kill Tom,’ Kate said dully. ‘I struck him, distracted him. The rest was an accident. Tom didn’t mean to kill him … he’s not a murderer.’

  ‘I’ve come to believe that,’ Hal admitted. ‘Wes was always so wild, so much like his mother …’

  ‘Guess we’ve all been big disappointments to you,’ she said bitterly.

  He shook his head a fraction. Then he took something from his pocket and passed it to her. ‘If you can’t get out,’ he whispered. ‘Use this. On yourself if you have to.’

  Kate found herself taking a small dagger from her father’s hand without question. As she did so, her fingers brushed against his palm. For a moment she was a little girl again, holding his hand, carefree as they walked through some half-remembered sunny place.

  Then the darkness came back, and her fingers were curling around the little knife’s cold metal hilt. ‘I still love you, Dad,’ she whispered.

  He opened his mouth as if to reply – then just nodded. He turned and walked away without another word, out of the gloom and into the light of the gallery beyond.

  As the door clicked behind him, she heard Takapa’s hateful voice. ‘You are prepared, Folan?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then we must dress you for the occasion. Araminta has the shroud. Go to her in her office.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Hal stiffly.

  ‘Oh, and Folan …’

  Kate’s heart sank to the depths when she heard the grind of a key turning in the lock.

  ‘I think Kate should witness your proud act,’ purred Takapa.

  ‘That should be her decision, surely?’

  ‘No, Folan. It is mine. My will is all that matters here.’ He gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Even the Great Wolf will look to me for guidance.’

  Their footsteps moved away, echoed into silence.

  Kate flicked off the light, and caressed the dagger blade for comfort in the darkness.

  g

  ‘Here come the purebloods,’ Tom announced. ‘A real coach party.’

  ‘Hades’ scrotum, you’re not kidding,’ said Blood uneasily, as a luxury coach pulled up outside the Bane Gallery. It disgorged a well-dressed huddle of passengers, wrapped up against the elements. To anyone passing, just a crowd of art lovers on their way to a private viewing.

  In brooding silence, Tom and Blood watched the stream of purebloods walk up the stairs and congregate in the large reception hall. Once the last passenger had vanished inside, the coach pulled away.

  Tom watched it go. Still there was no word from Stacy, and no sign of Sunday or Chung. He resisted the urge to call Stacy, reasoning that if she had anything to say she’d contact them.

  It was now close to eleven. The minutes seemed to pass unbearably slowly, but Tom’s heart jolted when he saw how much more time had elapsed.

  There was a loud tap on the window beside him. He and Blood turned around in alarm, but it was only Jicaque, his leathery fingers pressed against the fogged-up glass.

  Blood pressed a button and the window slid down.

  ‘Jeez, where’d you spring from?’ Tom demanded, both relieved and cross. ‘I just looked down the street – you were nowhere
in sight.’

  ‘Sight is such a simple sense to deceive,’ said Jicaque with the ghost of a smile. ‘You should not rely on it.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ Tom said wryly.

  ‘Where have you been, anyway?’ asked Blood.

  ‘A joke store.’

  ‘What, open at this time of night?’

  ‘With some persuasion.’

  Tom frowned. ‘Terrific. So what are you going to do, make Stubbe die laughing?’

  ‘It is possible,’ mused Jicaque. ‘After all, what are old jokes to us will be new and potent to Stubbe.’

  Tom and Blood swapped horrified looks.

  The old medicine man’s weathered face creased in a big smile. ‘You two cannot take a joke, it seems.’ He straightened, looked towards the Bane Gallery. ‘But perhaps it is just as well. It is fast approaching the time we got serious.’

  g

  Kate was literally waiting in the wings; bound and gagged and quite helpless.

  The wide, makeshift stage she’d seen on her first visit here had been polished and painted. Tasteful black wooden screens had been placed in front at either side to form the wings, so that key players could enter and exit discreetly. Several more screens were arranged behind it to create a private, backstage area, where an emergency exit to the gallery was serving as a stage door.

  The gallery now resembled some trendy modern theatre, complete with empty chairs lined up in rows for the purebloods’ imminent arrival. The audience was not to be distracted by backstage goings-on. Everything would be stage-managed impeccably. A slick, polished and impressive piece of live theatre would be presented here tonight.

  A piece of history brought to life, in every sense.

  Kate struggled to keep calm and unflustered. The gag around her mouth and nose was made of bandages, and she found it increasingly difficult to breathe. She’d managed to hide the dagger up her sleeve. Even now she was subtly scraping it against her bonds while workers came and went under Araminta Black’s supervision.

  At the rear of the stage, the display case for Stubbe’s body had been draped in a rich scarlet covering and placed in a vertical position; presumably so he could be shown standing. Araminta directed a lectern to be moved just a fraction to the left, then turned to the three codechanters, who were all once again dressed in their ceremonial robes. She explained their cues to them and where they needed to stand to maximise the drama of their performance.

  Liebermann kept tilting his old, craggy face towards Kate, his bulbous nose twitching as if he could smell what she was up to. She froze as Araminta led the codechanters over, and slid the whole knife carefully back up her sleeve.

  Liebermann gripped her face with his rough, wizened fingers and tilted it towards him. ‘So it is your father we work with tonight,’ he rasped. ‘His sacrifice is noble.’

  Friedrich nodded. ‘A contrast to your own baseness of spirit.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ fussed Anton. ‘Dear me, yes.’

  ‘Perhaps he is shamed into this action by his daughter,’ said Liebermann. ‘No?’

  Kate glared into the uneven ridges of his milky-white eyes. ‘No,’ she said fiercely.

  ‘I wish I could tell you he shall not suffer unduly,’ said Liebermann, and then he grinned and tapped his strawberry nose like one who is in the know. ‘But he shall.’

  ‘We want his sweat, his screaming,’ said Araminta softly. ‘His death agonies must be evident to all. Think how they shall heighten the drama.’

  Kate said nothing, but gripped the little knife all the more tightly. She had an idea or two herself of how the drama might be heightened.

  She heard a door open, out of her sight behind the screen. Then her mother’s voice sounded, grave and low: ‘The champagne reception is winding down. Are you ready?’

  Araminta puffed up her scrawny chest. ‘Give me one minute.’

  ‘Very well. Then the purebloods enter.’

  Kate heard measured footsteps approach. Liebermann released her face and straightened. Everyone looked over her shoulder. She didn’t need to crane her neck to know Takapa was here.

  ‘You all know what you must do,’ he said quietly.

  Araminta spoke for them. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Liebermann … you are certain Stubbe will rise?’

  The old man nodded. ‘All my life has been leading to this moment. The Great Wolf’s body will be infused with Folan’s life energies. He will be reborn.’

  ‘Then let us begin,’ whispered Takapa.

  Araminta led the three blind mice to the backstage area, but Takapa remained. He rested his hand on Kate’s shoulder, caressing her neck with one flaky fingertip. Gradually the sound of people could be heard, coughs and chair scrapes and low conversation as the room began to fill. A feeling of expectancy grew in the impromptu theatre.

  The covering on Stubbe’s casket ruffled, though Kate could feel no draught.

  Project Resurrection had reached its climax, and it was almost show time.

  g

  g

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘Shouldn’t we at least be trying to get inside?’ Tom sighed for at least the third time.

  Jicaque shook his head patiently. ‘When the ’wolves are concentrating on Takapa’s presentation … that is when we risk entry.’

  ‘Cutting things fine, isn’t it?’ muttered Blood.

  Tom sighed. He was about to get out of the car and stretch his legs when Stacy’s cell phone bleeped noisily in his pocket.

  ‘That’s a point. We’d better set our phones to vibrate only,’ said Blood, fiddling with his own cell. ‘Then we can keep in touch if we have to separate.’

  Tom nodded. ‘Stacy?’

  ‘I won’t be much longer,’ she cried.

  ‘You can’t afford to be,’ he said. ‘We’re ready to go in.’

  ‘This isn’t exactly ninth-grade science I’m doing here,’ complained Stacy. ‘I’m going flat out.’

  ‘We’ll let you know if we get inside,’ Tom told her.

  ‘You’d better. This plan depends on us getting real close to Stubbe.’

  ‘What exactly is your plan, anyway?’

  ‘Jeez, Sunday, get that thing off the heat!’ cried Stacy.

  Tom thought he could hear something bubbling over.

  ‘Gotta run.’ She hung up.

  Tom looked up to find Blood and Jicaque both looking at him intently. ‘She’s on her way. Almost.’

  Blood tutted.

  They waited in anxious silence for fifteen more minutes.

  Then Jicaque seemed to reach a decision. He opened the rear door. ‘It is time.’

  Blood opened the car door. ‘Well, I suppose there’s no point delaying the inevitable,’ he said.

  Tom got out of the car too, and he and Blood joined Jicaque as he walked slowly and deliberately down the street towards the Bane Gallery.

  After a few steps, Tom noticed Jicaque was holding something carefully between finger and thumb – a small glass ampoule. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sure Miss Stein would refer to it as ammonium sulphide,’ said Jicaque, with the first curlings of a crafty smile on his lips. ‘But we would know it better as a stink bomb.’

  ‘So that’s our great weapon,’ groaned Blood. ‘We’re doomed.’

  ‘Against such overwhelming odds, a conventional attack will get us nowhere,’ said Jicaque, and Tom could see the clarity in the depths of the old man’s eyes. ‘We must use our wits. If it helps, think of all this as a great jazz number.’

  ‘That doesn’t help,’ Tom said.

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ added Blood.

  Jicaque shrugged. ‘We know the start of the song and its tempo, and we know how it must end. But the path we take to reach there … that will be the result of inspired improvisation.’

  They had reached the steps of the Bane Gallery. Two big guys stood in front of the glass doors.

  Without warning, Jicaque boldly marched straight up to t
hem. ‘Excuse me, buddy,’ he said, slurring his words like a drunk, ‘got a light?’

  ‘Get out of here, old man,’ snapped one of the guards.

  Jicaque swayed forwards, almost knocking into them. Tom saw him drop the stink bomb and grind it beneath his heel. Then the guards shoved him brusquely back down the steps. ‘Beat it!’

  ‘And a merry Christmas to you too,’ called Jicaque, rejoining Tom and Blood.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Blood.

  Jicaque smiled. ‘Patience.’

  The guards started sniffing the air, then gave each other accusing looks.

  Tom wrinkled his nose. It was bad enough down the street, so what must it be like on their doorstep?

  The two men retreated inside the building, muttering recriminations.

  ‘Now they’re out of the way for a minute or two …’ Jicaque pulled something else from his pocket. ‘I wonder, Mr Blood, could you spare me a light? I noticed you helped yourself to several books of matches from the hotel reception.’

  ‘Nosy parker.’ Blood took a book of matches from his pocket, and lit one. The sputtering flame illuminated the object in Jicaque’s hand – a firework.

  ‘My thanks,’ said Jicaque. Then he lit the firework and tossed it down the alleyway that ran alongside the Bane Gallery. A whoosh of white sparks illuminated the narrow brick corridor.

  ‘Out of sight,’ hissed Jicaque, ushering Tom and Blood out of the mouth of the alleyway and up against the neighbouring building.

  Tom realised that now the guards had vanished inside the reception area, their field of vision was limited to the immediate area of the steps. They wouldn’t see the fountain of bright white light in the alley. But the guards around the back couldn’t miss it.

  Sure enough there was a scuffling sound from the alley, then stamping, and the firework went out. Two burly men came cautiously out of the alleyway to see where the firework had come from.

  Jicaque jumped out in front of them and blew into a party blower. Like a frog’s tongue flicking out to catch a fly, the paper uncurled at speed into the nearest guard’s face. He yelped in surprise and jumped back, cannoning into his companion. As both men fell over, Blood ducked after them into the alleyway. Tom heard the sounds of a brief scuffle; then Blood re-emerged, his hair mussed up, wielding a half-brick.