by Stephen Cole
Jicaque looked at him disapprovingly but Blood only shrugged. ‘I wasn’t about to wait for you to beat them into submission with a whoopee cushion,’ he said dryly.
Jicaque turned to Tom. ‘The way should be clear now. Get around to that back entrance you tried before.’
Tom frowned. ‘How did you know I—?’
‘Never mind how I know,’ hissed Jicaque.
‘And what are you going to do?’
Jicaque had taken a firecracker from his pocket. ‘Why, Mr Blood and I shall slip inside the front way.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Blood doubtfully.
‘This firecracker will make a fair-sized bang. While our friends with the sensitive noses leave their post to investigate …’
‘We duck inside.’ Blood nodded. ‘Clever old sod, aren’t you.’
Jicaque pressed a firecracker into Tom’s hand. ‘You do the same around the back.’
‘What if your guards hear and come looking?’
Jicaque just lit the firecracker’s fuse. ‘You have about ten seconds before it goes off.’
‘Don’t try this at home, kids,’ Tom muttered as he pelted down the alleyway with the fizzing firecracker as fast as he could, into the darkness.
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Kate was working at the cords binding her wrists with renewed urgency. She hadn’t dared use the knife with Takapa standing so close to her. Now he was out on stage, and events were building to a climax – yet still she wasn’t free.
She’d sat through Araminta’s big build-up to Takapa’s entrance, grinding her teeth to hear him described as a visionary, a leader and a man of science who would bring down the old order and build a new lupine empire in its place. She’d shuddered to hear the rousing applause that greeted his presence on the stage.
When it finally died down, he began to speak. He was shrewd; he did not criticise the purebloods’ established way of life, the traditions that shaped their existence. He presented a vision, an ideal: a werewolf utopia on a scale that none before had ever dreamed possible. Prowling the stage, thundering his promises, he made it sound as tantalisingly attainable as the next kill.
And as his oration rang out, Kate imagined all those pureblood eyes straying expectantly to the covered casket that stood behind him, waiting to be unveiled.
Takapa talked of a ten-year plan for controlled population growth, of the rearing and education of ’wolf children not in families and classrooms but in packs.
He spoke of the creation of an inferior class of newbloods, controlled by drugs; hapless humans turned for slavery and sport, who would serve both the pureblood caste and ‘traditional’ ’wolves.
He outlined the ease with which whole platoons of crack werewolf soldiers could be secretly brought together in key cities across not only America but the whole world, ready for a terrorist show of force when the time was right. All he needed was their support … and some modest financing.
The purebloods listened raptly, apparently seduced by his passion and his prophecies.
Kate recalled from history class that the Nazi party began life as a handful of louts meeting up in the back room of a beer hall. Within twenty years, the whole world was at war because of them.
‘The time has come when we must join together in a single pack,’ Takapa argued. ‘Through unity, we shall have strength. One day, we shall force humanity to recognise the ’wolf – not as creatures of myth and superstition, but as the superior beings. It is we who are top of the food chain, not humankind!’ He paused for a burst of wild applause, and opened his arms to his congregation. ‘The lupine race will rise up from the shadows of the past to become a thriving force in this planet’s future!’
Kate gasped as the dagger blade slipped and sliced into her arm. Gritting her teeth, she ignored the pain and carried on chafing at the cords as hard as her bound wrists would allow.
‘And when that time comes to pass, we shall found our own recognised, sovereign state.’ Takapa paused impressively. ‘But first, we must have a sovereign. I am but a worker, a simple architect of new ideals. I offer our race guidance – not leadership. But I know how important it is to you all that scientific progress never blinds us to the importance of our noble past …’
Hypocrite, thought Kate, straining against the ropes.
‘And so we come to the promised moment,’ announced Takapa. After a low round of whispers and murmurings, the atmosphere in the gallery grew reverent and hushed. ‘It is not simply my pleasure, but my duty to present to you now a figure truly symbolic of the werewolf rebirth that I promise you. A figure that I now raise from the ancient dead, for all our sakes. A figure who ruled over us once … and who shall again.’ His voice grew to an exultant shriek. ‘The living incarnation of our people’s yearning! The Great Wolf himself – Peter Stubbe!’
He yanked away the crimson covering from the casket.
Kate heard the collective gasp go up from the crowd. She felt the blood drain from her face.
This wasn’t the same body she had encountered on her last visit to the Bane Gallery. Dressed in a simple but splendid black robe, the ghastly figure still looked corpselike, but the mummified flesh had grown softer and whiter. The distorted face seemed far more human now, its features rising from the decaying skull, proud, full and sensuous. Seeing the figure in profile she saw that a dark mane of hair had been pulled back from the high forehead in a long ponytail.
Takapa revelled in the sounds of awe and wonder that emanated from his audience. ‘This afternoon, you heard Araminta Black describe the condition of the body recovered from the dank waters of the German peat bog in which it lay preserved. Here is that same body now, after the dark magics and advanced sciences that I control have been unleashed upon it. Physical regeneration is taking place even as you watch … and now, you shall witness the spark of life preserved in this vessel ignite into a flame – at my command.’
Kate jumped as footsteps sounded behind her. She tried to hide the dagger back up her bloody sleeve but her fingers were numb with fatigue, she was too slow.
Her heart sank; whoever was coming, they couldn’t fail to notice her pitiful efforts. But then, with a cold shiver, she realised that her father headed the approaching group. Wearing a white smock, he walked stiffly across to the stage in silence. Four men, dressed in black like executioners, walked behind. They led out Liebermann, Anton and Friedrich, resplendent in dark, bejewelled ceremonial robes.
Kate watched her dad vanish from view behind the cluster of dark figures here to destroy him, and saw the points of Takapa’s teeth show in a smile. Where was Marcie? How was she feeling now?
‘For my technicians to bring about the final resurrection,’ announced Takapa, ‘an infusion of energy is needed. This can only be provided by the noble sacrifice of a pureblood soul.’
Anton and Friedrich led their acolytes over to the casket, surrounding it in a loose circle, while Liebermann and Hal remained at the front of the broad stage.
Hal cleared his throat. ‘I am Hal Folan.’ His voice boomed around the gallery. ‘I glory in the return of the Master, and lay down my life in his service. I am not afraid to die.’
Kate strained against the gag that stopped her from screaming.
‘You have heard how Stubbe will unite our race, how he will lead us on a path to greatness.’ Hal cast a sideways glance at Takapa. ‘All I ask of you is that when you follow that path, you do so with caution, compassion and respect.’
‘We thank you, Folan,’ proclaimed Takapa through gritted teeth.
Hal looked down into the crowd. ‘To my wife, I say farewell …’
Marcie’s voice carried cold and clear from the hushed audience. ‘Goodbye, Hal.’
‘And farewell too to my daughter. May her life be better from this day on.’ He glanced at Kate and gave her a small, encouraging smile.
Kate’s vision of him blurred as her eyes filled with tears, but she could hear Takapa all too clearly as he addressed his audience once more.
; ‘Now, with no further ceremony … let pure and noble blood soak the flesh of our Master. Let life be wrested from the dark lands of death through this sacrifice. Let the Chant of Resurrection begin!’
Kate worked feverishly at her bonds. Surely they would give way soon. She would break free and run out on the stage, she would sink this knife into Liebermann’s back, grab her father and they would run …
That was how it would work if this was a movie. But the bonds held tight, and Kate remained utterly helpless.
Liebermann started speaking his strange, strangulated words, his voice low like it had been recorded and played back at the wrong speed. Slowly, Friedrich took up the chant in a different key, the sounds and syllables carefully discordant. Then Anton added his own voice, an octave higher.
The acolytes began to intone with them, and like a demonic choir their voices rose in volume. Liebermann held a great, curved knife in both hands. The blade inched towards Hal’s neck. The point prodded his soft skin. Slowly, excruciatingly, Liebermann scratched an alien, intricate symbol on to Hal’s throat.
Kate gave up with the dagger, pulling against the frayed cords like she could break them through brute force alone. Her trembling wrists chafed and burned.
And now it seemed Hal was burning too.
He had started to shake. The chanting grew louder. The symbol on his neck seemed to glow, like a white-hot brand. Hal’s mouth had opened but no sound emerged, only smoke, like his insides were on fire. Liebermann’s chanting quickened, the words tripping from his old tongue in blade-sharp syllables, two for every one that his acolytes uttered.
Kate strained and strained against the ropes, shouting for her father through the thick fabric of the gag.
A thick spurt of blood erupted from the back of Hal’s head like he’d been shot, but before the dark fluid could splatter on the ground it was gone, swallowed up by a radiance emanating from the glass casket. The figure inside was no longer visible, and nor was Hal Folan, engulfed in sparkles of unearthly light. As Liebermann bellowed out the last words of the incantation, Kate watched her father slip away.
The codechanters and their disciples fell abruptly silent, the echo of their words hanging in the air like the smell of death.
The ethereal glow faded from the stage.
Where Hal had stood there was now only a black pile of sludgy, mulch-like debris.
The body in the glass casket twitched. Its skin was soft and pink like a child’s.
Dark eyes snapped open.
Peter Stubbe had been reborn.
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tom tried to stem a feeling of rising panic. He’d let off his firecracker, hidden in the shadows beside the fire exit, and no one had come looking. He had no way of getting inside.
He felt a vibration in his pants pocket, and snatched for the cell phone. But before he could answer it, the sound of running footsteps came piling down the alleyway, heading his way. Tom looked around for some kind of weapon. If it was one of the guards Blood had slugged, with a headache as large as their muscles and out for revenge …
He clutched the cell phone like it could somehow protect him as a lithe, dark figure rounded the corner.
It was Chung.
‘Shit, man,’ breathed Tom. ‘You scared the hell out me.’
‘Sorry about that.’ His tattered black leather jacket hung raggedly over his sweater.
‘I thought you weren’t wearing that stuff anymore?’
‘Unfinished business,’ said Chung. ‘Something I’ve got to do. Aren’t you going to answer your phone?’
Tom hit the green button. ‘Yeah?’
‘It’s Blood. Jicaque’s plan worked a treat. Where are you?’
‘Outside,’ Tom reported. ‘No one was interested in my firecracker. But Chung’s here.’
‘All right. I suppose there can’t be any guards at the back exit, or they’d have heard you. I’ll try to make my way there.’
‘What about Jicaque?’
‘He’s heading up for the main event.’
‘Shouldn’t we all stick together?’
‘One big fat target, you mean? He didn’t think it wise,’ said Blood. ‘We may well have to be the cavalry, so I hope you’re up to it. See you shortly if all goes well.’
The phone went dead. Tom glanced up at Chung. ‘Hopefully we’ll be getting inside soon.’
‘Good,’ said Chung. He shivered, dug his hands deep in the pockets of his ripped leather jacket. ‘Like I say, there’s something I’ve got to do. For the Chapter.’
Tom looked at him suspiciously. ‘What’s going on, Chung? Where are Stacy and Sunday?’
‘They’re coming. I’m just a faster runner than they are.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Midnight on Christmas Eve. Couldn’t get a cab for love nor money.’
‘Midnight? Jeez,’ Tom said, kicking at the fire door. ‘It’ll all be starting in there …’
The door shook suddenly with the jump of a bolt. Tom and Chung backed away.
Blood poked his head out. ‘No one about. Now get your stupid arses inside quick.’
Tom looked at Chung. ‘Shouldn’t you stay here, get Stacy and Sunday inside?’
‘I’ve got things to do,’ said Chung, and pushed past him and Blood to get inside the building. ‘Where’s the action?’
‘I don’t know. We last saw Stubbe on the first floor, but …’
‘It’s as good a place as any to start looking,’ said Chung, and he ran off up the stairs.
‘Who’s your friend?’ joked Blood.
Tom heard Chung’s echoing footsteps fade. ‘That’s what I’m wondering.’
Together they took the stairs two at a time. But as they reached the first floor, a figure lurched out from the shadows.
It was Walker. He grabbed hold of Blood’s jacket and sank to his knees. ‘Help me,’ he hissed.
‘Oh God, this is all we need,’ sighed Blood.
‘I’ve done all they wanted and now … I’m nothing to them,’ said Walker, staring fearfully at Tom and Blood. ‘They’ll kill me, like they killed the others.’
‘Look, the door’s not guarded anymore,’ whispered Tom. ‘Go down there and wait outside, we’ll get help for you.’
‘No, they’ll kill me!’ Walker raised his voice. ‘Don’t you see?’
Blood clamped a hand over the man’s mouth, shushing him desperately. ‘He’s off his head with that drug, fatigue, God knows what else …’
‘Get him outside,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll get after Chung and try to find Kate.’
‘What? Leave all the heroic stuff to a little prat like you?’ Blood shook his head. ‘Come on, Tom, you babysit the doctor and let me steal into the lion’s den. I’m the responsible adult around here.’
Tom smiled. ‘You’re about the least responsible adult I know.’ He turned to leave. ‘Take it easy.’
‘Tom, wait!’
But Tom was already bounding up the steps, his heart racing. He knew there was no going back now.
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‘Behold,’ said Takapa reverently, ‘your new leader, the Great Wolf himself. Peter Stubbe, the founder of our kind.’
Kate stared, transfixed with horror as Araminta removed the glass front of the casket and the man inside slowly stirred. His chest began to rise and fall, awkwardly at first but soon falling into a deep, easy rhythm. The acolytes discreetly cleared the debris Hal had left behind from the front of the stage and took seats at the side, while Liebermann quietly retired to the rear with Anton and Friedrich. All three looked pale and spent.
Takapa kept the patter coming while Araminta gently helped Stubbe out of his transparent coffin. ‘A soul that has slept for hundreds of years has arisen in a rejuvenated body. He has come to us to preach the way of the lupine once more. On this day of human celebration, I give you … the Great Wolf.’
Stubbe took two tottering steps towards the front of the stage and stood there, swaying like a drunk. His dark eyes stared at
his expectant audience. The atmosphere was electric. Kate felt again that deep, ancestral fear course through her as his presence made itself felt.
But the Great Wolf said nothing at all.
‘A brief period of disorientation is to be expected,’ said Takapa, smiling confidently.
Stubbe flexed his fingers. He seemed transfixed by the simple movement of clenching and unclenching each fist in turn. A whispered wave of murmured awe swept through the astonished audience.
Then Kate’s blood chilled in her veins as Stubbe turned to look across into the wings, straight at her.
His face darkened. ‘Mädchen,’ he croaked. ‘Meine Tochter …’
‘He speaks in his native tongue,’ proclaimed Takapa, a little uneasily.
‘Not so,’ chimed in Liebermann, creating a fresh stir in the audience. ‘He uses modern German. Our native tongue.’
‘We have given him knowledge of the situation here,’ explained Friedrich, rubbing his skinny old hands together.
‘Brought him up to speed, you could say,’ agreed Anton.
Liebermann nodded. ‘Our magics are as old as he. They link us …’
‘Tochter …’ The word seemed to drag itself again from Stubbe’s mouth. He reached out a hand towards Kate, pain and confusion in his face.
‘It is the girl,’ hissed Liebermann, gesturing to Kate. ‘He is experiencing some conflict, believing her to be his daughter.’
‘Simply the after-echoes of Folan’s feelings, lingering in his subconscious,’ said Friedrich. ‘The effect will pass.’
‘You should remove the girl from the wings, Takapa,’ said Liebermann. ‘Take her from his sight.’
Anton nodded quickly. ‘Yes, yes, definitely.’
The audience were beginning to mutter more loudly now. Takapa angrily indicated to Araminta that she should move Kate.
The skinny woman walked off stage with an air of quiet calm, though as soon as she was in the wings, she gave Kate the filthiest look. Then she walked around to grab the back of the chair Kate was tied to.
