The Wolfman

by Jonathan Maberry

  The driver was a fierce man with a scarred face and two daggers in his belt. He eyed Gwen suspiciously and leaned out to look up and down the road to see if this was part of some trap. A second man sat next to him, a rifle across his thighs.

  “What do you want?” the first Gypsy demanded.

  “I’m looking for a woman named Maleva,” said Gwen. “Would you know her?”

  The two men exchanged a look.

  When they answered her it was in a long string of Romany. None of it sounded like directions where to find Maleva. Much of it sounded like threats.

  Gwen almost snarled at them in frustration and kicked her horse again. When she looked back, the Gypsies were standing on the wagon, watching her.

  LAWRENCE HUDDLED IN the lee of a disused barn, tearing at a cooked chicken he’d stolen from a farmhouse. It was meager, but he was so famished that he was grateful even for this.

  Far above, the sun was carving a path toward twilight. Lawrence did some math in his head and judged that there was nearly a full day left until he reached the Hall. The thought made his stomach clench and in disgust he threw the last of the chicken away. He was exhausted and he knew that if he didn’t get sleep now he would never have the strength to do what he needed to do tomorrow.

  Drawing his jacket tightly around him, he curled up on the cold ground. As he lay there, he thought of Ben and of his mother. He thought of his father. He thought of the horrific things that had been written with grotesque attention to detail in the newspapers.

  But when he dreamed, he dreamed of Gwen.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Inspector Francis Aberline opened the carriage door and stepped down onto the cobbled high-street of Blackmoor. Adams and Carter alighted behind him. Aberline had hoped never to return to this benighted little town, and had sworn to himself on that last bloody night that he would not do so alone. That part of the promise he kept. The doors of the carriage behind his opened and a half dozen of the toughest and most experienced officers of the Special Police stepped out. They were grim-faced men, all ex-soldiers, all battle hardened. Every one of them wore a gunbelt and carried a shotgun or heavy hunting rifle.

  The townsfolk saw the men, the guns and the unflinching determination in the eyes of these men, and they fled the streets. Doors were slammed and barred, windows shuttered. The church bell began to ring.

  Aberline smiled at this, and it was no longer the mocking smile he’d worn before the terrible incident out at the ruined abbey. No, this was the grim smile of a hunter who knows his prey and also knows that he has brought with him the right hunters and the right weapons to do the job. Francis Aberline would be damned before he would allow another slaughter.

  He led his men into the tavern and commandeered a long table. The men sat down and immediately took stock of their weapons and equipment. One man set a heavy ammunition box in the center of the table and flipped open the lid. Inside were rows upon rows of gleaming silver bullets.

  Carter reached out and selected a bullet from the box and admired it in the candlelight.

  “You’re sure he’ll come?” he asked.

  “Quite,” said Aberline. From an inside pocket he produced several maps on which names had been written and red crosses to indicate posts. As he handed them out he said, “Everyone knows their posts. Priory road, train depot, south lawn and the river. Adams . . . tell Sir John we’re here, and then stay in close to the estate. But not too close. We want to trap Talbot, not scare him off.”

  “What do we do if we confront the suspect?” asked one of the officers.

  Aberline’s eyes were as hard as flint. “Don’t engage him, don’t be drawn into conversation. You are to shoot on sight. Shoot to kill. Does any man here have a problem with that?”

  All of them had been in London during the massacre. The eyes that stared back at Aberline were as hard and cold as his own. No one had a problem at all.

  DISHEVELED AND DEFEATED, Gwen returned to the tavern where she had booked a room. She dismounted outside and stretched her back, aching from hours in the saddle. Over the last twenty-four hours she had found a dozen Gypsies, but none of them had given so much as the time of day. If any of them knew Maleva they shared nothing with Gwen. However, before she had gone two paces a figure stepped out of the shadows of the stable that adjoined the tavern. Gwen gasped and retreated a step . . . but it was only an old woman.

  A Gypsy woman. Instantly Gwen knew who this old woman was.

  “Maleva,” Gwen said, and the old woman nodded. Despite her years, the Gypsy woman’s eyes were sharp and shrewd.

  “What do you want from me?”

  Gwen licked her dry lips. “Lawrence Talbot.”

  Maleva’s eyes didn’t flicker. She said nothing.

  Gwen said, “You’re the only one who truly understands what has happened to him. Please . . . help me. I must save him.”

  The old woman took a step closer and peered at Gwen.

  “Do you love him?”

  There should have been a denial on her lips, or at least a hesitation in her response, but Gwen said, “Yes. I do.”

  “Then,” said Maleva, “leave him to his fate.”

  This was not what Gwen had searched all these miles to hear. She could feel her face flush with anger. “I will not! I’ve sought him for weeks. The moon is nearly on us.” She stepped forward, softening her tone. “Please! I beg you . . . tell me what to do.”

  For just a moment the stern mask of the Gypsy woman softened and the eyes lost their harshness.

  “You would risk your life to change what cannot be changed.”

  “I would risk everything for someone I love.”

  Maleva narrowed her eyes. “This love of yours. Is it selfish? Or is it fearless and true?”

  It was an odd question, and a dangerous one, and Gwen found herself unable to sort through the jumble of emotions in her heart. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will when the moment comes. You will have but one chance,” said Maleva quietly. “Look closely for it. Only then will you know the truth of what I say.” Then Maleva stepped closer and grabbed Gwen’s arm in a surprisingly powerful grip. “The Devil walks among us. May the Saints protect you . . .”

  The hand around Gwen’s arm was painfully tight, the fingers like talons.

  “May the Saints give you the strength to do what you must.”

  Their eyes were locked together and Gwen suddenly felt strange, as if the hand touching her and the eyes staring into her were more than just ordinary connections. She had the oddest sensation that something was passing from the old Gypsy woman and into her.

  The Gypsy released her and staggered back, visibly weakened.

  “Now go,” she gasped. “Go to him. Save him from the beast.”

  “I—” Gwen began, but Maleva cut her off.

  “Go!”

  Gwen backed away and then spun, swung into the saddle, and headed out of town, riding hard toward Blackmoor.

  NIGHT CAUGHT HIM on the road and flew ahead of his labored pace so that by the time he reached Talbot Hall the sun had burned away and darkness swept the world. Since the moon was still down, the sky was littered with a billion stars and by their light Lawrence emerged from the forest and beheld his ancestral home. No light shone in any of the windows. The walls looked cold and empty.

  Lawrence dropped his traveling satchel and hurried across the fields toward the house, running through the woods parallel to the road. From a hundred yards out he could see that the huge front door stood ajar, and as he drew close and climbed the stairs he saw leaves and other debris scattered outside and in. The house looked abandoned.

  As Lawrence reached to pull the door the rest of the way open a shiver of icy pain rippled up his back and he turned, thinking for a moment that he’d been struck. But he was alone.

  On the far horizon, above the sloping hills, the first white curve of the moon began slicing its way into the sky.

  “God . . .” he breathed.

/>   ABERLINE STOOD AT the edge of town, holding the reins of his horse as he watched the edge of the moon begin to creep over the horizon. When he heard a second horse galloping up the road, he turned to see Adams coming from the south. The detective reined in.

  “Carter hasn’t reported. He’s not at his post in front of the house.”

  “Maybe he’s . . .” he trailed off as a second horse came up the same road. Aberline turned, expecting it to be Carter or one of the others, but it was not. “Bloody hell,” he breathed.

  GWEN CONLIFFE SAW Aberline and another standing at the edge of town, on the road that led to Talbot Hall.

  “No!” she cried softly, and then set her jaw, jerked the reins hard to the left, and kicked her horse into a fast gallop down a side path. She knew every deer trail and walking path on the estate, but could she get to the Hall in time?

  “MISS CONLIFFE?” CALLED Aberline, but the woman vanished in the gloom behind a row of trees. “Get the others!” he yelled as he swung into the saddle. Without waiting for a reply he spurred his horse and raced down the road to follow the woman.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Lawrence pulled the door wide but did so carefully, making no sound. On cat feet he stepped into the foyer. When he was sure that he was alone, he moved deeper into the house.

  The entrance hall was as still as a tomb, the floor littered with leaves and the droppings from small animals. He heard creatures scurry away on tiny clawed feet, and he knew that it was not the presence of a man that had scared them but the presence of a predator. The wolf in his blood was screaming for release, and Lawrence threw all of his will against it. He reached under his shirt and closed his fist around the medal, praying for protection, for some fragment of mercy.

  Lawrence stopped at the foot of the stairs and listened to what the old house had to tell him. He was certain that Sir John was here . . . but where?

  All he heard was the night wind whistling through gaps in doors and windows left ajar. The big grandfather clock stood still and silent, the key in place but unwound for days. He crossed to the Ming urn between the double staircases, but his sword cane was no longer there.

  Then he heard a soft sound and turned toward the double doors that led to the Great Hall. Though the room beyond the opened doors was pitch-dark, he thought he saw the faint gleam of something red. Was it something crouched low to the ground?

  Lawrence steeled himself and moved into the room, pausing beside the grand piano, momentarily using its bulk to act like a barrier between him and whatever might be waiting in the dark. His night vision was growing sharper with each moment, his muscles tensed to attack. Or to run.

  He circled the piano and crept deeper into the Great Hall, his eyes fixed on that one hellish red eye.

  Lawrence stopped abruptly as he realized what it was, and didn’t know whether to laugh in relief or cringe in dread. It was a fading coal from a long that had nearly burned out. The soft sound was the log shifting. He saw the edge of his father’s high-backed settee positioned in front of the fire, and moved silently into the room, angling in a wide circle to be able to see if Sir John was sitting there, waiting for him. It took more courage and effort than he thought to cross that room.

  He crept closer and closer, his fists balled ready to fight, to lash out at the monster who had made him into a monster. Three steps away he saw a wineglass on the table within easy reach of the settee; at two steps he saw an overturned wine bottle that still dripped blood red wine onto the floor. Then he saw the curve of an elbow, the folds of dark cloth around an arm resting on the settee.

  “Father? . . .” he whispered, but his throat was so dry that his voice was barely a whisper. There was no answer.

  Lawrence took a breath and then jumped around the edge of the settee.

  A man sat there.

  But it was not Sir John.

  A man he did not recognize, wearing a dark tweed suit with a police detective badge pinned to his chest, sat in the chair. His legs were crossed casually, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his eyes open. But the man’s throat had been slit from ear to ear and blood had drenched the front of his clothes.

  Lawrence cried out in shock and horror and backed away.

  He ran to the wall and snatched down the big Holland & Holland elephant rifle that rested in brackets on the wall. Sir John must have done this. Even though the moon was not yet up, his father had to have done this. But why?

  The hunting rifle was heavier than he expected and the stock rasped against one of the clips. Lawrence froze, waiting for a sound from somewhere in the house.

  Nothing.

  He broke open the rifle . . . but it was empty.

  Lawrence was panting with tension now. He crossed to the cabinet beneath where the rifle had rested and quickly opened drawers until he found a box of shells. There was not enough light to tell if the heavy bullets were lead or silver. He selected one and tried to gouge it with a thumbnail. Lead was soft, silver was much harder. His nail left a clear line through the tip of the bullet.

  “Damn it to hell!” he snarled. It meant that he would have to go to Singh’s quarters and find his bullets. And he didn’t have the key.

  HE STAGGERED OUT into the entrance foyer, turned toward the grand double sweep of stairs and ran up the closest set, knowing that time was flying past him. His revulsion quickly gave way to fear as he could feel the strange itching begin beneath his skin. Not full, not yet. But there.

  At the top of the stairs, however, he paused. Singh’s room was at the back of the house, down and around the long hallway that was lined with the trophy heads of slaughtered animals. All of the candles in the sconces were dark and cold, but some faint brushstrokes of moonlight painted the carpet through the open doorways of disused bedrooms: His own, abandoned long ago. Ben’s transformed by the savage hungers of their father into a chamber capable of holding only memories; guest rooms that had provided no comfort for travelers in decades. Lawrence tried to feel some echo of Gwen’s warmth in this place, but the shadows held only threat and awful secrets.

  The doors to each room had been left open, and as he passed each black doorway he took a frightened look inside. On one side of the hall, the rooms were completely dark; on the other, the moonlight seemed to grow brighter with each careful step. He listened for the smallest sound . . . and heard nothing. But he did not search the rooms. The fire downstairs had burned low; Lawrence hoped that meant that Sir John had done the sane and decent thing and left the house to lock himself and his appetites in the mausoleum.

  Not that a single act of self-control on Sir John’s part would change how this night would end. How it had to end. Even if Sir John was locked in his cell Lawrence had decided to do what had to be done. He was going to kill his father. No pleading, no lies, no clever manipulations would save that monster now. Not after Ben. Not after all of the hurt and harm Lawrence had inflicted after his father—his own father—had passed along this spiritual cancer. This unholy curse.

  A single silver bullet to atone for the combined crimes of father and son, to wash away a river of blood.

  As Lawrence passed Ben’s room, he heard something and it froze him in place.

  A sound.

  Heavy breathing. Panting. Low and fierce.

  An animal sound.

  God! Was he here after all? . . .

  Lawrence put the rifle to his shoulder and stepped slowly into the room. The chamber was awash with moonlight and in the mirror Lawrence could see the reflection of the nearly risen Goddess of the Hunt. He licked his lips. The panting was coming from the far side of the bed. Something was there, hunkered down out of sight. As he slowly rounded the foot of the bed, Lawrence turned the rifle around and held it like a club, ready to smash, to crush.

  Let it end here, he prayed. Let it end now . . .

  He took the last step as a jump and raised the gun high, setting his teeth as he prepared to kill his father.

  Animal eyes stared up at him.

&nb
sp; But not the eyes of a monster.

  Samson, the great wolfhound, had worked itself into a narrow gap between bed and wall, and the massive dog shivered with terrible fear. It lay in a pool of its own urine, nervous drool flecking its muzzle, its eyes insane with a terror so profound that the animal looked near to death. Its breath steamed in the moonlight and when it saw Lawrence it simply closed its eyes and lowered its head as if expecting to die and willing to be killed without a fight.

  The sight struck Lawrence deep in his heart. He lowered the gun and backed away, sorry for the dog that he had hated and feared. No animal should suffer as it suffered, though Lawrence understood its terror. Or thought he did.

  Then, like the icy fingers of a ghost on the back of his neck, Lawrence felt an awareness touch him. Still holding the rifle like a war club, he whirled . . . but the room was empty. The doorway was empty, and when he stepped into the hall, it, too, was empty.

  What had he felt? It was as if he knew that eyes were upon him, but there was no one else here. The shadows on both sides of him stretched to the ends of the hallway, and nothing lived within them.

  THE FEELING GRADUALLY subsided, and it took Lawrence a dizzy moment to re orient himself. This once familiar house now felt like an alien landscape. The itching beneath his skin was maddening, and he snarled aloud in fury and frustration—and that cleared his head. The shapes and angles of the hallway regained their familiar form, and he staggered onward toward Singh’s room.

  The door was closed but not locked, and Lawrence burst through and into the Sikh’s quarters. Moonlight fell jaggedly into the room, and Lawrence turned to see that the windows were broken, the remaining fragments of glass like broken teeth.