Rose’s mum had turned even paler than usual. ‘How are we going to get your brother’s medication?’ she whispered.
‘We’ll just have to find another pharmacy,’ said Rose. She took hold of her mother’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s go looking.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, Whitehall, Central London, waning moon
‘Well,’ said the Foreign Secretary, his voice heavy with irony, ‘Britain is leading the world once again. At least in the number of werewolf killings.’
The Prime Minister glared at him over her half-moon glasses. This was a time for the utmost seriousness, not flippant remarks. She needed people around her she could rely on. Anyone in this room who didn’t carry their weight would have to be replaced. She wondered how many of these men and women she could really trust. Even in times of crisis, politicians were always on the lookout for advantage and political capital. She needed allies, not loose cannons.
The man had a point though. London really did seem to be the point of origin of this epidemic. The city was a month or two ahead of other world capitals in terms of the spread of the disease, or whatever it was. The New Year’s Eve attacks had been far more numerous in London than in any other city, although other countries had reacted very differently in response to the crisis.
‘How many killings in other countries?’ she asked. ‘Give me the breakdown by country.’
The Foreign Secretary’s Principal Private Secretary had the information on hand. ‘In the UK, as you know, the total number of deaths directly attributable to’ – he paused and cleared his throat – ‘werewolves is estimated to be between fifty and one hundred. That includes all known incidents dating back several months. Deaths due to last night’s rioting, arson and other violence is of the order of sixty-five, and the number of people killed by armed police currently stands at three, for a grand total somewhere in the region of one hundred and fifty. The number of injuries runs to many hundreds. I’ll provide you with a more accurate estimate as soon as I have reliable figures.’
The PM nodded grimly. The phrase currently stands reminded her of the consequences of her orders. But the alternative might be even more dreadful.
The Principal Private Secretary continued. ‘In Russia, numbers are difficult to pin down, as the government has declared a state of national emergency and has expelled all foreign journalists. Our Ambassador in Moscow estimates that while the number of werewolf killings may be relatively low, the authorities have used the emergency to impose a large-scale crackdown on suspected militants across the country. As many as five thousand individuals are reported missing. They may have been killed or merely imprisoned.
‘The situation in China is similar, with political dissidents being rounded up in significant numbers. As for deaths due to werewolves, it is impossible to put forward any reliable number.’ The Secretary referred to his notes. ‘In the United States, werewolf attacks have been reported in the cities of New York, Boston, Chicago, Philadelphia and Atlanta, with the total number of confirmed fatalities currently at twenty-two.’
‘Nothing on the west coast?’ asked the PM.
‘As of yet, no. However, riots have spread throughout the country and police have shot dead more than three hundred people. Overnight curfews have been imposed in the cities of Los Angeles and Washington DC. We are in close contact with the Department of Homeland Security and are exchanging information that may be of mutual benefit.’
‘What about Europe?’
‘Most European capitals have experienced suspected or actual cases of werewolf attacks, but not on the same scale as the UK. Romania is of particular interest, as many of the reported attacks date back at least a year. In fact, members of the public are coming forward claiming that werewolf attacks have been an open secret in the country for decades, although the government has dismissed such claims as superstition and hysteria.’
‘Hysteria,’ mused the Foreign Secretary. ‘So it wasn’t invented in Britain after all. Just another ghastly foreign import.’
‘Foreign Secretary,’ warned the PM sternly. ‘If you have nothing positive to contribute to this discussion, I would be obliged if you could keep your thoughts to yourself.’
The man opened his mouth to make some clever retort, but closed it again when he saw the look in her eyes. She would need to replace that man, and soon. The middle of a crisis wasn’t the ideal time to dismiss a colleague, but she had simply had enough of his snide comments. This would be the last COBRA meeting he attended. She had already chosen his replacement.
‘Tell me about the state of the overnight curfew,’ she told the Home Secretary.
‘I am pleased to report that this was carried out as planned, Prime Minister,’ replied the grey-haired man seated to the left of the Foreign Secretary. ‘Troop movements proceeded largely without a hitch, and the curfew was imposed from the hour of midnight as intended. The troops set up roadblocks and conducted searches of vehicles, and detained three hundred and fifty-eight suspects. There were only two reported injuries, and no rounds were fired.’
The Home Secretary was always professional in his approach. She had often thought him dull, but now she was thankful for his colourless face and his factual, precise reporting.
‘In addition to the overnight curfew,’ he continued, ‘police numbers have been strengthened. All police leave has been cancelled and officers are being re-assigned from desk duty to active patrol. All Authorised Firearms Officers have been issued with firearms and will carry them until further notice. Their objective will be to contain any further outbreaks of violence and disorder before it can spread.’
‘Good.’ The PM badly needed some good news. If they could contain the public disorder and rioting, they stood a chance of defeating the threat from the werewolves, before the disease or whatever it was could spread. ‘Do we have any idea why Britain has been so badly affected by this outbreak?’ she asked.
The Foreign Secretary raised one eyebrow but said nothing. The Home Secretary shuffled through his briefing notes but seemed to have none that might address the question. The other ministers present looked to their principal private secretaries, but no explanations were forthcoming.
A deep gravelly voice from the end of the table answered her. ‘Prime Minister,’ said the Director-General of the Security Service, MI5, ‘I believe I may know someone who can help us with that.’ The Director-General had the look of a retired prize-fighter. He leaned back in his chair, pushing his wiry glasses to the bridge of his nose with thick stubby fingers. ‘If you will allow me, I would like to introduce you to Doctor Helen Eastgate.’ He motioned to his secretary, who opened the door to the briefing room.
A young woman entered. She was in her early thirties, with curly blonde hair that had been pulled into a twist but was already starting to escape from the band that held it. She wore a well-tailored suit, but her blouse was misbuttoned, and the woman tugged at her jacket, as if she was unused to wearing anything so formal. She peered with curiosity at the rows of grey faces and grey suits that greeted her entrance. The PM was reminded of the day she had first entered Parliament, a young woman self-conscious amongst so many grey old men. Times had changed, and the room now held almost as many women as men.
‘Doctor Eastgate is a lecturer in infectious diseases at the Department of Genetics, Imperial College, London,’ explained the Director-General. ‘I believe she has information that will be of interest.’
The new arrival stepped forward. ‘Thank you for agreeing to hear me, Prime Minister,’ said the woman in a gentle Australian accent. ‘I’m actually a molecular geneticist.’ Without being offered a seat, she sat down next to the Director-General, who seemed vaguely taken aback by her directness.
The PM nodded encouragingly, concealing a smile at Doctor Eastgate’s behaviour. The woman’s confidence and her willingness to contradict the Director-General of the Security Services on a point of detail were more than enough to outweigh her untidy
appearance. The PM herself had been no stranger to wardrobe calamities when she’d first been elected to office. Whatever her looks, the young woman’s voice exuded credibility. ‘And what information do you have to tell us, Doctor Eastgate?’ she asked.
The woman’s voice rang clearly across the meeting room. ‘The identity of the ringleaders of the werewolves.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Holland Gardens, Kensington, London, waning moon
Adam slipped into the meeting room in the new house five minutes late, in calculated defiance of Leanna’s authority. The way she assumed command at every opportunity was increasingly grating. But he was disappointed to find that she wasn’t yet there. That was unusual. Leanna was usually punctual to an annoying degree.
Instead, Warg Daddy and one of his cronies sat at the table, both wrapped in black leather jackets and dark sunglasses. A ridiculous affectation. Adam wore tinted glasses himself when he raced under the bright floodlights of the track at the University Athletics Park, but even with the photosensitivity brought on by lycanthropy, he had no need of them in normal indoor lighting.
Adam slouched over to the meeting table and took his place opposite the two men.
Warg Daddy’s stupid bald head looked like a misshapen billiard ball and his thick black beard gave him the look of a modern-day buccaneer. Had these so-called War Councils been his idea? They sounded like the kind of thing the pompous jerk might have invented. Leader of the Pack, he called himself. Jerk.
Warg Daddy pointedly ignored Adam’s arrival, not even turning his head in his direction when Adam sat down.
Whatever. Adam could ignore Warg Daddy just as easily. He turned his attention instead to the stranger sitting next to him – a huge ginger-haired man, even taller than Adam himself, and broad-shouldered with it. The wolf tattoo on his thick neck was identical to Warg Daddy’s, showing that he was another of the Wolf Brothers, and just like his leader, he stank of engine oil and sweat. This must be Snakebite. Adam wondered why Leanna was so keen for him to come to the meeting.
He was an ugly bastard, his hair straggly and unkempt, reaching to his shoulders, a buzz of fiery stubble crawling over his face like sandpaper. His huge fists curled into tight balls on the table, a wash of prickly red hairs visible on the backs of his hands. And just like Warg Daddy he wore shades indoors.
The stranger turned his face toward Adam, removed his dark glasses and stared unnervingly straight at him. Adam stared back, unwilling to look away first. He suddenly wished he’d worn sunglasses after all. He felt naked and exposed under that relentless gaze. The stranger stroked his red beard thoughtfully and replaced the glasses on his ugly face, blacking out that measuring stare. Adam turned away in relief. So far nobody had said a word, and already he felt thoroughly humiliated.
Where was Leanna? The other two gave the impression they knew the answer, but Adam was damned if he was going to ask. Instead, he looked around the conference room, taking in the opulence of his new surroundings. They were in a basement room of the new house that the Wolf Brothers had found. The room was extravagantly furnished, with smooth granite floors that shone like mirrors, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and a grand piano in one corner. One wall held a TV screen bigger than any Adam had ever seen, and the wall facing him was sheer glass. Through the glass he could see an underground garage where a gleaming Aston Martin and a Bentley were parked next to the Wolf Brothers’ motorbikes.
How the hell had the Wolf Brothers managed to get hold of such luxurious accommodation at short notice? It was seriously impressive, although Adam would never give Warg Daddy the satisfaction of knowing that.
He stretched his long athletic legs under the marble table and leaned back defiantly in his chair, tipping it onto two legs. He balanced there for a minute, rubbing the faint scar on his nose that marked the spot where Leanna had once bitten him into submission, back in the mountains of Romania. As he did so, Leanna made her entrance.
Adam jumped to his feet when he saw her, shocked by her appearance.
She was dressed immaculately in a kind of business suit, her lips bright with crimson lipstick, her long blonde hair brutally tied back and anchored in a complex twist. But the right half of her face was covered with thick bandages. She walked slowly, one hand against the wall for support, her steps slow and uncertain. Even Warg Daddy looked appalled by the sight of her, and Snakebite got out of his chair and took a step toward her.
She raised a blistered and reddened hand to stop him. ‘I don’t need help,’ she snapped. ‘I can manage by myself.’ Slowly she made her way to the head of the table and sat down.
‘Oh my God,’ said Adam. ‘What happened to you?’
She said nothing in reply, but fixed him coldly with one blue eye. The other eye was hidden by the cloth that bound her head.
‘What happened?’ he repeated. ‘That looks like a chemical burn. Do you need medical treatment? You look like you ought to be in a hospital.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Adam,’ she snapped, her voice as cold as ice. ‘I can’t go to a hospital. I treated myself perfectly well, as you can see.’
‘But, what …’
Leanna cut him off before he could ask his question a third time. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. It doesn’t concern you. We have other matters to discuss.’
Adam stared back insolently. Whatever had happened to Leanna, she clearly wasn’t willing to accept any help, or even to discuss it. Adam didn’t care. She could suffer in silence if she wanted to. She made him suffer enough.
Her crystal blue eye stared coldly back at him, seeming to read every thought in his head. Adam turned away and found that Warg Daddy and Snakebite were also staring in his direction. Dammit! It should have been Adam sitting in Warg Daddy’s chair as Leanna’s lieutenant, or better still, in charge of this entire operation. Adam had been one of the three original werewolves, the second in fact, after that idiot Samuel, and before Leanna herself. Now he’d been side-lined and these upstart Wolf Brothers were trying to push him further down the tree, as if they expected him to just submit to it. There was only so much humiliation that he could take.
Leanna broke the awkward silence. ‘Let’s get this meeting started,’ she said.
Straight to business, thought Adam grudgingly. He admired Leanna for that, at least. There was never any bullshit when Leanna was in charge, he would be the first to admit it.
‘You already know Warg Daddy of course,’ she said to Adam. She nodded to the man at her side. ‘Let me introduce Snakebite, Warg Daddy’s second-in-command.’ She turned to the man with the ginger beard. ‘Snakebite, this is Adam Knight. He was with me in Romania, with Professor Wiseman and Samuel Smalling.’
The red-haired monster lifted a hairy hand toward Adam. ‘Good to meet you, Adam. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Adam glared at the hand for a moment, before reaching out to shake it. The huge fist closed tightly, almost crushing his fingers in its grip. ‘Hi,’ he managed.
Snakebite nodded his head, weighing the word carefully as if Adam had made some profound pronouncement, before eventually releasing his hand.
‘So, Warg Daddy, you found us a house, just like I asked,’ said Leanna.
Warg Daddy looked pleased with himself. ‘It belongs to a Russian billionaire,’ he said. ‘It’s designed to be private and secure. You’ve seen the size of the place. High hedges screening us from the road, underground parking, security cameras all around. The neighbouring houses are currently empty, apart from skeleton staff. This house is perfect for us.’
‘What about the owner?’
‘Away. The family was here for a week just before Christmas. They won’t return for several months at least.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Adam.
‘We questioned the security guard and the maid. We made sure they weren’t lying.’
‘What did you do with them?’ asked Leanna.
‘Dead. They won’t be talking to anyone again.’
‘Any other staff?’
‘Not while the house is empty. We have the place to ourselves.’
‘Good,’ said Leanna. ‘Excellent work, Warg Daddy. And you too, Snakebite.’
Warg Daddy’s face didn’t change at the praise. Snakebite’s head tilted forward, almost imperceptibly.
Leanna switched her attention to Adam. ‘What about you, Adam? Your job was to locate James.’
‘Sure,’ said Adam. ‘I’m on to it.’
‘What progress have you made?’
Adam shrugged. ‘I watched James’ house, but it’s obvious that he doesn’t live there anymore. I called in, pretending to be someone who knew James, but his father said they’d heard nothing from him in weeks. He was telling the truth, I’m sure. No one has any idea where he’s gone.’
He thought she would interrogate him for details, reprimand him for his lack of progress, but she simply nodded absent-mindedly and said, ‘Keep watching anyway. I want him found.’ It was as if she had something else on her mind, presumably whatever or whoever had caused the injury to her face.
Her next statement surprised him too. ‘The purpose of this War Council is to decide our future strategy,’ she announced. ‘Let me hear your ideas.’
Adam blinked in astonishment. It was unlike Leanna to ask for suggestions. Usually she just gave orders. He opened his mouth to speak, but Warg Daddy beat him to it.
‘We attack,’ rumbled the big man. ‘Hit hard. The Wolf Brothers are ready to fight. I say we pick out some key targets and take them down.’
Adam shook his head. ‘The Wolf Brothers are … how many? Nine? How do you think you stand a chance against the British Army?’
Wolf Daddy flexed his muscles. ‘We adopt guerrilla tactics. We choose vulnerable targets, strike hard, then disappear into the night. It’s like Iraq, Afghanistan. The army can’t deploy heavy weapons in a city like London. We have the advantage.’
Lycanthropic (Book 2): Wolf Moon (The Rise of the Werewolves) Page 12
