And then, suddenly, with a high-pitched shriek like the sound of a dog triggering a trap, the creature threw itself back. At first Henry thought he was dead, the shriek his point of entry into heaven, or hell. But he was aware of sounds around him, light on his face, the smell of the house. He drew his arms away from his eyes and looked on the wolf, shuddering and trembling against the far wall. Before him, the creature began to change, slowly and indefinable in its transformation, but certainly changing. Its talons shrivelled away on its fingers, the glowering of its eyes cooled, the fetid coarse hair covering the beast’s body receding and sinking back into beautiful cream skin. As the quivering grotesque of twisted stretched limbs shrank down to the elegant perfection that was Sandrine, the trembling slowed and then stopped. Within an instant, the transformation was over. The feral wolf had shrunk and slipped back and in its place Sandrine lay naked and exhausted on the floor of the house, her white skin shimmering with a fine coating of sweat.
Henry gazed on in bewilderment. The palms of his hands were flat to floor, his back pressed tight against the wall. He was aware of a throbbing in his skull and a fogginess in his vision. But there was no doubt what he was looking at now, and what he had seen. Sandrine lay prickled with sweat across the floor, unmoving, save for her sharp breaths, as if she was wounded. He stared and he stared, unable to take in just what he had witnessed. The wolves. The murder and carnage. The decimation of his men.
Sandrine? Surely not her?
He was aware of a searing heat on the skin of his throat. His hand shot to his neck and tightened about the pendant of Francis of Assisi about it, the circle of metal feeling hot in his sweaty palm. At once it cooled, Henry feeling its indentations and marks against his palm. He was aware of his breathing, loud and urgent, the cool of the metal seeming to pass like a shiver through his body. He trembled and stared.
Sandrine slowly raised her head. Her face was crimson and dashed with the blood of the Major. Her eyes were dark and deep, like coals awaiting fire’s touch. She was breathing hard. They stayed as they were, Sandrine prostrate on the ground, her eyes turned to Henry; he with his back hard to the wall, hand on the pendant, eyes fixed to hers for what seemed an age before finally they spoke.
“What are you?” he cried, fear in his eyes and in his voice as he pressed himself as far into the wall as possible. “What …” Henry started again, trying desperately to find the right words. But they didn’t come.
“I’m not like them, Henry,” she said, still prone on the floor. “You must believe me.”
Henry tried to reply, but his head span and his tongue was still. His eyes fell on the bloodied remains of a body, the lower torso, legs still attached, a bloody mincemeat mess to the side of the room, its arms cast nearby in the frenzy of feeding. He turned his head away, his eyes closed, repulsed by the vision. There was blood up the walls, dashed like paint thrown wantonly from a paint pot. He thought he was going to be sick, but the sensation soon passed when he closed his eyes. He breathed in deeply and asked, “Was that – was that your handywork?”
“It was,” Sandrine replied without hesitation. “It was Major Pewter, he came looking for me, came to try and take what I wouldn’t give him before.”
The fear began to leave Henry’s eyes. “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you,” Henry retorted, exhaling and inhaling deeply.
“Don’t joke,” Sandrine hissed.
“I’m not,” Henry replied, putting his head slowly back against the wall. The back of his skull pounded with pain. He used the feeling to focus himself back on the room, back to his discovery and the revelations about Sandrine, to stop himself from collapsing into unconsciousness. He let go of his pendant and put his hand gingerly behind his head, nursing the wound.
“Francis of Assisi,” Sandrine muttered on seeing the pendant fall free. Slowly she moved, easing herself up. She sat, resting on an arm for balance, her left leg crossed under her. She gave no consideration to the fact she was naked in front of Henry. She raised a hand and smeared the drying blood from her face. Henry couldn’t stop his eyes from falling onto her dark nipples, tracing the line of them down to her belly button and the dark forest of hair further below. “Your pendant.”
“Oh, that? Yes. A gift. From my grandmother. To keep me safe.”
“She is a wise woman.”
“Maybe,” he said. He winced and pulled his hand in front of his face to inspect his crimsoned fingers. “What makes her so wise?”
“Assisi. The tamer of wolves.”
“Is that what you are, Sandrine? A wolf?”
He asked it like the question was a dart to be thrown, dead straight, with no deviation or doubt.
Sandrine looked at Henry hard. “I’m not one of them.”
“Then what are you?!” he cried passionately, looking back to the remains of Pewter and then away, wrenching his eyes to the side.
“I am a ‘half wolf’.”
The answer more confused than helped him. He looked back at her, his attention caught, for the moment.
Sandrine sat up, pushing her hair from her face. “I was born of human and werewolf. My father was a werewolf, a ‘true wolf’, as they are called by some. My mother, she was his sweetheart, when they were both … human.”
The word appeared to stick hard within Sandrine’s throat. She rose onto her feet and padded slowly to the kitchen, Henry turning to look away out of decency to her. She returned wearing an apron.
“It’s all I could find,” she said, recognising how ridiculous she looked with her front partially covered, her buttocks and back entirely exposed, save for a tie around the spine of her back.
Henry felt his face crack a little in mirth, but his features tightened when he remembered the scene into which he had walked, the blood lust and violence created by the woman in front of him, if indeed she even was a woman.
“Your mother,” Henry began, still trying to find the words, “she loved a werewolf?!”
“You do not understand, Henry.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You stare at me with such cold eyes, Henry. All our lives we have felt this look. It is not fair.”
“Try telling that to Pewter. Try telling that to my men!” His voice cracked as he cried the words.
“Are they all dead?” asked Sandrine, quietly.
Henry nodded. “We’re the only ones left.”
“How did you ...? Oh, my dear Henry!” Sandrine sobbed, beginning to weep. “I thought you were dead?”
At first Henry resisted the urge to come forward and console her. But as she broke down and wept uncontrollably, he saw, for the first time, the fragility within her. Without hesitation any longer, he scrambled forward from the wall and took Sandrine into his arms. His mind swam, his skull cried, his heart felt fit to burst. If she changed before him now into the beast; if this was merely some ruse to fool him into her arms so that she could devour him, to hell with it! Let it be so! Everything Henry had known, or thought he knew, had crumbled and fallen like sand through his fingers. In that moment he knew he was as ignorant and as helpless as a newborn baby. All he knew, the only thing he felt, was that the woman whom he held crying and whimpering in his arms he loved; he loved her with all his heart and his passion and every part of his being. So if this was a trick, let him be ripped asunder and devoured, bones and skin and all. For if she did not love him or she would not let him love her, then he would rather be dead than live never knowing. He thrust his arms around her and held her tight. He felt her body shudder beneath him and he refused to pull away for a long time.
When he did, he cupped her face in his hands and looked deep into her eyes. He wiped the tears from them with the tips of his fingers and kissed her gently on the lips, holding her tightly into his chest.
“I was on a machine-gun post. The wolves, they came up the trench. One of them leapt for me. Caught the gun in its mouth. I pulled the trigger, the gun exploded. I was thrown backwards. I went down into a hole. I hit my
head. I remembered no more. I awoke covered in debris. Clearly the fall saved me. I am sorry. I speak of the werewolf as it. It might have been your father.”
“No, it can’t have been my father,” replied Sandrine, drawing herself into a tight ball within Henry’s arms. “For my father is dead.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
The dark-haired woman shook her head, as if his death was not of importance or had passed too long ago to affect her now.
Sandrine reached forward and took the pendant into the tips of her fingers.
“Your grandmother,” she asked, “did she know of the wolves?”
“If she did, she never said anything.”
“Rescue me, O Lord,” Sandrine began, “from evil men. Preserve me from violent men, who despise evil things in their hearts, they continually stir up wars. They sharpen their tongues as a serpent. Poison of a viper is under their lips.”
“You know your bible better than me.”
“Francis of Assisi,” replied Sandrine, reaching forward and tracing the contours of Henry’s face with her fingers. “He asked for it to be read as he died. Henry,” she said, a serious and august look on her face, “let me tell you about my people.”
EIGHTY-FIVE
06:32. FRIDAY, 16 OCTOBER 1914.
THE FRONT LINE. FAMPOUX, NR. ARRAS. FRANCE.
Tacit’s heavy coat, packed with ammunition, holy relics, lanterns and oil, weaponry, gauntlets, iron provisions and stakes, hung taut from his immense frame, tight across his shoulders, pockets bulging, the fabric of the coat so stretched that it seemed it would never return to its former shape. Every imaginable tool, apparatus, symbol and weapon had been stowed somewhere within, buried in a pocket or slipped inside a fold of the coat. The Inquisitor clinked as he walked, every footstep seeming a little bit heavier than the last.
Sister Isabella watched from the outskirts of Fampoux, her arms wrapped tight around her waist. Tacit stopped and peered into the grey skies of morning, taking in the light, as if it might be the last time he saw it. He looked back over his shoulder, to the frail dark figure in the distance. He raised a hand and held it aloft until the figure returned the farewell. He felt something he hadn’t felt before. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it. It made him feel mortal, and where he was going, feeling mortal was not a good feeling to have.
He bowed his head and vanished into the yawning black of the lair.
Tacit was surprised that the stench from the passage wasn’t greater. It smelled cleaner than most werewolf caves he had visited, sweetish, with only the vague scent of rot in the air. He removed a small lantern from a deep pocket and, with a click, it sprang into life.
Bowing as he went due to his height, Tacit stepped forward, his senses alert to the smallest movement, the lightest of noises. His right hand he held out to the side of him, his fingers wide, almost like a counterbalance to the rest of his bulk, ready to spring forward, to move sharply to the side. He felt his revolver knock against his thigh and the silver-bolted crossbow against his rib cage. There was no need to draw these weapons yet. The wolves would be sleeping, slumbering in human form. Daytime was the only time one could attempt an extermination. Night assaults on werewolf lairs weren’t called ‘Hombre Lunatic Assaults’ for nothing. They were carried out in only the most urgent of cases.
Tacit stopped and bent down. The ground here was churned, not the pathway cut by a multitude of wolf paws but by a body that had fallen and had struggled back to its feet. The sides of the pathway showed where it had floundered. Tacit reached up and felt the lip in the ceiling of the cave. There was a residue of blood on it. So the British had come this way and unleashed the creatures. Tacit shook his head and cursed. Mankind’s inquisitiveness. It would be the death of us.
The passage turned to the right and then widened to a cavern, deep and widely cut. The stench from this cavern was greater than in the corridor and quickly Tacit saw why – a multitude of bones, piled high and cast about the floor, gnawed and snapped open for the nutritious marrow inside. But there was an even greater stench coming from the way beyond, like an animal’s cage uncleaned for a thousand years. Its smell stuck in his throat. It came from the dark, yawning archway beyond. Without hesitation, Tacit raised the lantern and stepped towards it.
It was a wide and well-trodden tunnel. The cavern through which he had just passed was an outpost, he guessed, a place to gather to listen to the village, or perhaps somewhere the villagers would bring offerings and sustenance to the clan. It was well known that people living close to wolf clans would bring them offerings as a way to appease them, to encourage them to look elsewhere, an ineffective ruse to try and deflect their hunger. Tacit shook his head disdainfully and strode on. Little did people know that when their rage came, wolves would look for food wherever their senses told them food was to be found. No offerings would, or could, appease them, not in Tacit’s opinion. Leaving offerings was as effective as telling a circling shark that you couldn’t swim.
The passageway ran downwards, curving down, down into the chalky earth. There were ruts in the ground, up and down where wolves had passed for countless decades, maybe longer. Tacit went slowly, knowing that a slip might be fatal, his hand on the wall, his feet feeling his way forward. The passage began to level out, turning slowly around to the right. Now there were corridors, running off from the main passageway, giving the underground network a labyrinthine feel. Tacit stuck his head down each he passed and sniffed, but each time he turned back to the main corridor and continued along it. There was a strong smell of excretion and evisceration down these side passageways, in part oddly familiar. Whilst the wolves were monsters, they were still part human. Tacit was heading where the air was less rancid, the stench less foul. To the heart of their clan.
There was a cry from the tunnels ahead, a lonesome mournful cry, full of pity and sorrow. Tacit stopped and listened. He wondered if they knew he was coming. When he'd fought werewolves during daylight hours before, often they would lie down before him as he executed them one by one, as if relieved that the end had come. It gave Tacit no joy at giving them their final relief. In many ways he felt he was betraying his Church by ending their curse ahead of God’s allotted time. But increasingly, the worry that the truth behind the existence of wolves, that they’d been created by the Catholic Church’s meddling, might somehow find its way out into the wider population, had caused the Church to make executions a necessity to keep the wolves’ secret remaining just that. Secret and unspoken. The problem was the Church had been so busy throughout the many centuries it had cursed and condemned that the werewolves were many.
The Inquisitor walked on, but now his hand was on the handle of his holstered gun. Just in case.
Ahead the passageway stopped and opened wide into a vast cavern. The heart of the clan. Tacit could see a multitude of shadows moving within it, wretchedly thin and foul-looking figures, slinking away from the lantern light, broken and desperate souls weeping and creeping away as the Inquisitor entered. Had Tacit had a heart for the putrid creatures, he would have wept at their pathetic existence. As it was, they filled him with loathing and revulsion as he stood at the doorway of the passageway and cried, in a voice darker than pitch, “Hombre Lobo! My name is Inquisitor Tacit! For your crimes against the Church you have lived out your pitiful wretched existence down here in the bowels of the earth. I am here to end your suffering. This sickness is not to end in death, but for the glory of God, so that the Son of God may be glorified by it. Consider this your redemption!”
A few of the figures howled and cried out, slapping themselves about the face and body, whether in joy or torment Tacit did not know. But the Inquisitor was surprised. He had expected more of a reaction from the clan, knowing that their end was nigh. Instead, most stared at him in silence, with their hollow, grey eyes, staring, unmoving. Suddenly one of the figures drew itself out of the crowd, more wretched and broken than any of the others. He looked as old as the hills and rotten within his very
soul. He limped forward and kneeled in the very centre of the hall, his head bowed, as if awaiting his execution.
Tacit’s eyes flittered around the cavern. He sensed a trap. The silence was too great, the wolves’ subservience too apparent. He took out his silver revolver and held it up, the cylinder facing the wolves, to show he was armed and armed appropriately. Silver was the only weapon of use against the wolf, silver like that of the moonbeams which so confounded them in the dead of night. One or two of them again wept at the weapon’s appearance, but the rest sat and eyed the Inquisitor with a melancholy quiet.
For several moments Tacit held the gun in the air, waiting for anything which confirmed a trap, a reaction, a muttering, a sudden movement. But all the massed wolves, thirty or forty of them, sat staring at him, unmoving.
“Hmm,” muttered Tacit, and for once he was at a loss. But there was nothing else for it. He stepped forward towards the human wolf kneeling before him. He lowered the revolver at the rank head of the creature and cocked the hammer.
And it was then that all hell broke loose. From every angle, the wolves leapt. Tacit turned and fired twice, two wolves cartwheeling backwards, dead in the air, then ground under foot by the hordes of others bearing down on him. Within the maelstrom of bodies, Tacit’s lantern was lost, darkness enveloping him. He struck a figure square in the face, breaking his jaw and sending him sprawling. He got a thumb into an eye socket of another and dug deep, pressing through the eye ball and into the brain beyond. But there were too many hands on him, hard fingers groping and striking, pinning him down. He butted another figure in the nose and sent it reeling backwards but, unable to fight against the tide of wretchedness, his limbs were spread and his face was pushed firm into the rancid dirt of the cavern. And then a hard sharp object struck the back of his head and everything went black.
EIGHTY-SIX
06:12. FRIDAY, 16 OCTOBER 1914. FAMPOUX, NR. ARRAS. FRANCE.
The Darkest Hand Trilogy Box Set Page 34