He walked home for a change of clothes, which he stuffed into a small duffel bag. An hour later, with the bag in hand, he returned to his original post at the corner across the street from the bookstore. Angela had reopened the shop for business, and her companion’s Jeep remained parked down the block. So he waited again.
At 5:00 PM, he watched Angela close the shop. When she passed the steps leading to her apartment, he crossed the street to her side of the block. The wind had changed direction, and he inhaled her scent. Her body reeked of the man he had seen with her. Smelling their lust and fluids, he promised himself he would enjoy ripping her to pieces.
She headed across the street toward a deserted apartment building with plywood over its windows.
Janus stopped behind a streetlamp. What’s she up to?
The wind changed direction again, and he saw Angela’s body stiffen even as she failed to break her stride.
She knows I’m here. She did that on purpose! The bitch wants to play games.
Angela mounted the building’s stone steps. At the top, she opened the front door.
As Angela entered the building, Janus crossed the street, licking his chops.
Entering the narrow foyer, Angela stood before the inside door. Its glass panes had been smashed in, leaving only the skeletal metal frame, which had been propped open with a brick. Through the doorway, she discerned the deep lobby of the pre–World War II building. Shafts of light shone through the dusty windows from which plywood had been removed and discarded on the floor. She stepped forward, shoes crushing shards of glass, and approached the wide stairway.
Her gaze settled on a flash of red: a fresh rose sticking out of one of the tarnished brass mailboxes along the wall near the stairs. Plucking the short-stemmed flower from its resting spot, she raised it to her nose and inhaled its fragrance. She suppressed a smile and hurried up the stairs, footsteps echoing above her.
No sooner had she reached the second landing than she heard the outside door close downstairs. Moving faster, with all the stealth she could manage, she passed five open apartment doorways through which seeped gray sunlight.
Janus entered the foyer and smiled. The glass lying on the floor lacked a coating of dust. Someone had just recently smashed the glass so he could reach in and unlock the door from the inside. Janus scanned the gloomy interior. The stairway was impossible to miss, and his olfactory senses told him the bitch had gone upstairs. As he climbed the stairs, he took off his coat, allowing it to fall behind him, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.
Angela quickened her pace as she ascended the stairway leading to the third floor. She knew better than to look over the banister but couldn’t resist. Two floors below, a shadow elongated across the tiled floor. The shadow bag in its hand made her think of a doctor making a house call. As the Berserker reached the bottom of the stairs, she moved closer to the wall, beyond his sight, and held her breath. The rustling of fabric below grew loud.
On the second-floor landing, Janus shed his shirt and flexed his muscles in the cool, musty darkness. He stepped out of his shoes when he reached the next flight of stairs, where he set down his bag, peeled off his socks, unbuckled his belt, and dropped his trousers. Naked, he ran up the stairs.
Shift, shift.
At the top, he dropped to all fours and sprang forward.
As Angela reached the fourth and final floor, she heard a deep growlbelow her and sprinted down the hallway, unmindful of the noise she made. She heard the scrabbling of claws on the stairs behind her. Seizing one more banister, she glanced up the stairs into darkness. She prayed that Stalk had left the rooftop door unlocked and bolted forward. Behind her, claws raked the floor. With her heart pounding, she charged into the blackness, arms flailing for the door that she knew had to be there.
The air grew stale and oppressive, and she choked back her scream.
Janus ran full tilt after the bitch. Careening around the banister, he glimpsed Angela disappearing into the shadows above as his body crashed into a wall. Without missing a beat, he leapt onto the stairs, her scent filling his nostrils.
With great anticipation, he raced after her.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Feeling hot breath and spittle on the backs of her legs, Angela flung open the door and stared up at the cloudy sky. Spinning around, she saw a heavy shape racing toward her, and she slammed the door on it. The Berserker smashed into the door, bowing it forward. She pressed her palm on the sliding bolt and threw her weight against the door, forcing it shut again. An angry, protracted roar filled her ears as she shoved the bolt into place. She searched the rooftop while the beast lunged at the door once more. The tarred roof led to a brick wall that faced her building. The divider separated it from the next building’s silver roof, which reflected the gray sky. And at the far corner of that roof, she saw the utility shed.
John.
And then the Berserker slammed into the door with such fury that she staggered forward. One dent after another appeared in the door as the sound of pounding filled the air. Sucking in her breath, she ran around the stairway entrance, her shoes scraping tar paper. When she reached the back she heard the door explode off its hinges and skid across the roof.
Janus had soared through the doorway and the air and landed on all four paws. Throwing his head back, he howled, challenging the bitch to show herself.
And then the man emerged from behind the utility shed on the next roof.
Skinwalker, Stalk thought. Yee Naaldooshii. Limikken. In any tongue, a shape-shifter or a werewolf.
The jet-black beast howled, stout muscles rippling beneath its fur.
This is what you came back for, he told himself. And before the monster had time to locate Angela, Stalk stepped out from behind the shed in plain view of his prey. The skinwalker froze for a moment, as if waiting for him to cower. When he didn’t, it rose on its hind legs, standing a full seven feet tall, and roared its fury.
Stalk did not have time to study the creature’s anatomy, but his mind registered distinct human configurations intertwined with animal features. The beast resembled a perfect fusion of the two species, at once majestic and ferocious. As it narrowed its cunning eyes at him, Stalk raised his bow.
“What is that?” Angela said upon viewing the professional hunting bow in her basement apartment in the aftermath of their sex.
“A Diamond Marquis bow,” Stalk said with pride, gripping the lightweight, forged aluminum frame in both hands.
“It doesn’t look like a bow to me.” She examined the high-techbow’s roller guard/string suppresser.
Stalk pulled on the string, demonstrating the bow’s unique balancing system. “Guns aren’t the only weapons that have gotten deadlier in the last two hundred years.”
She looked into his eyes. “What are you planning to do with this?”
“The Comanche believed a wolf should always be killed with an arrow. If a rifle was used, it never shot straight again.”
“You’re not a Comanche.”
“Tom Lenape taught me to look for truth in all Indian beliefs. Besides, I saw what happened when that cop shot at the skinwalker in the subway tunnel. He hit it once, then not again. He couldn’t believe it.”
“You can’t seriously be thinking of going up against the Berserker with a bow and arrow?”
“You have your religion; I have mine.”
With powerful speed, the skinwalker charged across the rooftop. It leapt over the brick divider and landed on the adjoining roof, then arched its back and howled in agony as steel jaws snapped shut above his rear right paw. The skinwalker pitched forward, then caught itself and reared up again. Traps surrounded it like the mouths of baying enemies.
Stalk withdrew a silver-tipped steel arrow from the quiver on his back, then strung it and pulled it back. He had positioned the dozen antique, double-spring wolf traps and then painted them silver to blend in with the roof’s reflective surface. Urban camouflage.
The skinwalker reached do
wn with both claws and pried the trap open. The bloody metal teeth left deep gouges in its lower leg, through which Stalk glimpsed damaged bone. Behind the creature, he saw Angela creep around the stairway structure on the next roof.
Concentrate! Put her out of your mind.
The skinwalker stared at him, its dark eyes filled with loathing. Stalk released the arrow, which rocketed through the air. The Wolf chopped the arrow with one claw, redirecting it to the roof, where it triggered another trap.
Remaining calm, Stalk drew another arrow and aimed it at the skinwalker, which limped between traps. Ignoring Angela’s frightened expression, he centered the arrow on the creature’s torso. The arrow soared through the air, but the Wolf managed to deflect it with a claw swipe. Stalk drew his third arrow with greater speed. This time the skinwalker swiped at the arrow a second too late, and the shaft drove into his left shoulder, the silver tip emerging from the other side. The monster snarled in anger more than pain, Stalk thought as he drew a fourth arrow.
Rather than attempt to yank the arrow from its shoulder, the skinwalker jumped forward, clearing the traps. It landed on his right foreclaw and left rear claw, compensating for its injuries. With sweat stinging his eyes, Stalk released the fourth arrow into the roof a foot ahead of the beast. For an instant, man and Wolf stared at each other. Then the skinwalker charged, galloping on three paws and dragging his right leg behind him.
With no time to string another arrow, Stalk dropped the bow at his feet and unsheathed a hunting knife with his right hand. The silver blade gleamed in the light, and Angela screamed as the muscular creature leapt into the air. Stalk took the full impact of the skinwalker’s weight in his chest and drove his knife into the creature’s side even as he staggered backward.
The creature sank its fangs into Stalk’s collarbone, and Stalk felt his buttocks strike cement an instant before he toppled over the retainer with the monster on top of him. Feeling his stomach lurch, he flailed his left arm as they plummeted off the rooftop.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Mace noted the beefed-up police presence as he drove through the Village: foot patrols, K-9 cops, and squad cars crisscrossed the downtown area. As he drove down St. Mark’s Place, he thought Stalk had furnished Gibbons with Synful Reading’s business address rather than Angela Domini’s home address. When he parked before the shop, he realized this was not the case. The shop and her basement apartment shared an address. Getting out, he felt electricity in the air. The rain would come soon for sure, probably in torrents. He descended the narrow concrete steps to the door at the bottom and pressed the doorbell. When no one answered, he knocked on the door. Then he heard a long, inhuman wailing coming from nearby.
The howling of a wolf.
What the hell?
He turned with disbelieving eyes to the stairs, the hair on his neck standing on end. Whatever made that sound was in pain. For a moment, he stood rooted to the spot. Then he sprang into action, taking the steps two at a time. As soon as he reached the top, he saw that the nearby pedestrians had heard the sound as well, for they stood gazingup at the building tops, scanning them for activity.
An animal roar filled the sky, and two figures fell from the roof of the building across the street, only one of them human. Mace heard gasps all around him.
With his left arm wrapped around the skinwalker’s neck and his right hand still gripping the handle of the silver blade he had driven into the creature’s side, Stalk felt grateful that he had pulled the monster over the edge with him. He prayed to the spirit Wakan Tanka that the limikken would not survive the fall. Then he heard Angela screaming, and his back absorbed an unexpected impact.
Mace recognized Stalk as the man crashed onto the building’s old black fire escape. What his mind refused to accept was the existence of the creature that landed on top of the tribal policeman. The thing was larger than a man and covered with black fur, humanoid in configuration but canine—lupine—beyond that. The beast’s head jerked up, its teeth tearing Stalk’s army jacket and flesh, producing a geyser of blood. It snapped its jaws in the air, devouring whatever meat it had torn from Stalk’s torso.
Stalk screamed, and Angela appeared at the rooftop’s edge, eyes wide with fear and her right hand reaching down toward Stalk. The monster swiped at Stalk’s torso with its right claw, then drove its open jaws into his belly.
All around Mace, people screamed.
Stalk felt his collarbone snap, then saw the skinwalker raise its head, his own pink muscle tissue stretching from his wound to the beast’s powerful jaws. The agony that shot through his body forced him to release the knife and clamp his hand over the gory mess between his neck and left shoulder. Why had Wakan Tanka spared him from certain death only to deliver him to a far worse fate? Screaming, he saw Angela appear above him with tears in her eyes. He wanted to yell at her to run away, to get as far from her fellow Wolf as possible, but the creature sitting on top of him spread his legs wide apart, taking its weight off his chest, and drove its gaping jaws inside Stalk’s stomach. His entire midsection burned with pain as the skinwalker’s teeth pierced his flesh. Then the monster jerked its head to one side, splattering the brick wall behind it with Stalk’s flesh.
Stalk felt hot liquid gush onto his left hand and knew it was his own blood. Then the Berserker stared down at him, its bloody lips peeled back to reveal red slicked teeth jutting out, and Stalk saw his terrified reflection in the creature’s dark eyes. The skinwalker raised its left claw high in the air, then used it to rake his torso. Stalk felt his flesh open along with the fabric of his jacket and shirt, and blood fountained out. The Berserker drove its snout inside his belly, and he felt razor-sharp teeth feasting on his insides.
Angela leapt on top of the ledge and crouched there, ready to pounce despite the crowd of spectators in the street below. Making eye contact with her, Stalk shook his head, his face turning red. She hesitated, and in that instant the Berserker burrowed into Stalk’s belly headfirst. Arching his own back, Stalk seized the end of the arrow sticking out of the Berserker’s left shoulder and jerked it back and forth, inflicting additional pain on the beast.
The Berserker forced his entire face inside Stalk’s belly, twisting it from side to side as he feasted on the helpless man’s insides.
A figure ran into the street below, the flaps of his raincoat billowing, and aimed a handgun in their direction. Angela recognized Mace.
Blood rained down from the fire escape. Charging into the street, Mace drew his Glock from its holster, and the civilians cleared out of his way.
“Police!” Planting his feet as if he were standing over home plate on a baseball diamond, he raised his weapon in both hands and trained it on the figures struggling above. Then he saw that Angela had climbed on top of the roof’s edge, where she crouched like a panther ready to spring on her prey.
I might hit her, he thought, hesitating. He moved sideways, hoping to remove her from his line of fire. A round could still ricochet off the fire escape …
“Shoot!” somebody said behind him.
Above, Stalk’s body quivered and stilled. The thing freed its blood-covered head from his belly, dragging out his entrails.
What in God’s name is that?
Tears streaked Angela’s cheeks. “Noooooo!”
The monster tossed the entrails into the air and gobbled them. It pulled on them with its claws, chewing the flesh until it snapped like a rubber band. Then it locked its jaws on Stalk’s throat, tearing through flesh and cartilage, and clawed at the dead man’s face. With the creature hunched over Stalk, Mace had a clearer shot. His finger tightened on the trigger—
But then he saw a dark shape hurtling toward him. Lowering his gun, he jumped back and gaped in horror as Stalk’s head struck the asphalt where he had just been standing. A loud crunch denoted the crushing of skull, and blood and brain chunks showered his raincoat as he turned away.
“Oh, my God!” a woman said.
Mace looked at Stalk’s head, sma
shed beyond recognition, then up at the fire escape, where the monster made a show of licking its fingers before it dived into the window behind it, smashing through the glass and disappearing from view.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Spinning on one heel, Mace faced the stunned onlookers. “Call the police. Now!” Without waiting for a response, he surged forward and leapt over the stone steps leading to the building. Rather than step between the boards that blocked the entrance, he ripped them from the wooden frame and threw them onto the sidewalk. Then he marched into the lobby, his footsteps echoing.
A werewolf, he thought. A goddamned werewolf! He had seen it with his own eyes. And the other people outside had seen it as well. They had all witnessed the monster disembowel Stalk.
Gripping his Glock in both hands, he did a perimeter sweep. A black leather coat rested half on the stairs and half on the floor. He looked up but saw no movement on the stairway overhead. With his back against the wall, he ascended the stairs, heart jackhammering inside his chest. On the second floor, he stepped over a black shirt, then kicked open each door before him. The monster could be hiding in any of the deserted apartments. On the next stairway he spotted shoes, socks, and a pair of slacks.
The Frenzy Way Page 23