Restoration: Christian Urban Fantasy

by D. M. Turner

  Restoration

  By D.M. Turner

  Copyright 2017 by D.M. Turner

  Cover designed by the author

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or any information retrieval or storage system without the prior written permission of the author.

  ASIN: B01NAPBMY6

  If this file was obtained from anywhere but Amazon, it is a pirated copy.

  BISAC: Fiction/Christian/Fantasy

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Other Work by This Author

  Chapter 1

  Somewhere in southern North Korea

  Sunday, January 13, 1952

  ICY cold cut to the bone, making cuts, bruises, and broken bones ache all the more. The wet dirt floor under the length of his left side made the cold even more biting. No escape.

  Agony, cold, and impenetrable darkness were all the company Marine Lance Corporal Max Johnson had. Preferable to the alternative he’d dealt with over the past several days. Or had it been weeks? No transition of light to dark and back again had existed to count the days by, even if he’d actually been conscious the whole time. There was only pitch black, except when a blinding light appeared and men came to beat on him and bark questions in Korean, Chinese, or broken English.

  His stomach had stopped demanding food, though he couldn’t pinpoint when. A bad enough sign, along with gathering weakness. He’d long ago stopped feeling his hands and feet. Shivering hurt a body that had taken too many beatings. The coughing fits and constriction in his chest made things worse. The stink of gangrene and the nauseating illness rapidly taking over assured him death would come soon.

  He welcomed it.

  He’d told his captors nothing, no matter how much pain they’d inflicted. Death would ensure he didn’t waver. Lord, please, if rescue isn’t coming, let death take me quickly. Don’t allow weakness to overcome me. Don’t let me betray my friends and allies. Please, Lord.

  A bout of coughing curled him into a tighter ball on the floor of what he could only assume was a root cellar, or something very much like it. Pain lanced his chest and put pressure on bruised and probably broken ribs, sending flashes of light through the blackness before his eyes.

  As he fought for breath, the dampness and stench of his surroundings crept into every nook and cranny of his lungs, making him want to cough and wheeze again. Mold, urine, rotted food, and unwashed body blended into an odor fit to gag anyone. He’d been in the same uniform for over two weeks prior to capture, plus whatever time had passed since.

  Light burst into his prison, bringing a different sort of blindness.

  He raised mud-and-blood-caked, shaky hands to shield his eyes.

  “Max? Thank God. I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  Max frowned at the distantly familiar voice. “Who—” Still curled up on the floor, he pressed his back to the dirt wall. “Who are you?”

  “It’s me. Dakota. I’ve come to get you out of here.”

  Hallucination? Some Communist trick to get him to talk? How would they know about Dakota Gentry, the war correspondent assigned to his unit back in the summer? Had they captured someone else? Someone who’d talked? Would that endanger Dakota? Max had befriended the man who’d proven to be as tough as any of the leathernecks he’d fought alongside, possibly even more so.

  A hand touched his shoulder. “It’s really me, Max.”

  He didn’t hear anyone else. No chatter. No guns. No radio. No movement on the wood floor above their heads. “Where are the others?”

  “I’m alone.”

  Impossible. Tough or not, a journalist couldn’t have slipped past the enemy to rescue him. Not without help. “My unit’s not with you?”

  “Nope, and we need to get moving before some of the enemy turn up. On your feet, marine.”

  “My feet... I can’t.”

  Strong arms helped him sit up, a shoulder tucked under his armpit, and he was hoisted to his feet without ceremony. Flashes of light and blobs of darkness danced through his field of vision as pain in his chest threatened to rip consciousness from him. Was it as bad as he thought that there was no pain in his lower legs and feet? Maybe the pain elsewhere only silenced it?

  In moments, he’d been lifted out of the cellar onto a wood floor. His chest tightened, squeezing lungs that burned for air. Lightning spiked through his vision again. He lay there, panting shallowly, irregularly, trying to quell another coughing fit, afraid of attracting the attention of the enemy.

  A firm grip wrapped around his upper arm and hauled him to his feet. Sunlight blinded him as his savior half-dragged, half-carried him out of the hut. He squinted and glanced sideways at the man as they passed under some trees. Dakota, for certain. No mistaking those blue eyes and dark brown hair or the chiseled features. Stern focus hardened the man’s bearded face. His huffing breaths misted the chill air.

  Max tried to stay conscious, but agony stole his breath and what little strength remained.

  * * *

  A cold drop of water hit Max’s face, startling him awake. He found himself lying on cold, wet ground. Darkness and chill air surrounded him. No! Despair rippled through him. Dakota had been nothing but an hallucination.

  A warm hand touched his shoulder. “Easy, Max.”

  Relief allowed him to breathe again. Sort of. “Why can’t I see?”

  “We’re hiding in a tunnel I found. I apologize for the cold, but I can’t start a fire without alerting the enemy to our location.” Fingers gently squeezed. “We’ll move out come nightfall. In the meantime, I have food and water for you.”

  “I don’t think I can sit up.” Max hated to make that admission, but there was no point in lying about how weak and wounded he truly was.

  “It’s okay. I’ll help.” True to his word, Dakota carefully helped him sit up.

  Pain slashed across Max’s ribcage, making his breath hitch. Something smooth and cool touched his lips.

  “Drink.”

  He complied. Water slipped past cracked, parched lips. Too fast. He choked. Stars danced through his vision.

  “Sorry about that.”

  Max shook his head then realized Dakota couldn’t see him. “It’s okay,” he gasped as he managed to catch his breath.

  “I have food, too. Nothing great, but it’ll do until I can rustle up something better. At least it’s not C-rations.” Amusement laced the last.

  Metal popped, and the unmistakable aroma of SPAM filled Max’s nose.

  “Don’t bite my fingers now. It’s not polite to bite the hand that feeds you.” Humor warmed Dakota’s voice, and a cold piece of the canned meat brushed Max’s lips.

  He ate slowly, chewing only as much as necessary to swallow. Even that drained energy. “What day is it?”

  “Sunday, January thirteenth.”

  Over a month then. He’d gotten separated from his unit on December fifth and been captured two days later while trying to fin
d them. He’d spent Christmas, New Years, and his twenty-first birthday in enemy hands. He leaned heavily against the dirt wall beside him. “I’d begun to think I’d die in that hole. Thank you for getting me out. I’d rather die with a friend than amongst enemies.”

  “You won’t die. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “I know how bad a shape I’m in. Even without light, I know I’ve got severe frostbite and gangrene. People die from both, ace.”

  A long silence followed, then Dakota took a deep, audible breath. “Maybe you don’t have to.”

  “Dakota—”

  “No. Hear me out.” Warmth radiated against one side of him as Dakota sat at Max’s side with his back against the wall of the tunnel. “Do you know how I found you and got you out?”

  Max took a slow breath. “I wondered about that when you said you were alone.” He resisted the urge to shift into a more comfortable position. Given his injuries, he was pretty sure there wasn’t such a thing.

  “I’m not exactly human.”

  Okay, so this wasn’t a serious discussion. Dakota had a reputation for making outlandish statements, generally meant to amuse weary marines and get their minds off the ugliness of war. Swallowing a laugh sure to hurt like fire, Max smiled. “Oh?” Death would come, but perhaps Dakota could keep his mind off the pain. “Then... what are you... exactly?”

  “Ever heard of werewolves?”

  A chuckle slipped out before he could stop it, sending him into a spat of wheezing to catch his breath.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Once he could breathe again, shallow at least, Max straightened carefully and leaned his head against the wall. “So... you’re a werewolf.”

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t seen you eat anyone or heard about villagers being hunted and mauled during the full moons since you arrived.” He cocked a grin despite the fact his friend couldn’t see it. “I’m pretty sure I’d’ve heard about something like that happening. Aren’t werewolves supposed to be rabid and bloodthirsty during the full moon?”

  Dakota chuckled. “Only in bad movies and worse dime novels. Although... I suppose those may be based on wolves gone crazy. Hm. I hadn’t thought of that before. I might have to read and watch those, see if that’s the case.”

  Max forced himself not to laugh. “Don’t make me laugh right now, ace. It hurts too much. I might pass out on you again.”

  A heavy silence descended for a few seconds. If the warmth at his side hadn’t remained, he’d have thought Dakota had abandoned him to the darkness.

  “I know how fantastical it sounds.” Dakota sighed. “What I’m telling you is the absolute truth.”

  When had the reporter ever sounded so serious? Never? “Let’s say it’s true, for the sake of argument. How’d you become one?”

  “I was born this way. My mother, Felicity, is a werewolf.”

  “What about your father?”

  “He was human.” His shoulder brushed Max’s as he shrugged. “Not that it matters. Only females can pass the wolf directly to their offspring.”

  “Was? Your father’s gone?”

  “Yes. He died about ten years ago. Heart attack.” Faint sorrow underscored the soft words.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. He was a good man.”

  “He didn’t mind that your mother was... not entirely human?” Another thought occurred to him even as the last word left his mouth. “Or... did he not know?”

  “He knew and loved her despite it.” Dakota laughed softly. “It’s not exactly something one can hide from a spouse. At least, not unless you’re a traveling salesman or something along those lines.”

  “Oh.” Max sighed softly. Man, he was tired. Could sleep for a week and still be exhausted probably. Then again, he’d get plenty of rest when he was dead. Steadily declining energy said he wouldn’t have to wait too long for that. “So, you don’t kill people?”

  “Not unless they bug me.” No mistaking the humor in the statement.

  Max chuckled then caught his breath and winced. “Ow.”

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. Laughter isn’t always good medicine.” Dakota quieted for a moment, growing so still, Max didn’t even feel him breathe. Then he took a breath. “No, I don’t hunt or eat people. Just the idea is repulsive. A deer or elk, on the other hand, sounds mighty fine to this particular wolf. I met a wolf a couple of years ago that hunted and ate people. Totally crazy.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Stopped him.” The grim timber of those two words said more clearly than an explanation how that had been accomplished. “Anyway, most of the wolves I’ve known weren’t born. They were Turned. Made wolves by being mauled by one and surviving the ordeal.”

  Max shuddered slightly. Growing up, he’d seen a child in his neighborhood mauled by a black bear. The kid had died. “That doesn’t sound pleasant.”

  “It’s not. By any stretch of the imagination.”

  Silence descended. Max kept his eyes closed and felt himself drifting.

  “Max?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do you understand why I’ve told you all of this?”

  “Not really. Are you trying to keep my mind off the pain? If so, it’s working.”

  “No. I’m sharing my secret because I think I might be able to save your life.”

  The words made sense, individually, but taken as a whole... not so much. Max frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “I can attempt to Turn you. I can’t guarantee you’ll survive, but I can at least give you a fighting chance. A slim chance is better than none, right?”

  Max turned his head toward his friend before he remembered it was too dark to see. “I’m weak from starvation with bruises, cuts, broken bones, frostbite, and gangrene. There is no chance for me. I’ve already made peace with God about that. It’s okay, Dakota.”

  “The wolf can heal all of that. I’m not much older than you, but I know wolves two and three times our age who look no more than thirty or thirty-five. The wolf can heal even life-threatening and otherwise lethal injuries. Anything that doesn’t kill a person instantly, we have a chance of surviving.”

  “So, wolves are invincible, huh?” Max snorted softly, afraid to do more than that.

  “Not exactly. We can be killed by many of the same things that kill humans. It’s just not necessarily as easy, and we heal a lot faster than humans can even imagine doing.”

  Wow. Dakota sure had thought through his story. Max almost believed him. Head against the wall, he closed his eyes and smiled. “I appreciate the story, ace. More than you know. But I think I’d like to sleep now, while the pain is settled some. I’m really tired.”

  The other man sighed deeply after a long moment. “You do that, Max. Sleep for a while. We won’t move for a couple or three hours yet.”

  Chapter 2

  A rumbling growl woke Max, though he remained too groggy to do more than groan. He opened his eyes, expecting darkness but finding dim light in a small structure. They were no longer in the tunnel. Dakota had apparently moved them while Max slept. Sleep nothing. Unconscious is more like it.

  The soft rumble that had wakened him sounded again. He rolled his head on the hard ground, searching for the source, then ceased to breathe. Dakota’s story had gone to his head apparently. It’s the fever and illness. They’re making you see things. That’s all.

  Its back to him, a massive, dark brown wolf hunkered low to the ground and peered through the open doorway of the hut. Thick hair stood on end from the back of its ears to the base of its bushy tail. Another soft growl vibrated through the air, making Max’s insides quiver. Muted daylight left a patch of faint light on the dirt floor to one side of the wolf. Was it morning or evening? Max had no way of knowing.

  In moments, sounds from outside alerted Max to what had the animal’s unrelenting attention. Human voices. Speaking Chinese. Why hadn’t he taken the time to learn some of the language? At leas
t then he’d be able to understand some portion of what they were saying.

  Too weak to move, Max could only lie and wait. Where’s Dakota? He was alone, except for the furry hallucination. If a Chinese patrol found him, would they shoot him or take him prisoner? Lord, please let it be the former. I don’t want to be in a cage again. Please! Let me die free.

  The unintelligible conversation moved closer.

  The wolf’s haunches tightened as though ready to spring any second, and he went perfectly still. The growl fell silent.

  A chill went through Max. From where he lay, he saw three men move into view, rifles held in relaxed grips, as though not expecting trouble.

  Move on. Please, move on.

  One of the trio turned his attention to the hut and moved toward it, his comrades close behind. Just as the first one reached the door, the wolf launched straight at him, knocking him aside and plowing through the other two before any of them had a chance to raise weapons. Two of the men scrambled to get to their feet. They died before they could even stand back up, their throats torn out by the wolf’s teeth. The third, still seated on the ground, made no effort to rise and lifted his rifle. He managed to get off a single shot before the wolf was on him. His cry of alarm and pain died in an instant.

  The wolf stood, head lowered and swinging from one man to the next, then snorted and headed for Max, slightly favoring one front leg. When he crossed the threshold of the hut, the animal hunched as though in pain. He grunted as his body contorted. Human skin quickly replaced wolf fur.

  Dakota climbed to his feet and stretched, grimacing slightly as he rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. He moved into the light and studied a bleeding gash across one of his biceps. He glanced at Max, reached for the clothes he’d left on the ground a few feet away, and yanked on his pants then used a tail end of his shirt to wipe blood from his face.

  Max could only stare. Had he really seen—? Had the wolf turned into Dakota? “You—”

  The man chuckled and slipped his arms into his sleeves but left the blood-stained shirt unbuttoned and hanging free of his pants. “I told you what I was. I know you didn’t believe me, so I’m sure what you just witnessed was a shock.”