One thought filled his mind, over and over. Samuel was dead. His only friend. His lover. Dead.
It was all James’ fault. He had tried to do the right thing, had saved the lives of some children, but Samuel had paid the price with his own life. One life against many. Now James would gladly give any number of lives to get Samuel back. Including his own.
But the choice was made. He could not go back.
So James ran on, hot blood rushing through his limbs as he ran, while Samuel’s body lay cold and still and dead.
He ran without knowing where his legs were carrying him. He ran without purpose. He ran without desire, or feeling, or thought. A survival instinct had taken over, and he headed west, away from the cold moon, away from Samuel’s body, away from everything he had done. A part of him begged him to turn round and return to where Samuel rested, but that voice was too small and weak to overcome the instinct to flee. And so he ran.
He ran through quiet streets, across empty waste ground, along deserted paths that crisscrossed the city. He dared not cross any of the bridges that spanned the Thames, and so he skirted around the river’s snaking coils, sticking to the south bank. The air was cooling rapidly in the clear night and the first crystals of frost glinted like diamonds on the edges of paving stones and on the grass and trees. A vision of Samuel flashed before him, his black skin white with hoar frost, icicles in his hair, his lips frozen blue. His dead friend’s eyes opened, accusing him. I am dead, they seemed to say, and yet you live. Hot tears sprang from his eyes and washed the vision away, just as quickly as it had appeared.
And James ran on, hot in the freezing night.
Gradually, modern apartment blocks gave way to older houses, sports grounds, cycle paths, boat houses and golf courses. The frost grew thicker as he left the urban centre behind. But no matter how far he ran, the moon followed him, reminding him that Samuel was dead.
A bridge beckoned him, and he bounded across it, for no reason he could discern, other than it was there, now, and it led him away from the mocking face of the moon.
Water lapped at the river banks, and the distant hum of city traffic never ceased as he loped across the bridge. Black water slid silently beneath, its surface flapping gently, pulled by the tide, drawn to the moon. Its dark mass slipped past, a reminder of the night he had first met Samuel. He had hidden beneath another bridge that night after murdering the priest, Father Mulcahy. He had wanted to kill himself then, and it would have been better if he had. But Samuel had stopped him, had befriended him, had become his lover. If James had died that night, Samuel would still be alive now. Another choice James had made. He could blame no one else, not even blind fate or destiny. The choices had all been his, whether to live or to die, to kill or to save, to run or to stay, and he had made the wrong one every time.
He bounded across the bridge, soft paws padding silently on stone, a small dark shape under a black sky. Suddenly he froze. From the opposite river bank a police car cut the silence of the night with the blare of its siren.
He squatted down in the middle of the bridge, his eyes alert, his ears pricked, every sense heightened. The siren grew louder with every beat of his heart. Now he saw it. A flickering blue light in the darkness, growing brighter and nearer quickly. The car sped through the deserted streets, heading straight for the bridge.
James squatted uncertainly, poised for flight but not knowing where to run. He had half-crossed the bridge already. The remaining distance was too far to cover before the car reached him. He had come too far to go back. The span of the bridge was open and exposed, leaving nowhere to hide. He ran to the edge, raising his forepaws onto the stone balustrade that flanked the bridge. He leaned over and looked down.
Below him the black water of the river swirled like boiling oil, eddies spiralling off the arched feet of the bridge. The river surged strongly from recent rainfall and though James was a good swimmer he had never tried to swim in wolf form. The drop was too far, the water too powerful.
Another sound joined the approaching police siren and he looked up. A helicopter, thrumming in the distance, flying low above the river, its searchlights sweeping left to right in wide arcs. It flew toward him quickly, following the curve of the River Thames, and he ducked behind the balustrade, pressing his body against the stone pillars, folding his hind legs beneath him, panting noisily, his breath making clouds in the cold night. The moon hung low over the river, its twin reflected in the flowing water beneath. The two moons watched him together with their cold eyes, gloating, reminding him that Samuel lay still and dead.
The police car grew ever closer, the shrill piercing of its siren drowning even the throbbing of the helicopter. James pushed himself tighter against the grey stone, trying to meld with the pillars at the edge of the bridge. But his hiding place was hopeless. Even if the probing beam of the searchlight failed to spot him, the police in the car easily would.
Part of him had ceased to care. Discovery would be a relief. A bullet to the head and he could be with Samuel, joined together for eternity. That way he could do no more harm. He had betrayed everyone tonight. He had fought against his own wolf kind. He had caused the death of the one he loved most. He had killed the innocent. Every choice he made was wrong. A quick death, and he need make no more choices. He could rest, at last.
The police car was already at the end of the bridge now, and the helicopter was almost overhead. Its bright searchlight shone directly at him, sweeping long shadows across the tarmac.
James stood up.
The beam of the searchlight tracked left as the helicopter flew over the bridge, shining a stark white light across the empty road. He raised his forepaws against his ears to block the deafening noise as it roared overhead, then watched as it banked sharply right across the river, turning a full one hundred and eighty degrees, to head back toward the bridge. Toward him. James padded into the centre of the bridge, where he would be easily spotted.
The police car was turning too, but away from the bridge, following the embankment road parallel to the river, the wail of its siren dropping an octave as it headed away from him. He trotted slowly after it, watching in confusion as it roared away.
The beam of the searchlight flickered briefly across his face again, blinding him momentarily, before the helicopter too followed the river east, back toward the centre of the city. He stared after it in disbelief. Somehow they had failed to spot him. They had gone, leaving him alone on the bridge.
He padded forward uncertainly, crossing over to the north side of the bridge, his ears twitching as the noise faded again to silence. Now it was just him and the lapping of the water once more. He peered over the edge of the bridge at the cold blackness of the river, wondering again what it would be like to drown in that swirling mass. But he didn’t stay for long.
Soon he was moving forward again, heading north into fresh territory, keeping to the shadows as best he could. Another police car passed him and this time he lay still, hiding like a thief in the night. Another choice then, and still no one to blame but himself.
He ran through the maze of streets, putting the river far behind him, taking random turns, left, right, straight ahead, doubling back on himself for all he knew or cared. As long as he kept running he wouldn’t have to think. Gradually the crowded streets of the city gave way to leafy openness, and the ground rose higher until he could look back at the expanse he had crossed since abandoning Samuel’s body. The moon was poised on the horizon now, disappearing below the rise and fall of the land. He felt its pull weakening as it passed slowly out of view. Soon it would be gone.
James slowed at last, walking forward one step at a time along a well-to-do street lined with old terraced houses and trees, their branches bare in the cold of winter. Where was he going? Without Samuel by his side there was no point going anywhere. He might as well stop.
He squatted down in the middle of the road, looking up at the big houses around him. Old Victorian mansion blocks, converted into apartments. A
single light shone from one high window. The rest was dark. James rested on his hind legs, panting breathlessly. Now that he had stopped, he could feel the pain in his side where Warg Daddy had ripped the fur with his claws. The wound wasn’t serious and he didn’t mind the pain. His suffering was small and would help him focus. He turned his mind inward, seeking out the light in the darkness of his soul. There must be a small flicker of light still.
‘My God,’ he began to pray, ‘please forgive me. I have strayed far from your path. Give me courage to continue. Give me a sign.’
He had been asking God for help ever since being bitten, but the voice in his head had remained resolutely silent. He had sinned in so many ways, but surely there was still hope if he repented. ‘Help me, God. Give me guidance.’
Nothing. No voice spoke to him. He was beyond redemption, too far gone to save. He had done such terrible things. He had killed a priest, committed sins of lust, and even when he had tried to do the right thing, Samuel had paid for James’ choice with his life. James had hurt and betrayed everyone he knew, had done everything wrong. He could not come back.
The moon had dipped behind the houses now, and James could hardly feel its pull. The night sky darkened as the moon left it, draping the street before him in shadow. A solitary light shone from one high window. Could that light be a sign? James pushed onto all fours and padded toward it.
A man appeared, silhouetted at the window. He opened it, pushing the sash all the way up. James stared, baring his teeth and letting his hot tongue hang out, snorting curls of mist in the pre-dawn cold. The man at the window leaned out over the ledge, almost far enough to fall. James began to trot toward the house more quickly. The man vanished then and seconds later a scream came from the open window. A woman’s scream. James bounded forward and ran toward the sound.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Queen’s Road, Harrow on the Hill, North London, New Year morning
Melanie lay on the bed as the man swept his knife in wide arcs just inches from her face. ‘The Beast, the Beast!’ he cried. ‘It’s coming!’
She screamed again, louder this time.
‘Stop that!’ he screeched. ‘It will hear us.’
The knife flashed in front of her eyes and pricked her cheek. She struggled again with the knots, trying to pull her wrists free, but they were too tight. The rope bit into her wrists and ankles, chaffing at her skin, rubbing it raw. And every movement triggered a blinding pain in her skull.
‘Keep still!’ he shouted. ‘Stop screaming.’ The steel blade jerked before her, his arm dancing wildly and out of control. His eyes flicked around the room, searching for something to fix on.
There was a loud bang from downstairs. Another bang followed, louder than the first, then the muffled sound of wood splintering.
Had Melanie imagined it? Were the noises simply inside her head? The drugs the man had given her, the pain, the constant threats, it had all become too much. This was all a dream, a nightmare.
But no, the man had heard it too. ‘What was that?’ he screamed.
More sounds followed, the thudding of feet coming up the staircase of the apartment block. They drew nearer and another heavy thud followed from close by. ‘It’s at the front door!’ whimpered the man. ‘It’s coming!’ He sprang from the bed, spinning to face the bedroom door.
Something was pounding heavily against the front door of the apartment. A huge weight, thrown again and again against the timber and the many locks that held it. She heard the door breaking apart, and the pounding of feet coming along the hallway to the bedroom. Many feet, running. Who was coming? She turned her head to look toward the closed bedroom door, half in hope, half in fear, ignoring the fresh pain that the movement induced in her head.
A yellow flash burst through the bedroom door, knocking it flying from its hinges. Some kind of animal had entered the room, a wild animal the size of a man. The creature stood just inside the doorway, filling the space and blocking the exit. An enormous wolf. It had a pointed snout, like a German Shepherd dog, and huge jaws hanging open, a pink tongue lolling out, with canine teeth like fangs. The beast breathed heavily, scratching at the carpet with claws like talons.
This was no dog, no wolf. It was a monster from her worst nightmare. It did not belong here in this North London home. Melanie screwed her eyes tightly closed, counted to three, then opened them again. The creature was still there, sweeping its gaze steadily across the room, its bright yellow eyes glowing like lanterns.
The man backed away toward the window, whimpering quietly, his knife held loosely in hands that shook violently. ‘The Beast,’ he muttered. ‘The Beast.’
For once Melanie had to agree with him. There was most definitely a beast in the room.
The creature padded forward cautiously, studying the room in a most unbeast-like manner. An almost human intelligence seemed to lurk behind those shining eyes. It gazed at the man, watching the knife dart and flash, listening to his deranged ranting. Then the creature’s yellow eyes turned to face Melanie. She saw it studying her with interest, its attention shifting from her face to the ropes that bound her to the metal bed frame, and back again to her face. The animal cocked its head to one side. Then, in a single bound it leaped over the bed and flew at the man.
The man shrieked and held his knife aloft, but the beast crashed into him with terrifying force. It opened its jaws wide as it flew, locking them tightly around the man’s neck, anchoring its fang-like teeth deep in his flesh. The man shrieked again briefly, then a wave of scarlet flooded the wall behind him and his limbs went limp as life fled from them. The knife fell to the floor where it could do no more harm.
The creature braced its front paws against the wall and ripped through the man’s throat so violently that his head came away and flew through the open window. The beast shrugged what remained of the corpse onto the floor. The cream carpet slowly turned red.
Melanie watched in silent astonishment. Her sister, Sarah, claimed that she was never at a loss for words, but for once, she had nothing to say.
The beast panted loudly after its exertions and hung its head, almost as if it were ashamed of what it had done. It licked blood from the man’s body, making a wet lapping sound. Then it turned to face Melanie, yellow eyes burning fiercely, its long snout wet from its kill, its canines glinting white against the red.
Melanie faced it unafraid. She had always refused to submit to fear, and after what she’d been through, she didn’t know if she could ever feel it again. Anyway, if the whole world really was ending, she had no desire to stay and watch it burn. ‘Go on, then,’ she said to the beast. ‘Do what you’ve come to do.’
The beast paced around the bed, lifting its head to study her. The yellow eyes swept from her head to her feet, observing the ties that held her. Its hot breath smelled of blood and gore, but she held its gaze without flinching.
The wolf sprang onto the bed, its claws digging into the soft sheets either side of her, tearing the fabric into ribbons. It stood astride her, its enormous mouth hanging open, pink tongue drooling spit on her face, rows of sharp teeth standing tall like white stakes. ‘Why should I let you live?’ growled the wolf.
Melanie almost laughed in surprise. A talking wolf. So this really was a dream. The result of all the drugs the man had fed her. Yet it felt so real. She could smell the wolf, feel its foul breath on her face.
She struggled to think of a good answer to the wolf’s question. ‘Well, Mr Wolf,’ she began. The question was tricky. Why her, Melanie? With her good looks, easy life and casual approach to other people’s happiness, why did she deserve to live, when so many worthy, caring, good people died every day? There were so many more deserving people in the world. Sarah, for example, who gave her life to looking after an old man who could never even understand or appreciate the sacrifice she was making. Ben Harvey, who devoted his life to teaching at a school that others had long since given up on. Why should Melanie live? ‘Because I’m not really a bad person,�
� she said. ‘I’m sorry for all the bad things I’ve done, and I promise to live a good life in the future.’
That’s what the dream was about then. The wolf was her own conscience speaking to her. After all these carefree years, the conversation was well overdue.
If Melanie ever escaped from here, she would rethink her life and decide what she really wanted to do. She had talents, after all. She could use them to help others, instead of just herself. ‘Let me live, and I’ll try to be better, I promise.’ Words were easy to say, after all, and no one could fake sincerity better than Melanie, even when it was her own conscience she was trying to fool. All the same, she would think things over. If she got out of here alive.
The wolf stared at her, weighing her words, trying to divine the truth perhaps. Melanie gave it the sweetest smile she could muster. Yellow eyes gazed into hers, seeming to see all her deepest, darkest secrets. Eventually the creature seemed to be satisfied with what it saw. She may even have convinced herself. With a twist of its head it bit through the rope that bound her left arm, brushing it away like a cobweb. A second snap of its jaws and both arms were free. The wolf spun round and she felt the ties that held her legs vanish in two swift bites. She was free.
The wolf jumped down to the floor and brought its huge face to look directly at hers. The bright glow in its eyes dimmed, and the creature hung its head, a look of dejected sadness replacing the fierce anger of earlier.
Melanie reached out with her hand, ignoring the pins and needles that rushed in, and gently patted the animal’s muzzle.
Tears welled up in the beast’s eyes, splashing to the floor without restraint, and it began to cry, a whimpering, snuffling sound that was uncannily human.
‘There, there, Mr Wolf. Please don’t cry.’ She patted it again, some feeling starting to return to her fingers as she rubbed its snout. Its pelt was strangely smooth and soft, not rough as she had expected. The hairs that covered the creature were spun from fine gold. Under her touch they felt wet from sweat and blood and now tears as the wolf sobbed loudly. She brushed the tears from its eyes.
Lycanthropic (Book 1): Wolf Blood Page 33