He heard something, every hair on the back of his neck rising and tingling in unison as he held his breath, eyes wide.
After another long listening pause he bent for his phone, and altered his life forever.
From the corner of his eye he dimly perceived something huge, moving impossibly fast. Before he could react it slammed into him with the force of a blitzing linebacker. Owen’s breath left his chest in a great whoosh as he was launched into the air, feeling a sharp tearing sting in his shoulder, his blood spurting into the sky. He had the briefest moment to take it all in; the surprise, searing pain, and sheer disbelief. Then he fell, skull bouncing off a hard and unyielding object. He groaned once, stars blinkering his vision as a massive shape loomed over him at the same moment he passed out.
------------------
She crouched on her haunches, off the path and behind a downed tree, a coiled ball of tensely packed muscle, teeth and claws. A light breeze blowing down the trail carried into her elevated muzzle. She inhaled Owen’s scent long before he plodded into view. She tested the air once more then lowered her skull, body still behind the tree trunk, watching as he stumbled into the clearing as blind to the dangers of the night as a newborn fawn.
Tanya tensed when he approached the edge of her predetermined kill zone, her muscles rippling under her pelt, analyzing each waypoint in this ancient process of killing she had long since mastered. Nevertheless, she procrastinated, filled with sorrow.
Owen was her first real lover in years. She should have been allowed to savor the pleasures he brought into her life. Yet, he had commanded otherwise. Tanya had fought against her orders, but he was at his wits end. He had thought such a command would have been unnecessary when Karlovic put the fear of god into them. Instead, the humans had become emboldened. He could not have that, not at this crucially important moment. When Owen’s friends left Dibrovno Tanya had received her final orders. She braced herself to leap.
The wind shifted.
Tanya’s ears snapped up, fur bristling. Karlovic!
Jumbled thoughts flooded her brain. She saw something big on the far side of the clearing at the same time Owen dropped his phone. She whined, a high pitched note of concern she hoped would carry to him.
Karlovic moved.
She whimpered louder, and then barked.
Run, oh God please run.
Her calls were useless. She watched in horror as the big werewolf narrowed the distance between him and Owen in a blur, then exploded through his final leap, jaws gaping open. Tanya’s reeling mind calculated Karlovic’s trajectory. He would hit Owen in the neck; ripping through it in one brutal slashing attack carrying the destructive impact of a chainsaw. Her lover would be dead before his body hit the ground. Tanya whined again, her great clawed hands digging into the nearest tree trunk, shredding its bark. Owen bent to retrieve his phone.
Karlovic belatedly attempted to adjust in mid-flight but the sudden movement proved too much to overcome, even for his super attenuated athleticism. The werewolf’s gaping jaws slashed across Owen’s back and shoulder as the creature’s heavy lower body slammed the smaller man to the ground. The steep angle of impact sent Karlovic spinning, thudding into the grass beyond the man’s crumpled form. In one fluid movement however, the enraged beast sprang to his feet, straddling Owen’s inert body as he lifted his grizzled muzzle to howl in victory
Tanya’s triangular ears flattened as her emotions, already volcanic, turned to pure rage. She categorically inventoried his strengths and weaknesses in a cold military fashion. She knew death intimately. Though Karlovic outweighed her by over one hundred pounds, was older, more experienced, and in his prime, none of it mattered. Within a half-second Tanya knew what she needed to do, whom she would have to betray, and how. She had one chance. If her initial rush failed she couldn’t hope to defeat him. She flexed her calves, leaping from her hiding spot. A deadly streak of black rippled over the clearing’s grasses and flowers.
Far too late a chill shot down Karlovic’s spine, his howl dying in his throat, the tight feeling of terror paralyzing him as her teeth punched under his jaw, thrusting his head up and back, ripping into the loose, exposed flesh. Then she danced away, crouched low, her face a mask of snarling spitting anger.
Blood sprayed from Karlovic’s throat. He stepped back, stiff-legged and confused. His eyes rolled white and with a tortured yelp he pitched forward, an accusation unsaid floating through the air between the two beasts. He hit the ground with a booming thump.
Tanya kicked once at Karlovic’s motionless body. Then she turned to Owen’s broken form, blood dripping from her muzzle…
Chapter 24
August 2016 – Dibrovno, Western Ukraine
Owen twitched and turned, sweat pouring off his body.
He ran, being chased.
No, he was the pursuer.
Screams of terror, his mouth opening—
He slammed awake with a start, breathing in ragged gasps, wincing at the sharp sunlight streaming in through the open window and a cacophony of noise jackhammering at his sensitive ears; birds, frogs, crickets, buzzing bees all crowded into his skull. In an effort to shake off the disorienting blizzard he focused on a wooden door opposite him.
It appeared to be throbbing.
He fought off a sudden rush of nausea and tried again, this time attempting to figure out his location.
After several straining seconds a moment of clarity burst through. He was on the second floor of a home—
He lost the thought as the scent of carrot, beet, radish, dill, cumin, mint, raspberries, currant and more filled his mouth with saliva. He couldn’t remember being so aware of the sheer volume of information brought in by his formerly nondescript nostrils. He pressed his hands to his ears, battling to settle his flitting, fluttering mind.
Concentrate.
He took stock of his surroundings. He was in a bed, every creak in the house audible…no…the floorboards, the porch. Please stop. Even the trees groaned, popped, and squeaked in unison. Stop. His senses pulsed in a way he hadn’t experienced since the time he had dropped acid at a hippie music festival. He smacked his head, struggling to regain the present, beating back the insipid melodies of Rusted Root and their happy fuzzy ilk.
The forest and house doubled down, yelling with greater ferocity. Owen wobbled on the edge, his mind reeling from the stomach-churning attack on his sanity. This time Owen’s bloodshot eyes honed in on the bedding, settling in on a sea of white.
That’s it, think it through, stay with the sheets, what are they made of, how do they feel?
He bore down, having never known such sharp acuity, analyzing the sparkling ivory linens, the sheets and pillows of a decidedly decadent Egyptian cotton, creamy smooth, the luxurious covers caressing exposed skin. His flesh came alive with goose bumps as if the softest hand roamed across his body. He stirred between his legs—
Goddamn it, stop!
Owen centered his attention on the room. He willed himself to catalogue its contents, and layout. A high arched ceiling provided dimension to the otherwise box shaped space. To his left an espresso colored dresser and night table rounded out the sparse furnishings.
Perspiring heavily, he finally felt the room slow around him, every additional second bringing under control the world of sights, sounds, and smells otherwise driving him mad. To his right a painting hung on the wall, a rendering of a valley at sunrise done in thin brush strokes. Light airy yellows and oranges cascaded down the gorge’s brightly illuminated green walls. He stared, something about it drawing him in. After another moment he recognized it as the valley surrounding Dibrovno. A partially closed door led to a bathroom. He craned his aching neck, taking in the polished clawed foot of a porcelain tub, the edge of a white pedestal sink, the camphor like smell of lavender.
Pleased with the minor triumph over his senses Owen belatedly noticed the d
uvet had slid from his naked body. He pulled it up, squealing in pain. Surprised, he looked down to see a huge white bandage wrapped around and over his entire shoulder. The sight of it jagged loose fragmented memories painfully flickering through his mind’s eye—
The bedroom door swung open.
Tanya bounced in, radiant in snug fitting blue jeans and a straining white t-shirt. Owen stared at the overloaded tray of food in her hands, his stomach growling.
“Rise and shine,” Tanya beamed. “That’s how you say good morning in America, yes?”
She placed the tray astride his lap and sat on the edge of the bed, the cinnamon musk of her body crème trumped by his raging hunger. He sat up, wincing then diving into an American style breakfast replete with fluffy scrambled eggs, strips of salted bacon, juicy sausage links, moist ham, and rye bread lathered with black currant jam. He used his good arm to feed, at first feebly then with increasing vigor.
Tanya watched, biting her lip. It pained her to see him hurt, but it was a process.
When he finished eating Tanya leaned in, peeling the tape from his skin and pulling back the dressing. A long puckered scar zigzagged up his chest, over his collarbone, and across his upper back. It looked light-years better than it had just a few hours before, when it appeared as if someone had dragged a freshly sharpened garden rake through his flesh.
Owen contemplated the painting on the wall as she tended to him.
“Do you like art?” Tanya asked, having noticed the direction of his gaze.
“It depends on what you mean,” Owen said.
“Do you appreciate such beautiful images, or don’t you?”
“Since you put it that way, I always had a certain fondness for the centerfolds in my dad’s Playboys.”
“So vulgar,” Tanya laughed, feeling a bit more relaxed, “and so very American.”
“Yea, I’ve heard it all before. When are you gonna grow up. Yada, yada, yada.”
“I wasn’t judging you. Sometimes vulgarity can be fun.”
“But not Americans?” Owens said, watching her carefully.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Owen responded. “Anyway, nice painting you got there.”
“It’s too impressionistic for the décor, but I couldn’t pass it up,” Tanya said. “It’s by Fedir Krychevs’ky. I met him not long before he died in 1947.”
“Jesus, Tanya,” Owen said. On the other hand, he somehow knew that she understood the sensations and feelings battering his sanity. Not once did a patronizing look cross her face as she tended to him. Not once did she seem bored, or even worse horrified by his dependence on her. Instead, she seemed elated. She caught him looking and grasped his hand, fingers interlacing.
Owen’s struggled to regulate the welter of conflicting emotions buffeting him “I…” He stopped, grimacing, once more pressing his hands to his head. “This is too much. I can’t. The sights, sounds, all of this. I can’t process it all.”
“You’ll learn how,” Tanya said.
“I need to know what’s happening.”
“You know.”
“Say it. I need to hear you say it.”
“You’re a werewolf. Just like me.”
Scenes from horror movies raced through Owen’s brain… “In the made-up stories, the guy who’s the werewolf only changes when the moon is full, but maybe he’s like this almost all the time, only as the moon gets fuller…You can’t tame what’s meant to be wild, doc. It just ain’t natural.”
Owen shook his head to clear it. Then settled his attention on Tanya, eyes narrowing, one thought overriding all others.
“Leave.”
“What?” Tanya said, surprised at his sudden shift in demeanor.
“I trusted you,” Owen said, his voice rising. “Get out!” Tears ran down his cheeks, his old life sliding away. Good or bad there would be no going back.
He stared at the door long after she was gone.
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August 2016 – Dibrovno, Western Ukraine
Nobody slept. On top of the usual reasons Brody’s boss had called in yet again, the conversation inescapable in the tightly packed car. A Citigroup managing director had been found dead in his New York City apartment, an apparent suicide. Brody’s face had said it all as Wilson’s voice screamed over the speakers, warning him once more that if he didn’t want to find himself working security at Target he had twenty-four hours to come up with something. Mercifully the call dropped when the forest thickened near Dibrovno. The glowing dashboard clock read four in the morning when they halted in front of Ernie’s pension, four doors squeaking noisily open, eight feet clattering across the street and to comparative safety inside. Owen wasn’t home.
The wind kicked up, moaning eerily in the old home’s eaves.
Multiple sets of eyes looked up, confusion and fear writ large on their faces as they stole glances out the front window and behind them into the dark house, each room potentially housing something unpleasant. Brody checked it out while the rest of them crowded into the kitchen. Ernie threw on a pot of coffee.
Brody reappeared within minutes, the house evidently clear of any threats.
“You think we’re ok?” Cindy said as Brody squeezed in at the table with everyone else.
“No. But this is the last place they would expect us to come,” Brody said, trying to appear confident but feeling shaken beyond belief by not only the fact Owen wasn’t there but by how every move he made seemed to not be working out. “That should buy us just enough time if we act fast. Anyway, my place is around the corner. I just need to get—”
“You’re not going out there,” Ernie snapped.
“Take it easy,” Brody said. “Remember I have one of these.” He pointed at his holster.
“What about us?” Cindy said, her voice tinged with a note of anger and barely contained desperation.
“No worries,” Kateryna smiled, hand emerging from her purse clutching a semi-automatic World War II era Pistolet Wz. 35 Vis pistol. “It was my grandfather’s, though I’ve since adapted it for our needs.”
Kateryna pulled back the slide, ejecting the round in the chamber while popping out the box magazine from the pistol’s grip and expelling each bullet in turn. Within seconds eight silver bullets lay side by side, shining bright under the stark light hanging above.
Ernie whistled.
Cindy picked up one of the deadly beautiful blunt nosed rounds, “Where did you—”
“Kutná Hora.”
“Of course,” Ernie said.
Brody and Cindy gawked at him quizzically.
“Between the thirteenth and sixteenth century Kutná Hora rivaled even Prague’s influence in Central Europe,” Ernie said. “The city was blessed with bountiful silver mines, a particularly pure strain then in the greatest demand across Europe.”
“But the plague’s repeat appearances, numerous wars, along with a spectacular flood all conspired to ruin the silver mines,” Kateryna said. “Then, late in the eighteenth century a last gasp attempt to revive silver production collapsed around the same time that—”
“The werewolves disappeared from Europe’s historical record,” Ernie said, remembering what he had read in the library. “In cities such as London or Paris well-armed elites would have made life very hard for the werewolves. That left the poor preyed upon in the villages, and farmsteads dotting the countryside. That’s why the legends persisted amongst the peasantry. That is, before the werewolf population fell so low they became little more than a mythical creature.”
In the distance a lonesome howl rose from just outside of town. Brody glanced at Cindy, who studiously avoided eye contact. It was probably just a wolf. He snuck a peek out the window and then turned his attention back to the table, “It’s starting to make sense.”
“What is?”
Ernie responded.
“The way Cameron was killed,” Brody said. “It didn’t add up. The Bureau has recorded nearly a dozen dead bankers in the past couple of weeks with nearly all of them made to look like suicides or as part of some sort of kidnapping, all except Cameron.”
“And that makes sense how?” Cindy said.
“Compare those deaths to Cameron being ripped apart,” Brody said. “I mean, step back and really look at how Cameron died.”
“It’s not even remotely the same M.O.” Cindy said, her eyes widening in comprehension. “Jesus, I can’t believe I overlooked it.”
“Hey, so did I,” Brody said. “The point being, whoever did Cameron killed him that way on purpose. They wanted us to come here. There’s no other way to explain how creatures so good at hiding as to be virtually invisible for the better part of two hundred years would allow us to get this close.”
“I’m not following,” Ernie said.
“Remember at the pub when we talked about how the best way to rob a bank is to run one,” Brody said.
“Yea,” Ernie said.
“Cameron’s death is the same thing. It’s an inside job,” Brody said. “One of the werewolves isn’t happy with what’s going on. Maybe they want to force their kind back into hiding before it all spirals out of control and they’re hunted like they were two hundred years ago. Or maybe it’s a turf war, who knows.”
“What about Karlovic?” Cindy said. “Based on everything we’ve seen he’s behind Cameron’s murder as well as God knows how many other killings?”
“We got that wrong too,” Brody said. “Karlovic didn’t mastermind anything. He’s a weapon that follows orders.”
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