The Wolf of Dorian Gray - A Werewolf Spawned by the Evil of Man
Page 16
Lord Crawley was already moving towards the wall and carefully lifted the painting by its canvas sides. “As you say, Inspector. We are happy to cooperate.”
It was only about an hour after Lord Crawley had wrapped up the painting and taken it away when Inspector Clarke heard yelling outside on the front lawn, punctuated by gunfire.
Chapter 3.
New Abilities
Dorian had managed to make it to his manor in Woodford undetected. He had run straight through most of the night, stopping only when he heard someone approaching. Each time he was relieved that it was only some passerby and not the monster he feared waiting for him in the empty places of the night.
Now that he had arrived at his destination, he had a dilemma. The grounds of the large country house were crawling with constables. He was crouched behind a large hornbeam bush near the southern gardens. From his vantage point he could count, eight...maybe nine, uniformed men patrolling the area. A large wall surrounded the east and west sides, leaving only two points of entry. He observed the lights and the additional set of men posted at the front door, dismissing the main entrance as a possible entrance. It was flattering to see so much of the police force turned out for his murder. It was, however, terribly inconvenient when it came to breaking back into his own home.
Dorian had expected to need a rest from his desperate dash through the night. Rather, he was breathing regularly and with energy to spare. It was strange. He couldn’t afford to think about that now. He needed to focus on timing the movements of the patrol. He could see the men moved in groups of two in a rotating clockwise pattern. By counting his heartbeats, he guessed that they passed by his position every two minutes. That should give him enough time to make it across the gardens undetected. His goal was the white trellis heavily overgrown with vines that climbed the stone walls of the main house. With luck, the thin wood and plants should support his weight as he scaled them up to the second story.
A pair of constables walked by. One of them was solidly built and quite tall. The other was shorter and struggled to catch his breath as he was patrolling. Dorian sunk lower and smiled when they walked by without seeing him. As they rounded the corner and vanished from sight, Dorian sprang into action.
Running hard, he sprinted across the soft ground. He covered the distance faster than he had imagined and surprised himself with the height of his jump. As he leaped onto the trellis, he grasped wildly for a handhold. The trellis shuddered as he crashed into it. For a moment, he thought it would separate from the stone wall. But the clinging climbers of the plant held fast to the porous rock beneath and it supported his weight. With a breath of relief, Dorian began his ascent towards the broken window above.
Once he reached the top, he began pulling himself up and into the room. Fortunately, he paused long enough to look inside and spot the man standing in the room. This was a problem. How was he supposed to get the painting now? The painting! It wasn’t there. The wall where it had hung now stood bare. How could this be? If the painting wasn’t here, then there was no telling where it was. How would he ever find it now?
The trellis shifted and his hand slipped. It was all Dorian could do to catch himself and hold on. He clung there for a few moments, hoping the man inside hadn’t been alerted to his presence. How many heartbeats had passed since he left the cover of the bushes? Eighty or one hundred? He was running out of time. He began climbing down as fast as he could and jumped the remaining three meters to the ground. He had just risen to his feet when a voice called out from the edge of the garden.
“Halt! You there, stand and identify yourself.”
Dorian took one look at the approaching constables and then turned and ran in the opposite direction.
“Halt! McDonaugh, Stoker! To your left. Intruder on the run!”
Dorian easily outpaced his pursuers only to have the shorter constable suddenly appear right in front of him, fumbling to draw his pistol. He charged the constable and dropped his shoulder into the man’s chest. Dorian skidded to a stop as the constable flew back nearly two meters and crashed to the ground. The pistol spun away and into the garden. The downed man stayed motionless. That was when the larger constable grabbed him from behind with powerful arms.
Without thinking, Dorian lashed out with his elbow and struck the man in the face as he twisted in his grasp. He tore the man’s shirt around the collar, breaking the thin chain around his neck. The constable was momentarily stunned and grabbed at his neck where the chain had been. Dorian seized on his opponent’s distraction and wrenched open the strong arms. The constable grabbed Dorian’s forearm while throwing a quick jab with his right fist.
Time seemed to slow as the meaty fist approached his eyes. Before he knew what was happening, Dorian ducked under the punch and struck the constable in the stomach. The man staggered back a few steps and doubled over in pain. His face crinkled in a contorted grimace; the wind whooshed out of his lungs, yet still he staggered forward for more.
The constable rushed forward and spread his arms and shoulders wide in an attempt to grapple. Dorian responded in kind and grasped the man’s hands in his own, pushing him backward. Despite his smaller size, Dorian could feel the constable’s muscles giving out as they strained to contain him. He slowly bent the larger arms out and downward. He was winning. His opponent slowly sunk lower, fighting back for every centimeter. Dorian paused to look over the man’s shoulder and saw the other constables had nearly reached them. Of course, this man knew if he could hold him long enough, his fellows would end the contest with sheer numbers.
With a crack, he smashed his forehead into the face of the constable. The man’s nose gave way and his grip immediately loosened. Dorian took his opportunity and untangled himself before running towards the tall firethorn hedges growing on the edge of the estate. He crashed through the shrubbery just as one of the other constables opened fire with a revolver. He paused just long enough to hear them cut off pursuit and check on the injured men behind him before continuing to flee.
Constable Cunningham ran over to his downed colleague. “McDonaugh, are you okay? I’ve never seen any man outmatch you before.”
Constable McDonaugh spit blood and put his hands to his nose. It was rapidly turning blackish-purple. He ignored the other constable as he searched the ground for his broken chain. He slurred his words, “Wher’ is my swee’ Abiageal?” He signed in relief as he found the sack with her picture still inside.
Constable Cunningham politely ignored the sad display. “Damnation, he must’ve been strong. McDonaugh was a champion brawler in Her Majesty’s Royal Sappers.” He bent to check on the unconscious man on the ground. Satisfied he was breathing regularly, he turned back to McDonaugh.
“Eeh ‘roke my ‘ose,” McDonaugh struggled to speak with the blood pouring from his face.
“What’s that? I can’t quite understand you.” Constable Cunningham took a step closer. “My word, he broke your nose.”
Satisfied that they would not pursue him, Dorian retrieved the steel maul he had stashed nearby in a pile of leaves. As he stood from bending to recover it, he saw with a shock that blood covered his shirt and hands. His blood. He ripped open his shirt and put his hands to the wound, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood. Except there was no wound. Nor any pain. His chest was bloody but whole. There weren’t even any scratches on his arms from the long thorns of the hedge. There was no gaping hole left by a bullet. “What the?” Then a realization dawned on him as he remembered the last time he had been shot.
It had been a duel between gentlemen over his involvement with the man’s daughter. He remembered the feeling as his shoulder tore open when struck by the lead ball. Even more terrible was the pain of the soft ball flattening and exploding out his back, leaving a gaping bloody wound. He had passed out and thought it all some terrible dream. But he had miraculously healed that time as well. To have the same thing happen twice was undeniable. What had given him the endurance to travel such a far distance t
hat night and still fight off the constables? That larger one should have easily bested him. He needed help. But who could he trust to assist him in locating the painting and making sense of these strange manifestations?
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About The Author
BRIAN S. FERENCE lives in Cave Creek, Arizona with his wife Rachel and three children Nathan, Lena, and Victoria. He has always had a passion for reading and writing from a young age. Brian loves new experiences, which has included operating his own company, traveling the world, working as a project manager, diving with sharks, and anything creative or fun. He is always up for a new adventure such as writing or other artistic pursuits. Please:
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You can learn more about The Wolf of Dorian Gray series, as well as information on other upcoming books at http://brianference.com.
Other Books From
the Author
The Wolf of Dorian Gray Series:
A Werewolf Spawned by the Evil of Man (Book 1)
Purgatory of the Werewolf (Book 2)
Lupări: Werewolf Hunter (Book 3)