Midnight in Berlin

by JL Merrow

  I was really going to die.

  Christoph’s face had lengthened. His nose and mouth had fused and distended to form a shape more animal than human, covered in fine, dark grey hair. His ears had grown, turned pointed, and weren’t in the right place anymore. Those sharp little canines had turned into vicious long fangs; all the better to tear your throat out with, my dear. There was no white in his eyes now. They were pure amber, shining with malice and flecked with hunger.

  I looked at his hands, then wished I hadn’t. They weren’t hands anymore. Hands aren’t that hairy, and they don’t have claws.

  The worst thing—absolutely, gut-churningly the worst—was that he was still wearing the clothes he’d had on in the car. Still recognizably—well, not human, but there was no mistaking that’s where he was coming from. So I couldn’t even pretend to myself that this was some wild beast or some escaped pet. This was a nightmare, an Alptraum. This was a fairy tale in the blood-soaked original, the version first written down by the brothers Grimm they don’t dare tell the kiddies anymore.

  There was a strange, animal noise. I realized it was me who’d made it, not him. I guess that’s all we are in the end, predator or prey, and there were no shades of grey there, only black-and-white certainty.

  So I lay there beneath his body, waiting to die in pain and horror, and if I made a few more noises that might possibly have been described as whimpers, so what? Everyone craps themselves when they die, at least that’s what a med student I was with for a week or three once told me. You want to hang on to your dignity? Forget it. You’re human, so basically you’re screwed. Ashes to ashes; shit to fucking shit.

  I waited, but it seemed to me that either he hadn’t read the script or I’d missed a cue as the beast that’d been Christoph stilled suddenly, then lowered that face that was almost a muzzle to me and sniffed, long and hard. “You’re human,” he growled at me, his breath hot on my face but oddly sweet smelling, his voice so thick I could barely make out the words. The crazy thing was it came out like an accusation. Hurt, and shocked, even, although what the hell he had to be shocked about I couldn’t begin to guess. It was almost as if he thought I’d betrayed him somehow. “You are not one of us.” His face changed; I could see the hair receding and the nose flattening, shrinking. The teeth got way less scary until finally I was left staring up at Christoph. His hair had gotten loose from the tie and was draped wild around his face, but you know what? He wasn’t any less terrifying that way.

  It was about now that my mouth realized it could maybe be doing something more useful than mewling like a kitten. “I won’t tell, okay? I’ll keep your secret, I swear it; you can let me go,” came out of my throat in a stranger’s voice. I felt sorry for the stranger. He sounded like he was on the edge of blubbing like a baby. Me, I was thinking, right, let’s talk our way out of here and then we can get the cops onto the psycho beast-guy, let them deal with the werewolf shit.

  I guess I thought that a little too loud.

  “I’m sorry,” Christoph said. The crazy thing was, I actually believed him for a moment, but then his face warped again and the teeth grew and his hot breath was on my face and I was thinking, Oh, God, Mom, I’m sorry—then he lunged to tear out my throat.

  Chapter Two

  It was actually a little anticlimactic when I woke up in a strange bed with sunlight falling on my face. There was a dull throbbing in my shoulder, and my head felt like it was stuffed with feathers.

  Feathers. That sparked a synapse. I looked down at myself. Not only was I not wearing the clothes I’d had on last time I looked, I wasn’t wearing anything, unless you counted a heavy bandage on my left shoulder and a comforter that’d mostly fallen off the bed.

  Huh. Looked like werewolf-guy’s aim had been off.

  Werewolf… Suddenly my heart was pounding, and the room felt like it’d started to spin. I’d been bitten by a werewolf. I stared at my hands, but they looked normal. The rest of my body—the same? I thought so—but hell, when was the last time I really looked at myself? Would I notice a subtle change? My shoulder was hurting worse now as I twisted and turned, trying to see every inch of me. I seemed to be okay. But what about my face? My fingers traced my features. The stubble around my jaw seemed kinda long, but I couldn’t remember when it was I’d shaved last anyhow. I moved on down to my teeth. Fuck, had they always been this pointy?

  A small sound escaped me. I wondered if the werewolf—the other werewolf, I corrected myself, fighting the urge to giggle like a moron—was near enough to hear it. Apparently he had been, as the door opened. Except it wasn’t the psycho werewolf who’d picked me up last night; it was some other guy.

  Of course, the new guy was possibly also psycho and/or werewolf, but hey, I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  I was desperate to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  He wasn’t tall—just an inch or two on me—but he was powerfully built. Icy-cold eyes, sort of pale grey-blue, watery. Stasi eyes, I thought immediately, but perhaps he just reminded me of one of the bit players in Das Leben der Anderen. This guy was old enough to have been Stasi, that’s for sure. Late forties, I’d have said, whereas Christoph was around about my age.

  “Uh, hi?” I said. Maybe my tone was a little higher than usual, but it was definitely not a squeak. I’d covered my dick up with my hands like they always do on TV. While I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of in that department, I was getting decidedly straight vibes from this guy, so maybe it was just as well I wasn’t hanging out my junk and holding up a sign saying Come and get it, big boy.

  “You are awake,” the guy told me, like I couldn’t have figured it out for myself. “I am Peter Schreiber.” He didn’t offer to shake hands, so I guessed the gaydar was in good working order.

  “Leon Jacobson.”

  He nodded. Like maybe he knew already, like maybe he’d been through my wallet while I was asleep. I made a mental note to count my bills when I got it back. If I got it back.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  How did I feel? Nice of him to care. I guessed. “Sore. Groggy.” And freaked, and scared, and pissed at the asshole who bit me, but I didn’t add that. I figured I should hold up a finger and see which way the wind was blowing first.

  “It is to be expected. I regret what happened to you. You will be pleased to hear that Christoph has been punished for his lapse in judgment.”

  Good. I hoped they’d ripped his balls off and made him eat them. Raw. And pissed on them first. “He…he bit me,” I said. Looked like stating the obvious was catching. I didn’t like the way my voice sounded, so I cleared my throat before I spoke again. “Am I…?” I couldn’t say it. I mean, it would have just sounded dumb in broad daylight. Like I’d dreamed it or something.

  God, I hoped I’d dreamed it.

  Schreiber smiled—well, his lips pulled back from his teeth, so that was a smile, right?—and yeah, he had that whole pointy-canines thing going on just like that bastard Christoph. “You are one of us now,” he told me like I should be pleased or something.

  “One of us? That would be a, a”—I could feel my whole body tensing up as I forced the word out—“a werewolf?” It came out sounding like I’d been sucking on a helium balloon.

  “Naturally.” That toothy smile hadn’t wavered. I realized I wasn’t taking to this guy any too much. “I will have some clothes brought to you.” He turned on his heel in a kind of snappy, military way that had me thinking Stasi all over again.

  “Uh, thanks,” I started to say, but Schreiber was already halfway out the door before I finished getting the words out. He didn’t bother turning back to give me an answer.

  I sat on the bed and stared at the wall, which was cracked and pitted, badly in need of re-plastering. The room was small, with a high, square window half-hidden by faded, dusty curtains. I got up to look out, but all I could see was trees. I guessed I must be around the back of the house, two floors up. The only furniture was the ugly iron beds
tead I was sitting on and a battered, watermarked dresser I figured would fall to pieces if the woodworm all moved out at once.

  I couldn’t believe it. I mean, really I couldn’t. It had been one thing while I was freaking out over maybe having gotten infected or wolved or turned or whatever the fuck they called it, but now? Now it all seemed unreal. Like Schreiber and Christoph were in it together, just yanking my chain. Any minute now, I’d spot the hidden cameras—and when that happened, someone would be going home with their teeth in a bag.

  A knock on the door made me turn so fast I cricked my neck. “Come in,” I snapped without thinking, and had to grab the comforter PD fucking Q when I realized it was a girl. Not that she could have seen anything—she was staring at the floor like she was worried the carpet was about to come to life and start snapping at her ankles. She looked young, late teens maybe. Skinny and pale, with dark hair kept long so she could hide behind it. My anger drained away to be replaced with a gut-wrenching doubt. If this was some kind of stunt, would they really have sent in a frightened kid?

  “I have some clothes for you,” she said so quiet I could barely hear her. She risked a glance up at my knees before putting the bundle on the bed and hurrying out again without waiting to be thanked. Or hit, maybe. Damn well looked like that was more what she was used to, anyhow. I was liking this place less and less. “One of us,” Schreiber had told me, like it was all one big, happy family here in werewolf land. Shit. I really was starting to believe it.

  The werewolf part, I mean. I wasn’t buying the happy family thing any time this millennium.

  The clothes she’d brought didn’t fit any too well, but hell, in baggy grey sweatpants and a faded, fraying T-shirt I wasn’t going to be getting on any fashion pages anyhow. At least they smelled clean. There weren’t any shoes. Maybe they were keeping those so if I ran away, they could set the dogs on me. Or the wolves. As I reached for the door handle, my heart was pounding so hard I got another flashback to the previous night. Fuck. I should have stayed in that damn tent and found my own Goth slut instead of going off with a werewolf with cheekbones to die for. No use crying over spilled blood, though. I yanked the door open and stepped outside to meet my new family.

  The house didn’t look any better inside than it had from outside. There were more cracks than there were walls, and under the damp, there was the sweet smell of rotting window frames. As I reached the top of the stairs, though, there was a new scent that drove everything else from my mind.

  Bacon.

  Suddenly I was starving. Literally. I mean, I’d never been this hungry in my life. Not even that time I was living rough in Paris where the locals would sooner spit on you than throw you a euro to buy a fucking croissant. I stopped noticing my surroundings as I hurled myself down the stairs to reach the source of that heavenly smell. I think I passed some people on the way, but male? Female? Human, even? I couldn’t have told you to save my life. The next thing I knew, I was in the kitchen. Someone was whimpering at the edge of my hearing as I shoveled food straight from the frying pan into my mouth. There was grease running down my fingers and dripping off my chin, and I felt like I was going to explode from the sheer pleasure of it all.

  It was only when the pan was empty that the id backed off a little and let the higher functions get a look in. That was when I noticed my hands.

  My claws.

  I hurled the pan away from me. There was a choked-off shriek, and for the first time I noticed clothes-girl cowering in a corner. She was looking at me like she was scared the bacon was only an appetizer. Like I was a fucking monster.

  I felt…something. Like my muscles were contracting, except that these were no muscles I’d ever had before. My hands felt clumsy, and I realized my fingers had shortened and my thumbs didn’t seem to work properly anymore. They were turning into paws. Paws. I felt numb, disconnected.

  There was another choking sob, but this time I think it was me. I lifted my—paws—to my face. But it wasn’t my face. There was coarse hair under the pads of what had once been my hands, and the nose was the wrong shape… I couldn’t process it. Clothes-girl was still huddled in her corner, and suddenly I was furious at her, wanted to kill her, because dammit, we were both terrified of the same thing—me—but the difference was, she got to run away.

  There was a strange, low rumble coming from my throat. I hardly realized I’d started walking toward the girl until I felt iron hands gripping my shoulders. My first thought was Christoph. I whirled, breaking his grasp, but it wasn’t him, so I didn’t rip his head off for doing this to me. It was Schreiber.

  He looked pleased. “Excellent. The instincts are strong in you,” he said like he was Obi-Wan-Fucking-Kenobi. If he’d started spouting any more crap like that, I swear I’d have bitten his fucking hand off.

  Maybe Schreiber could read minds. He dropped me and turned to the girl. “Silke! You will clear this up!” he barked. I realized there was grease spattered all over the kitchen floor from where I’d thrown the pan. I took a step forward, meaning to apologize or offer to help or something, because jeez, no one should be treated like that—but she cowered away from me, like she figured now that the bacon was all gone it was her on the menu. I stopped dead. Everything seemed brighter, somehow—more colorful than it had a moment ago.

  “Come,” Schreiber said from behind me. “You must meet the others.”

  “Uh…like this?” I was relieved to hear it sounded like me. Then I noticed my hands were almost back to normal, and when I touched my face, it felt human, pretty much.

  Schreiber smiled. Strangely, the cockles of my heart were not warmed by this. “It is always like this, in the beginning. The changes come without your will. You will soon learn to master them.”

  “How soon?” I asked, because seriously, even if these guys weren’t keeping me prisoner—and the jury was still out on that—there was no way on earth I was going anywhere people might see me turn into a freak. I needed to be in control. Control… That sparked another flashback. “Christoph. He told me I was out of control. Did he think I was a…a werewolf already?”

  Schreiber sneered. “A child’s mistake. He will not make it again. Come. The others are waiting.”

  He sounded…kinda final when he talked about Christoph. My stomach lurched, and the hairs on the back of my neck started to prickle. Okay, so I’d wanted Christoph to suffer for what he did to me—but getting him dead? I hadn’t wanted that. No way. I was starting to wonder if I really wanted to go anywhere with this guy. Schreiber sounded like he was getting impatient, though. It was just a hunch, but I got the feeling that when Schreiber got impatient, bad things started to happen. So I pulled myself together, told myself it’d just been a figure of speech and followed him into the living room.

  There were what, a half dozen of them? No. Stop. This could be important. I counted up. There were seven of them, including Schreiber. All guys. “What, no girl werewolves?” I asked.

  “We have only Silke,” Schreiber told me. There was an undercurrent in his voice that said, Back off, she’s mine. Jeez, poor kid. I mean, she was young enough to be his daughter, easy. And from what I’d seen so far, I was betting romance didn’t figure too high in their relationship.

  He went round the room, telling me their names. There was a Tobias, a Sven, an Ulf and, uh, three others. I’ve never been much good at remembering names. I figured they’d forgive me, given the level of post-traumatic stress I had to be suffering from after all the crap that’d happened to me lately. Tobias and Sven I remembered because they looked like mean sons of bitches, and Ulf because hell, who’s going to forget Ulf the wolf? He was cute, I guess, if you’re into jailbait. Thanks, but excuse me while I barf my guts up. He had a mop of reddish-brown hair above an earnest, freckled face, and was wearing a T-shirt and jeans that were hanging halfway off his skinny ass. His denim jacket was weighed down with a mass of little buttons. When I looked closer, I could see they were mostly right-on political statements, preaching recycling
and other worthy endeavors. There was even one with a crossed-out swastika and Never again written on it in German.

  “Is this all of you?” I asked. Schreiber nodded. “Where’s Christoph?” It just slipped out.

  “I told you; he has been punished.” He was sounding impatient again, so I let it slide, hoping like hell I was wrong about what that punishment had been. “Now—to practical matters. What are you doing in Berlin? You have family? A job?”

  “Uh, me?” I hate it when I don’t know what might turn out to be the wrong answer. “I’m just, you know, passing through. Soaking up the culture. I got a job in a bar in Charlottenburg.” We’re talking black economy here, cash in hand, no tax deducted and no questions asked. And if I wasn’t there for my shift that night, no job. Damn.

  “And your family?”

  “Back in the States. Hey, do I get to ask questions too? Like, what’s the deal, here?”

  “Of course,” he said like it was being pulled out of him along with his fingernails. “We are a small pack—we keep together for protection.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “Protection? From what?”

  “From the beasts.” I guess he saw my look of incomprehension. “They think they are superior to us, because when they transform, they become fully wolf. As if to be an animal is an accomplishment.” He spat that last word like he wished he was spitting on these guys’ graves.

  Actually they sounded pretty cool to me. “You’re saying there are guys who turn into real live wolves?” That had to be way better than becoming some kind of half-assed freakazoid. “So how come we only go halfway?”

  There was a low rumble. I realized Sven had stood and was goddamn growling at me. Shit. “Hey, not like I’m saying that’s bad, just—how’s it work, you know?”

  “The others have embraced their bestial nature and lost their humanity,” Sven proclaimed, his eyes shining with the light of religious insanity. “We are the true werewolves of Germany, not they!”