Dark Hunt

by Naomi Clark

  Well, yeah. I thought of all the brawls I’d been in before I met Shannon and realized I probably had been.

  There was a loud cracking of wood as someone kicked open the door that kept the mob out of Loup Garou. I whirled around and stood on tiptoes to see a bulky figure shove his way through the mob and inside.

  “Patric!” Thérèse broke away from me and raced into the crowd towards the door.

  I chased after her without a second thought, leaving Shannon shouting my name, her voice quickly lost in the din. Thérèse had already vanished from sight as I plunged blindly into the seething mass of people, keeping my head down to avoid getting my face bashed in. It was impossible though; I got elbows in the face, heavy boots crushing my toes and fists in the spine. I was going to ache in the morning. My cheek wound throbbed horribly as someone’s nails raked across it, more through clumsiness than anything else.

  I was battered and bruised by the time I reached the door. People pushed back and forth, struggling with each other. There were police, who’d penetrated far enough into the mob and were attempting to drive people back. I swerved sharply to avoid a baton in the ribs and found myself smack up against the wall of Loup Garou, a few feet from the door. I wanted to shift badly, my wolf telling me it would be so much easier to weave through the surging crowd on four legs, low to the ground. That wasn’t true, of course. I knew the moment someone in the crowd cried wolf, there would be a target on my back. Being low to the ground in the middle of the mob set on rending someone limb from limb was not an advantage, it was suicide. I clung to my human self and tried to ignore the claustrophobic anxiety filling me as I scrambled my way to the broken door.

  It had fallen shut in the chaos, but I rammed through, letting it slam behind me and hoping nobody followed. The inside of Loup Garou was in near darkness, the only lights the bluish glow of the computer monitors. It lent a weird atmosphere to the place, like I was inside an arcade game. Thérèse was not as far ahead of me as I’d feared. She wept as she ran towards the bar, where Patric and Clémence squared off like boxers, snarling insults at each other.

  I hurried after her with no idea of what I was going to do when I got there. Ahead of us, Patric grabbed a handful of Clémence’s hair and slammed her face down on the bar. She yowled, the pained sound not quite drowning out the wet crunch as her nose broke. Thérèse screeched and threw herself at Patric, fists pounding on his broad back. He shrugged her off without looking back and she sprawled to the floor. With a growl, she yanked on his ankles and he too went face-first into the bar.

  Clémence, blood streaming down her face, dropped to the floor, shifting as she did. She was fast—the fastest I’d ever seen. One second human, the next in between human and wolf, bones stretching, fur flowing, but she still wasn’t fast enough. She was in that dangerous between stage—not human, not wolf—when Patric rolled over and jammed his feet into her ribs. He shoved her against the bar and used the momentum to get himself upright. Without hesitation he reached down and grabbed her by the scruff, hauling her off the ground.

  Clémence, now all wolf, twisted and struggled in his grip. Thérèse and I launched ourselves at Patric, clawing and punching and trying to force him to release Clémence. With a roar that would have done a wolf proud, he spun, flinging Clémence over the top of the bar and sending her crashing into the shelves of bottles. She crashed to the floor in a shower of liquid and broken glass, and lay still.

  “Bastard!” Thérèse screamed at him, her eyes blazing, hands curled into fists. A change was taking her; it snapped in the air around her and called to my own wolf.

  “Lesbian bitch!” Patric retorted, lost in his own primal rage. “Murdering dogs, all of you!”

  Thérèse threw her head back and howled, black fur rippling down her long neck as she did. Claws sprang from her fingertips and she slashed at Patric, ripping open his shirt and leaving wide, bloody scores on his chest.

  He yelled and stumbled back, only to swing his fist at her. Thérèse dodged, falling to her knees to complete her change. Patric immediately swung his leg back to boot her in the ribs as he had Clémence. I dove at him, hitting him hard in the chest and knocking him out of range.

  Patric was big and strong, but against three angry werewolves, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. He couldn’t take us all out.

  Luckily for him, it didn’t come to that.

  At the other end of the warehouse, the door flew open and the mob poured in I smelled the reek of petrol a second before a bottle smashed open at my feet, drenching my legs and shoes in petrol. It was followed by another that sailed into the wreckage of the bar and another that hit Patric, coating him from head to foot.

  Pure animal panic gripped me. Fire. There was going to be fire. I forgot all about Patric. In that second I forgot about Clémence and Thérèse too. All I wanted was to escape before the fire started.

  And then an idiot sparked up a lighter and my only thought was that I’d broken my promise to Shannon for nothing.

  Nine

  Suddenly nobody was fighting to get into Loup Garou anymore. Everyone was fighting to get out. Screams of rage became screams of fear, the mob shoving and swearing and crying as they all tried to squeeze through the door at once.

  For the four us up at the bar, it wasn’t so easy. . The flames leapt across the wooden bar, sizzled down wires and cables to hit the computer banks. A rapid succession of soft explosions filled the air as each machine blew in turn. Smoke and fumes engulfed us as the fire spread insanely fast, wood crackling and snapping, sparks flying. Within seconds I was blinded by smoke. I pulled my t-shirt up to cover my mouth and nose in a vain attempt to keep my lungs clear.

  Searing heat raced over me, but mortal fear kept me stupidly locked in place as brilliant blue and orange flames rushed to surround us. Behind the bar, Clémence howled, trapped by the rising flames . Patric stomped desperately at the flames licking at his feet, then ripped his shirt off, throwing the petrol-soaked cloth into the roaring flames. He faced me, sweat-stained and petrified. He jabbered at me in French. The only word I understood was death.

  Between us, Thérèse lay squirming, her body still in the throes of her change. Oh shit. In that half-way stage, she was the most vulnerable, her entire body and mind focused on shifting shape. Little things like not inhaling smoke wouldn’t register until it was too late. I saw the change complete. I saw Thérèse suck in a deep breath of toxic, scalding air. My heart dropped. She coughed and whined frantically, clawing her way to her feet with blind terror on her face. Another wrenching howl rose from Clémence who was probably sucking in just as much smoke as Thérèse.

  Only Patric and I were in a position to get them out and I wasn’t sure I trusted him to help.

  I realized with dread that there was no time to think about it. It was either act now or burn now. Burning alive was not how I planned to die. Clutching my t-shirt to my face, I looked for a way through the flames to reach Clémence.

  The bar was aflame, hot air stinging my cheeks and cooking the sensitive flesh around my wound as I fought for a way though. Old wood burned easily, and for a second I despaired. Even if I got to Clémence, I couldn’t get us back through that fire again. There was no way out.

  Then I saw the door at the side of the bar, the one she’d disappeared through this morning. Okay. There had to be a way out past that door, a back entrance, a window, anything. Anything would do. Taking a deep breath, I dove through the flames and landed in an ugly heap on the floor next to Clémence, who lay wheezing and limp in a torture bed of broken glass. Raw agony raced over me as my skin burnt and my hair sizzled. The sick scent of burning flesh and hair turned my stomach. I gritted my teeth and got to my knees. Ignoring the broken glass cutting its way into my bare arms, I rolled the blue wolf onto her side, trying to get her to her feet.

  She didn’t resist, but she didn’t help either. She was a dead weight in my arms; too weak, too scared to do anything. As I stood, clutching her like a sack of potatoes, my t-
shirt slipped down and I inhaled hot air and toxic smoke. I spluttered and my eyes watered until I couldn’t see a damn thing, just blurred flames jumping closer and closer. I almost dropped Clémence then and fled.

  I didn’t though. I held on and staggered towards that door, praying for freedom, praying for oxygen. I couldn’t see if Patric had followed my lead and grabbed Thérèse. I couldn’t hear them over the roar and hiss of the fire. I just had to pray for them too, pray he wasn’t such a bastard he’d leave Thérèse to die.

  My skin scorched, hair smoking, eyes stinging, lungs aching, flames chasing me, I somehow got us to that door and landed a solid kick at the frame. It didn’t budge. I shrieked and kicked again and again, cursing it for being so damn fireproof when everything else was burning so merrily.

  “Break!” I screamed at the door, catching another lungful of smoke. I was going to drop Clémence. She was too heavy and I was so hot and so scared. I’d never see Shannon again if I didn’t get out of here, and If I dropped Clémence I might have a chance, I might get away...

  Patric materialized through the flames, Thérèse slung over his shoulder. Face grim, he kicked at the door. It flew open with a crack and we stumbled through, coughing and gasping for fresh air. The corridor beyond filled with smoke almost before we could breathe. For a second I was lost, trapped. The urge to dump Clémence hit me again.

  Patric snapped me out of it shouting desperately, “Sortie de secours!” I shook my head dumbly and he shoved past me. “Fire door!” he bellowed.

  I followed without thinking, trusting him to get us out. Down the corridor, past a flight of stairs, flames licking at my heels. Heat scalded me, my arms blistering. I wondered how much smoke was in my lungs. My pulse and heart raced. My lungs ached, my breath coming in short, sharp huffs.

  Patric moved like a charging bull and didn’t stop for anything. His energy kept me going, kept me struggling onward. Clémence, hanging limp in my arms, grew heavier with every step. Patric led me down the corridor round a corner where the smoke hadn’t yet reached and there, thank God, was a fire exit. He kicked at the bar, sending the metal door crashing open and bringing oxygen pouring into the narrow corridor.

  I screamed as the fire reached out from behind me. It jumped and leapt, fed by the sudden rush of air. There was a soft roar in my ears. My jeans caught fire and seconds later the pain hit. I dived the last few feet to freedom, dropping Clémence and throwing myself onto the pavement. I rolled, slapping at the flames darting up my legs. Only when I was sure the flames were out, did I drop onto my back with a cry, squeezing my eyes closed to try to stop them from stinging. It didn’t help. I opened them, trying to take stock of my surroundings. The back of Loup Garou was grey and bland with none of the murals that decorated the entrance. There were bins and rubbish bags gathering untidily on either side of the fire exit, plastic already sagging, melting in the heat. Small, tatty-looking houses ran up and down the street and their owners were spilling out to look at the drama.

  There were sirens somewhere nearby. Fire engines, I hoped. Flames snapped and hissed as fire ate Loup Garou. I propped myself up on my elbows, breathing deep and slow, every inch of me aching and shaking. Great shoots of flame climbed into the dusky sky, scorch-bright against the gathering dark. Clouds of smoke billowed through the upper windows of the warehouse. I’d been in there. Shit. I’d been right in there. I felt sick.

  I wanted to move, get further away from the fire, but my legs refused to work. I just lay there while people gathered around me. Someone bent over Clémence, pulling her eyelids open to check on her. She lolled her tongue out, wheezing, and tried to get to her feet. She failed once, twice, legs skidding around clumsily. I couldn’t think why she was trying so hard when she was obviously so weak. Then it clicked. I looked around for Patric and Thérèse.

  He sat at the edge of the road with his head in his hands. Thérèse was sprawled at his side. He’d just dropped her as soon as it was safe, I thought, like I had Clémence. He wasn’t looking at her, she wasn’t looking at him. Whatever had moved him—moved them—to this, it was gone, fallen away. I couldn’t help feeling a spurt of anger, wondering how much of tonight’s chaos was down to Patric. Down to all three of them.

  Then again, the raging mob probably should take a share of the blame.

  I groaned and forced myself to sit up. The burns on my legs stung like a bitch and needed attention. Scrapes and bruises covered me and I wanted to plunge into an ice-cold lake more than anything in the world.

  After I find Shannon. Guilt hit me. God, she was going to be so mad. I shivered and tried to stand. I had to find her.

  Before I could do more than straighten myself up, I was surrounded by paramedics. Where the hell did they come from? My head spun as they jabbered and prodded at me, a mix of English and French making my ears ring. I was too surprised to protest as they bundled me—all of us—into waiting ambulances.

  “My girlfriend, I need—” I was cut off by an oxygen mask slapped over my mouth. I inhaled out of sheer instinct, then tried to rip it off, only to get a firm dressing down in fast flowing French from the paramedic. He forced me to sit on a stretcher next to Patric, whilst Clémence and Thérèse were tucked into another ambulance. Clémence started howling as the doors were shut on her, a frantic sound that tore at me and I resisted the desire to howl back. I couldn’t have anyway, wearing the oxygen mask. I just sat there as the ambulance started up, sirens whirring, the vehicle carrying me away from the burning building and Shannon.

  ***

  I hate hospitals. I mean I really hate them. I hate the bleachy smell, I hate the crappy art that’s supposed to be all soothing and pretty. I hate the whir and beep of machines, the vacant look in the eyes of people in the waiting room. All of it. But what I hated most of all about the Hôtel-Dieu de Paris was that Shannon wasn’t there.

  I’d stupidly hoped she would be. That she’d be there at the door waiting for me when I was rolled out of the ambulance. When she wasn’t, I started crying. I couldn’t help myself. Great, childish sobs tore from me, making my sore throat ache even more and sending throbs of agony through me. I buried my head in my hands as I sat in the emergency room, a werewolf nurse treating the burns on my legs. Where was Shannon? Where did she think I was?

  The hospital was quiet, the emergency room almost empty. Aside from me and Patric, there were a couple of kids who’d clearly been in a fight of their own; blood dripping from noses and wide cuts on foreheads. I stared at the blotchy red marks on my legs dispassionately, wondering if I was in shock and that was why they didn’t really hurt anymore. The nurse had cut my jeans off me with practiced ease and was carefully smoothing burn gel over my skin. I flinched a little at her touch, but the gel was delicious on my skin. I closed my eyes and moaned in relief.

  On the bed across from me, Patric grunted and snarled as his own burns—worse than mine, over his arms and legs—got the same treatment. Where was Thérèse? I wondered. Clémence would have been taken to a wolf room for treatment. I mentally ticked off her injuries. Smoke inhalation, a broken nose and probably a concussion. She’d be one pissed wolf when she came round. Disoriented and traumatized, she’d not be the best patient for a general ward. Thérèse, however, I had expected to see being treated alongside Patric and myself. Had she been hurt worse than I realized? Or had the fact that she’d been in wolf shape automatically meant she was assigned a wolf room?

  I ran my hands through my hair as the nurse wrapped up my burns. I’d been letting my hair grow out a little from the shaggy crop I usually wore, fancying something I could style for a change. Of course, the fire had wrecked that prospect: I could still smell the crisped scent of frying hair and guessed from touch I’d lost an inch or two here and there around the edges. I sucked in my cheeks, tears welling in my eyes again. Where was Shannon? I needed her.

  “D’accord,” the nurse told me, handing me one of those scratchy hospital gowns to wear. “You will stay overnight and in the morning you may go.�
�� She smiled brightly at me.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, I have to go. My girlfriend—”

  “Non, absolument pas ,” she said, smile turning to a frown. “You could be very ill, very hurt.” She pointed to Patric too. “You both must stay for observation.”

  I gaped at her. Didn’t she understand? I didn’t know where Shannon was and I needed her. “No, I can’t.” I jumped up, wincing as judders of pain ran through me. Fuck. Okay, I was hurt. I probably shouldn’t be running off. But dammit, I was a werewolf. It wasn’t like I needed skin grafts like a human might. I could shift and heal a lot of the minor damage. I didn’t need fucking observation. I needed to get out of here and find Shannon. God. Who knew how many hospitals there were in Paris? She could be working her way through every one right now!

  The nurse held my upper arms gently, trying to push me back onto the bed. I threw her off. “I’m not staying! I’m fine.”

  She set her hands on her hips, looking me up and down. “You are a wolf, yes?” When I nodded, she rolled her eyes. “No shifting, d’accord? You will split the burns.” She made a popping gesture with her hands. I squirmed, hating the visual. “No shifting for at least two days.”