by Helen Harper
‘Wait.’
‘The angle’s wrong again?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not the angle. You won’t hit the dummy – but you won’t accidentally kill any innocent passers-by, either.’ He slowly circled round me. Exasperated, I started to lower the bow. Kennedy shook his head. ‘Don’t move,’ he instructed. ‘Hold that position.’
‘Is this really necessary?’
‘Shh. You talk too much.’
That wasn’t remotely true, but arguing wouldn’t improve my position, so I did as he said and kept my mouth shut. Anything to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.
‘How often do you work out, DC Bellamy?’
What did that have to do with anything? ‘I go running a few times a week,’ I said. ‘I don’t have time for much else.’
‘Weights?’
‘No.’
‘Hmm.’ Kennedy scratched his chin and continued circling. ‘Interesting.’
‘What? What’s interesting?’
‘Have you been practising with the crossbow?’
I shrugged. ‘I’ve been trying to, but I haven’t had a whole lot of time.’
‘Have you been practising with this crossbow?’
I glanced down at it. ‘No. The one I’ve been using is a different colour.’ My eyes narrowed. ‘Why? What’s wrong with this one?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Kennedy…’
He gave me a wry grin. ‘It weighs almost ten kilograms. That’s pretty heavy for a crossbow and you’re rather petite, if you don’t mind me saying so. You’ve held it level for several moments without even thinking about it. You’re stronger than you look.’
Puzzled, I looked at the crossbow again. It didn’t feel heavy at all. My eyes travelled along its length then I paused. I glanced at the empty spot on the weapon-laden wall where the crossbow must have been hanging, and an odd chill ran through me.
I’d held this bow before. When I’d first discovered this room, this was the first crossbow I’d tried. I’d barely been able to hold it upright for more than a few seconds and I’d quickly abandoned it for a lighter version. I gave my biceps a doubtful frown.
‘Is everything alright?’ Kennedy enquired.
‘Fine.’ I shook myself. ‘Absolutely fine.’
He watched me for a moment longer then apparently decided to forego further mention of my weight-lifting capacity. ‘I assume you’ve heard of the ten-thousand-hour theory?’
‘Sure. Spend ten thousand hours practising something and you’ll be an expert. The last thing I have is ten thousand hours to spare.’
‘It’s not about the time,’ Kennedy said. ‘It’s about the focus. You shouldn’t fear the person who has practised ten thousand kicks, you should fear the person who’s practised one kick ten thousand times.’
‘Who said that?’ I asked. ‘Sun Tzu?’
Kennedy smiled. ‘Bruce Lee.’ He looked me up and down critically. ‘Usually, we’d spend the first few weeks just practising loading and cocking.’
‘Weeks?’ I half-screeched.
He took the bow from me and uncocked it. ‘I said usually. We need to get you prepped and able to defend yourself in far less time than that. I’ll still focus on the basics, but it will be up to you to put in those ten thousand hours. You’ll never become truly skilled otherwise.’
I calculated in my head. Ten thousand hours was more than four hundred days and I certainly didn’t have that sort of time to spend on crossbow training. I understood Kennedy’s meaning, however; if I was ever going to rely on using a crossbow, something that a Supe Squad detective was entitled to do, then I had to work at it.
‘Okay.’ I turned the bow towards the floor, planted my foot in the stirrup, pulled on the string and cocked it again.
Kennedy nodded approvingly and I tried not to feel too pleased with myself. After all, I’d taught myself to get this far.
‘Using your bare hands like that is the fastest way. For true accuracy, you should re-cock the bow every time you shoot it, although it’s not technically necessary. When you’re being attacked, that might not always be easy to pull off but it’s a good basis to work from.’
I gave my fingers a mournful look. My skin would end up ripped to shreds. ‘Can I get a pair of gloves?’
‘Do you usually wear gloves?’
‘No.’
‘Then no, you can’t. You’ll develop calluses quickly enough.’ He pulled a stopwatch from his pocket. ‘Try it again. I’ll time you.’
Oh goody.
***
Kennedy and I spent more than an hour practising. He didn’t allow me to shoot any bolts; all we did was cock and uncock, load and unload, over and over and over again. By the time we were done, my arms were aching and the skin on my fingers was raw, but I could see my progress. It was more satisfying than I’d expected.
‘What time does your shift usually start?’ he asked when he finally indicated that I could put the crossbow away and relax.
‘About two,’ I said. ‘But no-one’s really checking.’ With supernaturals, most of my work was done once night had fallen.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll meet you here at midday tomorrow. That’ll give us two clear hours to continue.’
I met his eyes. ‘Thank you for this, Kennedy.’
‘I’m happy to help.’
‘Are you?’ I asked baldly. ‘What’s in it for you?’
He smiled. ‘You’re going to be around here for a while, so it’ll good if you’re not trigger happy. A well-fired crossbow bolt is one of the few things that will halt any supe in their tracks. It will be better for all of us if that bolt is intentional. I don’t believe in happy accidents.’
I grunted agreement.
‘For now,’ he continued, ‘don’t touch the crossbow unless I’m here. I don’t want you picking up any bad habits.’
‘I thought you wanted me to practise a lot.’
‘I do,’ he said. ‘But there’s a world of difference between good practice and bad practice. Until we can be assured of the latter, you should leave it well alone.’ He checked his watch. ‘And speaking of practice, my drinking arm is beginning to seize up. I’d better get going and make sure it gets properly oiled.’
‘Kennedy,’ I started, wanting to suggest that he lay off the alcohol but not sure how to go about it without offending him. ‘Maybe—'
The door to the weapons room burst open and Liza appeared, my phone clutched in her hand. ‘You left this downstairs,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Fred’s been calling.’
I took it from her. Kennedy took advantage of the opportunity to avoid an awkward lecture and left with a brief wave while I answered. ‘Fred?’
‘Emma, thank goodness. You need to get here. Everything’s about to go tits up.’
The first tingles of dread uncoiled in the pit of my stomach. ‘Where is here? What’s going on?’
‘I’m in the car. You were right – Patrick Clarke has it in for the werewolves. I managed to track him to his house, but he left in his own car about twenty minutes ago. I’ve been following him and I think he’s heading towards Lisson Grove. He has a look on his face that spells trouble and,’ Fred’s voice dropped, ‘I think he’s armed.’
My shoulders tightened. ‘Damn it. I’m on my way.’
I snapped my fingers at Liza. ‘Get onto Clan Carr. Tell them that a human is on his way who might attack them but I’ll try and intercept him. They are not to make a move against him.’
She bit her lip. ‘I’ll do it now.’
We exchanged grim glances. And then I ran for the door.
Chapter Five
Thanks to Inner London’s one-way system and heavy traffic, I could run faster from the Supe Squad building than I could drive. I ignored Tallulah and sprinted down the street towards Lisson Grove. It was just as well that I rarely wore anything on my feet these days that wasn’t a pair of cushioned trainers.
The last thing any of us needed was for
Patrick Clarke to attack the wolves of Clan Carr under the misguided belief that they were responsible for both his son’s death and the loss of his body. We’d just had a full moon so, in theory, all the werewolves would be in full control of their animals and able to show restraint. But they would still defend themselves if they were provoked, and that might spell further disaster for the Clarkes – not to mention human–supernatural relations.
I wove in and out of the pedestrians, narrowly avoiding a woman with a pram. Most of the people on the streets were tourists and more than one of them took out a phone to video my dash. A few even tried to follow me but none of them could keep up.
When I reached the crossroads, I turned left and calculated the fastest way to get to the Clan Carr stronghold. I’d never been inside it, but I knew exactly where it was. Over the last few weeks, I’d spent time mapping out all the main supe points of interest and now I was benefiting from that hard work. I knew that there was a narrow snicket not far ahead where I could cut down and avoid the worst of the traffic. It would mean crossing a busy road before I entered the Lisson Grove area but it would be worth it.
I leapt over a large puddle and spun into the alleyway. A startled cat eyeing up a bird sprang out of the way as I thundered past. The wind was whipping at my hair and my feet were pounding the ground beneath me. I didn’t tend to push myself this hard when I was out running in the mornings, but I still wasn’t out of breath. Adrenaline – and the fear of what might be about to happen a few streets ahead – continued to spur me on.
I emerged from the snicket onto a wide pavement. Spotting a break in the traffic, I barely slowed before I tried to cross over. As I did so, a car that was trying to pass before the lights changed to red speeded up.
The driver slammed on his horn. I heard the screeching of brakes and the squeal of tyres. I turned my head and realised that he wouldn’t be able to stop in time. I was about to get flattened.
I didn’t have time to think. I jumped up into the air, my unconscious desire for survival taking over. The car came to a juddering halt while I spun upwards – and landed feet first on its bonnet.
I blinked. How in hell had I managed that? I swung my eyes to the driver, who was staring at me white-faced. Then, as his shock gave way to fury, he started to shout and shake his fist. I grinned, gave him a wave, leapt off and started running again.
My heart was hammering against my chest. I sucked in air, aware of how close I’d come to ending up as a bloodied pancake. I ducked my head and put on a final spurt. Within seconds, I’d rounded the corner onto the Carrs’ street.
I’d been fast, but not fast enough. From the look of the crowd gathered outside the Carrs’ mansion and the sound of loud shouting, Julian Clarke’s father was already there. ‘You murdered my son!’ he yelled. ‘You stole his body!’
‘Fuck off, mate,’ one of the younger Carr werewolves said. He advanced on Clarke, raising his fists and baring his teeth in a snarl that made his intentions clear. Fred, who was there too, tried to bar his approach and calm things down but, neither the wolves nor Clarke paid him any attention.
I sprinted up just as the door to the Carr stronghold opened and Lady Carr stepped out. She looked less like a werewolf alpha than a well-dressed woman on her way out for lunch with the ladies.
Her fragile, bird-like features and small frame completely belied what I knew of her. Lady Carr was as tough as they came. I hoped she could also prove to be diplomatic and understanding when it came to a grieving father.
The crowd of werewolves, which had to be at least thirty strong by now, parted to allow her to stride forward. ‘Mr Clarke,’ she said icily, ‘why are you here again?’
‘My son!’ he bellowed. His voice turned more guttural and anguished. ‘My son!’
I winced at his obvious pain. It didn’t excuse what he was doing but it did offer a reason.
‘We have been through this, Mr Clarke. Your son became a werewolf of his own volition. The law was followed to the letter. He died because of a tragic accident. We feel his loss as greatly as you do but—'
Her choice of words couldn’t have been worse. I elbowed my way through the crowd and reached Mr Clarke’s side as his face suffused with red and he started to shake from head to toe. ‘You lying bitch! You could never feel what I feel. You could never understand!’ He reached into his pocket and, as Fred had feared, drew out a gun.
To her credit Lady Carr didn’t blink. There wasn’t reason to panic – yet. I’d been doing my homework and I knew that a gun was potentially less lethal to a werewolf than a crossbow. A typical lead bullet can be expunged from a wolf’s body with ease, and the wolves’ healing abilities mean that the damage will be superficial. Of course, it’s possible to cast silver bullets that might do the trick, but that is a difficult process that is rarely successful. They are difficult to make, expensive to buy and wholly illegal. Even if an assailant manages to procure some, the bullets have to penetrate deep enough into a werewolf’s flesh to allow the silver to work against their blood. Exit wounds are no good: the bullet must remain within the wolf’s body to cause harm. That’s one of the reasons why crossbows are more useful. Surprisingly, a silver crossbow bolt, with its cunning snags built into the tip, is far more difficult to yank out than a bullet and the damage it can cause is usually far more catastrophic.
Unfortunately, Mr Clarke had been thinking about his revenge for some time. He waved the gun menacingly. ‘One hundred percent pure silver,’ he snarled. ‘Tried and tested. I’ve been practising. If this won’t stop you dead, nothing will.’
I drew in a breath and stepped between Clarke and Lady Carr. Fred goggled at me – and so did most of the wolves. A silver bullet could kill a human just the same as a lead bullet.
‘Mr Clarke,’ I said sternly. ‘Drop the weapon immediately.’
‘Armed police are on their way,’ Fred said quietly.
I nodded to acknowledge that I’d heard him. Mr Clarke, however, didn’t hear me.
‘I’ll kill you!’ he shouted at Lady Carr. ‘I’m going to do to you what you did to my son. And then I’ll desecrate your body, just like you desecrated his!’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Lady Carr said. ‘DC Bellamy, I suggest you deal with this creature before I do. I imagine your methods will be less messy than mine.’
I held up my palms, all but forcing Clarke to look at me instead of Carr. ‘I can’t begin to understand how you are feeling,’ I said softly. ‘I’ve experienced loss, but the pain of losing your own child is beyond my comprehension. However, none of this is the Carrs’ fault. None of it is the werewolves’ fault.’
‘They stole him!’ He gazed at me, agony etched into every line of his face. ‘They couldn’t let him rest in peace. They had to dig into his grave.’ He raised his head to stare at Lady Carr again. ‘Where is he? What have you done with my son?’
‘I don’t understand the question,’ she said. ‘We returned his body to you, as requested after his death, although it is not our usual practice to do so.’
‘And then you stole him back!’
‘Step away, Lady Carr,’ I said. ‘Let me talk to Mr Clarke on his own.’
‘I’m not sure that’s wise.’
‘Step away.’
She sighed but did as she was told, gesturing to her other wolves to fall back with her. I turned my back on them and faced Clarke. I needed him to listen to reason without the added pressure of the werewolves he so despised crowding him.
‘Mr Clarke,’ I said gently. ‘It was not the wolves who took Julian’s body. It’s not their way. The most likely explanation is that it was a ghoul.’
His eyes snapped to mine. ‘What?’
‘Julian wasn’t targeted because of who he was or what he’d become,’ I said, trying to explain while not inflaming matters further. ‘It was simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. We believe that a ghoul took him from his grave.’
‘A ghoul?’ Clarke’s f
ace was blank. ‘Why would—?' Then it started to sink in. He staggered. I might not have been aware of what ghouls did for sustenance but Clarke knew. ‘No. You’re not telling me that he – that Julian – that my boy was—'
Uh-oh. ‘Mr Clarke, let’s go back to the station and talk about this. Give me the gun and we can resolve this peacefully.’
His horrified eyes went from me to the werewolves, and then to the gun in his hand. Something inside him broke. ‘You fuckers! You supernatural slimy fuckers! You – you – you—'
‘Oh calm down, you silly man,’ Lady Carr snapped.
That was all it took. Clarke straightened up, swung the gun round and loosed off a shot. It went wide and slammed into the building behind us. One of the werewolves lunged straight at him, transforming in mid-air.
I threw myself forward and tried to drag the wolf away. ‘Get off!’ I yelled. If he heard me, he didn’t react. His jaws snapped as he tried to pin Clarke’s writhing body to the ground.
‘Bryan,’ Lady Carr commanded, her voice barely audible over the sudden clamour. ‘Fall back.’ The wolf should have retreated immediately, but he was too enraged by the threat to his alpha to hear her command.
Clarke’s arms were flailing everywhere. He continued to clutch the gun, huffing and groaning. The wolf snarled, more than prepared to go in for the kill. I could hear the sirens as a posse of armed police approached, but they would be too late. Whatever was happening here would be finished in the next five seconds.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Fred reaching for the gun. ‘Stand down!’
Clarke shifted to the side and the werewolf took the opportunity of his altered stance to lunge for his exposed neck. I gritted my teeth, grabbed a hank of the wolf’s fur and hauled him back. ‘Leave it!’ I hissed at him. ‘Listen to your alpha!’
He growled at me – and then there was a loud bang. Something slammed into me. Pain and hot wetness spread through my chest. I looked up and saw Clarke staring at me in horror, his finger still on the gun’s trigger.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Oh no. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t want to do that.’