The Wolfstone Curse

by Justin Richards

  Irena snarled with anger, bringing the gun round. But Forrest’s massive paw slapped it from her grasp. The gun clattered against the wall. Before it hit the floor, Forrest had closed the ring again and flung Irena away from him.

  He grabbed Carys’s arm, and ran.

  Carys was dragging Peter. He stumbled after them. The wolf-guards turned in confusion, one of them stooped to help Irena to her feet. Another was inside the chamber with Einzel. But the third brought his gun up. Bullets chiselled into the floor round Carys’s feet. Chips of stone flew from the walls as more bullets bit. She closed her eyes, hoping Forrest knew where he was going, hoping she could keep hold of Peter.

  Peter staggered, and she cried out, thinking he’d been hit. But he stumbled on, regaining his balance and running with renewed strength. Maybe he was recovering – pray God he’d be all right.

  They passed the altar in the main chamber and carried on through. Peter was strong enough to shove the doors closed behind them. They kept running. The gunfire was muffled by the doors. Carys opened her eyes again – and saw the huge misshapen shadow of the wolf on the wall beside her as she ran. The wolf dragging her to safety. The wolf that had been Sebastian Forrest.

  They raced along corridors, dashing between the pools of light that cast grotesque, blurred shadows across the walls. Clambering over piles of rubble. Squeezing through gaps where the walls had collapsed. Slowly, away from the effects of the crystal, Forrest was returning to his normal self. His shirt had been shredded when he changed, his jacket was split across the back and his trousers ripped. The ends of his shoes were torn open where sharp nails had erupted.

  Carys lost track of where they went. They just ran, dodging back and forth down passages and corridors. Some were well lit, others almost completely dark. Finally they slumped against a wall, breathing heavily. All three of them strained to hear the sounds of pursuit. But there was nothing.

  “You think we’re safe?” Peter gasped.

  “Not for long,” Forrest replied, his voice still a guttural growl. “But let’s deal with you while we have a moment.”

  Peter backed away as Forrest reached out. He grabbed Peter, dragging him close, pulling off his jacket and ripping open his shirt at the shoulder.

  “You’ll have to do it,” he told Carys. “Obviously I can’t.”

  “Do what?” Peter demanded. “What’s going on?” His teeth were chattering as he tried to speak.

  But Carys knew what Forrest meant. She gripped Peter’s upper arm. A bruise was appearing round the swollen puncture mark where Irena had injected him. She squeezed either side, and clear liquid wept out.

  Peter winced with the pain, but she kept squeezing, forcing out as much of the poison as she could and wiping it away with her sleeve. Finally, when nothing more was coming out, she took a deep breath, and clamped her mouth round the wound. His skin was smooth and burning hot. The taste of the poison was bitter and sharp.

  She spat it onto the floor, rubbing at her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Thanks,” Peter said quietly.

  “That is so gross. You ever get wolfified again and you’re on your own.”

  He nodded weakly. “Deal.”

  “Now that’s done,” Forrest said, “we have to get away from here. There’s a small airfield about three miles away. We just need to follow the road. If we can get there, I have a plane waiting. If…” He hesitated, looking back down the passageway where they were hiding.

  “What?” Peter prompted.

  “If I can’t be with you, then tell the pilot I sent you.”

  “Will he believe us?” Carys asked.

  Forrest smiled grimly. “We all look a state. He’ll believe you.”

  Forrest was right, if Carys looked anything like Peter, then they were both obviously exhausted. Their clothes were torn and stained, covered in grime and dust from the excavated rubble.

  “Let’s hope Einzel and his friends are more worried about their precious Crystal Room than finding us,” Forrest said. He led the way back down the passage. “It looks lighter this way.”

  “I guess the more lights, the closer we are to heart of things,” Peter said. “And to the way out.”

  Carys was relieved he seemed to be recovering. And it was a good point – he wasn’t daft. In fact, without Peter she’d be dead by now. Several times over.

  “What happened to the Crystal Room?” Carys asked. “You knew it was gone, didn’t you?”

  Forrest nodded. “My father came back after the war. He wanted to make sure the castle really had been destroyed. But it was clear that the cellars and basements were largely intact. Just buried.”

  “So he dug them out?” Peter asked.

  “He dug out the Crystal Room,” Forrest said. “Made sure it couldn’t be excavated – as you saw. Then he had the site covered over again. He hoped no one would ever find this place.”

  “What did he do with the crystal?” Peter wondered.

  “Smashed it to bits, probably,” Carys said. “But he reckoned without Einzel.”

  “We all reckoned without Einzel,” Forrest told her.

  From then on, they spoke rarely, and in whispers. Occasionally they heard voices. Once they ducked into the shadows behind a pile of rubble as a wolf-guard hurried past them. It paused, sniffing the air, before moving on, oblivious to Carys and the others crouching so close. All the time, Carys was terrified that they would be found – then brought before Einzel and ripped to pieces by the wolves.

  But somehow they made it back to the passageway.

  A huge uniformed wolf stood guard at the opening. Carys could hear its throaty breathing.

  “Stay back,” Forrest whispered.

  They pressed further into the shadows. Forrest reached down for a chunk of stone, and hurled it – not at the wolf, but off down a side passage.

  The wolf turned at once, unshouldering its gun. With an angry snarl, it set off to investigate. Forrest, Carys and Peter made it to the passageway before the wolf returned, hiding in shadows as it glared into the gloom.

  Carys almost laughed with relief as they neared the end of the passage and she felt the breeze on her face. Peter was pale and close to exhaustion, but he was relieved too. He leaned on Forrest for support.

  “Head for the road,” Forrest said. “Any trouble, and I’ll deal with it.”

  Carys wasn’t about to argue. They made their way uphill and through the woods. Before long they were back at the ruins of the castle. The mirrors were all set in position, and there was no sign of anyone. The dimmed lights stood as stark, black silhouettes against the grey sky.

  “We can cut through the ruins,” Forrest said. “The road’s on the other side.” He fixed first Peter then Carys with his steel grey eyes. “We’re going to be all right.”

  “Course we are,” Carys told him.

  “Can we get moving?” Peter said. He was shivering again, and looked in a bad way.

  They were halfway across the ruins when the lights came on. Beams stabbed through the darkness, reflecting off the mirrors in a criss-cross of brilliance that met on the far edge of the ruins of Schloss Wolfenburg. Out of the light came a figure, walking slowly towards them – a man.

  As he approached through the light beams, his form changed. His back hunched, hair sprouted from his body, his jaw elongated. Claws broke from the ends of his hands and feet and his whole posture changed. His cruel smile became the snarling rage of the wolf.

  Carys glanced at Forrest. The man was transfixed by the sight of the approaching wolf – by the sight of his son.

  And he too was changing. Caught full in the glare of the lights, Sebastian Forrest was once more transforming into the wolf.

  Peter was breathing heavily, his head down and shoulders hunched. As he looked up at Carys, his eyes were blood red. He gave a snarl of pain.

  “Oh no!” She grabbed Peter, pushing him out of the light.

  Together they stumbled across the ruins. Peter was still breathi
ng heavily, but his eyes were not so red – had she caught him in time? Had she halted the transformation? She thought she’d got all the poison out, but there must have been some – a tiny amount – already in his bloodstream. She hoped it wasn’t enough to trigger a transformation. Hoped his body was fighting against it, and would win. But if he didn’t have time to deal with the infection, then the lights could condemn Peter to a life like her grandfather’s. She wouldn’t wish that on anyone, and especially not…

  “Father!” The sound was a roar of both satisfaction and anger.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Sebastian answered, the wolf transformation almost complete. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

  “Oh yes it does. It was always going to end like this.”

  The wolf that was David Forrest hurled itself at its father. Claws split the air. The artificial moonlight was torn by the howls and snarls of the two animals. One attacked, the other tried only to defend itself – unwilling to fight back.

  “They’ll kill each other,” Peter said between chattering teeth.

  The two wolves were locked together, rolling across the broken ground, snarling and roaring at each other. It was horrifying and gruesome. The larger was already a bloodied mess. It turned its head to stare across at Carys and Peter. For a moment, all was still. The large, sad, bloodshot eyes bored into them.

  Then a massive paw slashed across its face, knocking the creature’s head to one side and spraying red across the nearest lamp.

  Peter was sagging. Carys pulled his arm round her shoulders, supporting his weight as best she could. She struggled to drag him away from the fight – how far to the road? And how many miles to the airfield? A single glance back told her Forrest would not be making the flight.

  “Come on,” she told Peter, feeling his weight increase as his legs buckled. “Stay with me – don’t give up now. Please.” She blinked back the tears as she dragged him away.

  Behind them, the two animals fought on in the crimson-stained moonlight.

  It was all a blurred nightmare to Peter. How Carys got him to the airfield, he had no idea. He remembered the hard gravel of the road under his feet. He had fallen, pulled himself upright, leaned on Carys, and somehow reached the small plane.

  He remembered Carys shouting at the pilot. “He’s not coming – can’t you understand that? The man is dead!”

  Peter tried to say something, tried to tell the pilot that Carys was right. Forrest was as good as dead when they left – his son was ripping him to pieces. They heard the howls of triumph and roars of pain as they stumbled down the road. Then the awful silence.

  Lights across the airfield – headlights coming straight for them.

  “That could be him now,” the pilot said. “We wait for Mr Forrest.”

  Bullets rattled against the outer skin of the plane. Peter remembered the exact tone the pilot used when he swore, but not what he said.

  Carys belted him into a seat. The pilot worked frantically at the controls, and suddenly the plane was moving. Slowly at first, then picking up speed. More shots hammered into the fuselage. The window next to Peter crazed like a cobweb.

  Then the plane pitched backwards, and the rumble of the tyres across the runway became the mechanical sound of the undercarriage retracting. The jolting of the ground became the turbulence of the air. The headlights were pinpricks of light far below, fading into darkness as Peter faded into sleep.

  He woke strapped in to the seat on the plane, and smiled at Carys. She smiled back – then her expression froze and blurred again as he fell back into the pit of oblivion.

  When he woke again, he was in a car.

  The time after that, in bed.

  “Back with us, then? How are you feeling?”

  Peter struggled to sit up. “Dad? I had the strangest dream.”

  “Really?” Dad was sitting on a chair beside the bed. He smiled, but it was a smile of relief as much as amusement. “You think?”

  “Yes, I…” Peter’s voice trailed off as he saw he was in his room at the Red Fleece. “Or, maybe…”

  “More of a nightmare, from what Carys says. I’ll tell her you’re awake.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Faye only sent her off to get some sleep a couple of hours ago. She’s been sitting here for the last couple of days. So if I don’t tell her you’re awake, she’ll have seven kinds of fit.”

  “Sorry, Dad. I know you were worried.”

  “Just a bit. Well, quite a lot actually. At least you called.”

  “I should have told you what we were doing. Did you understand about the sword? Do you have it?”

  Professor Crichton smiled and nodded. “Had to dig it out of a crate of your grandfather’s old junk in the attic. It’s polished up nicely, I have to say. I put it in the bookcase in the restaurant, with the other research.”

  “You brought it here? Can I see it?”

  “Later. When you’re feeling better.”

  “I want to see it,” Peter said. He was surprised how sharply the words came out.

  Dad seemed taken aback too. He paused in the doorway. “When you’re feeling better, I’ll show you the sword. Or what’s left of it. I promise. I always wondered why your grandfather was so fascinated by it. I guess now I know. He never spoke much about the war or what he did. To be fair, I didn’t really ask.”

  “You gave me a fright,” Carys told Peter a few minutes later. She looked tired, but otherwise all right.

  “We’ve both had enough frights to last a lifetime.”

  “True enough. But it was worth it.”

  “Was it? I’m not sure what we achieved.”

  “Apart from you getting ill, we did loads. We know what Einzel is trying to do. And we know Forrest was trying to stop him. And with the Crystal Room gone, and his laboratories burned down, his plans must be on hold if not completely scuppered.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “I doubt he’ll bother with Wolfstone any more now Forrest is out of the picture. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine,” Peter told her. But he could feel himself slipping back into sleep.

  “It’ll take a while for your body to recover. Just stay in bed till you’re sorted, okay?”

  “Okay,” he breathed. His eyes closed and he imagined he could feel Carys’s lips brush against his cheek as she whispered. “Sleep well.”

  But maybe he was dreaming again.

  He was woken by the sound of a car outside. The room was in darkness. Thin strips of light seeped in at the edges of the curtains. Peter felt hot again, and his pillow was damp with sweat.

  He pushed off the covers and padded over to the window. His pyjamas seemed hot and clammy, sticking to his body like a second skin. His vision was blurred, out of focus.

  “Did you bring it?”

  The voice sounded clear. It was coming from outside. He reached between the curtains and pushed open the window. It was Carys.

  The reply was also clear – a woman. He knew the voice but couldn’t place it.

  “It’s here. With my laptop.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t need it.”

  Peter drew back the curtains. There was a Land Rover parked outside. Carys and the woman were standing beside it. He recognised her; it was Janey from the Lupine Sanctuary. They walked towards the pub, disappearing under his window. A few moments later, Peter heard the main door close.

  He was feeling better, standing in the cool draft from the open window. The near-perfect disc of the moon seemed huge, lighting up the whole bedroom. He stared up at it, trying to make sense of the patterns across its glowing surface.

  The glow reminded Peter of the crystal inside David Forrest’s ring. That in turn made him think of the sword. He felt a sudden urge to see it – to see it now. He was thirsty too, so he could get a drink from the kitchen at the same time.

  Before he knew it, Peter was closing his bedroom door gently behind him and making his way slowly and carefully t
owards the stairs. He wondered what time it was. Carys was obviously up, but he didn’t want to wake anyone else.

  The only illumination came from moonlight filtering through occasional windows. Peter stopped, listening. He thought he’d heard something – maybe an echo of his own footsteps, like the click of claws on the bare wood floor.

  There was something else. A soft susurrating sound. He held his breath… No, nothing – just his imagination. He continued along the corridor – and there it was again. Like a purring, or a low growl.

  There was something behind him, in the shadows. Peter quickened his pace. He glanced back over his shoulder.

  A shadow on the wall. It was almost level with him – a patch of darkness in the shape of a wolf. He quickened his pace, and it followed, always at the edge of his vision. At any moment he knew it could leap out at him. But where was it?

  Down the stairs. The creature was so close he could hear its steady, rasping breathing. Its shadow cut suddenly across the floor in front of him as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Enormous, hirsute, poised to strike.

  He ran. The sound of the creature’s paws smacking into the floorboards was so close now. The scrape of its claws on wood. Its growls of anger as it gained on him.

  He caught a glimpse of the thing itself in the glass panel of a door as he raced past. Dark, with fierce red eyes staring back at him. Claws pummelling the air in front of it, inches from Peter.

  He saw it again in the glass panels of the door to the restaurant. So close it must catch him at any moment. He couldn’t outrun it. He had no way of fighting it.

  Unless – the sword! He crashed through the restaurant door. The room was bathed in moonlight shining through the windows. The bookcase was ahead of him. But he’d never make it.

  He dived to one side, expecting – hoping – the wolf would go past him. But it must have guessed what he was planning. It was in the room somewhere. He could still hear it. He crawled towards the glass-fronted bookcase at the far end of the room.

  In the glass of the windows, he saw the creature working its way slowly along, towards the same end of the room. It moved cautiously on all fours, muscles rippling under the heavy fur, looking round all the time. Hunting.