“What for, sir?”
As if in answer to the inquiry an unearthly howl split the night, the echoes bouncing off of the surrounding buildings as if a pack of monsters was descending on London.
“Now!” bellowed Aberline.
THE DEAD TRAFFIC officer’s horse ran at a full gallop down the middle of the street, its headless passenger still mounted perversely in the saddle. The corpse’s booted feet were jammed into the stirrups and the reins were knotted around one slack hand. It was a grisly sight, something out of a penny dreadful, and pedestrians—men and women alike—screamed and recoiled from it. The horse veered off toward the park, its shrill cries filled with panic.
And in its wake, running on all fours, the Wolfman followed.
When the crowd saw what pursued, they turned and fled, convinced that the gates of Hell itself had been thrown wide and devils walked the earth.
BRIGHT LIGHTS, MUSIC and the tinkling sound of laughter washed over the Wolfman’s senses. It slowed, letting the headless horseman gallop away. The creature rose from all fours and stood erect, sniffing the air, smelling meat and blood, hearing pulses throbbing beneath fragile skin. The grizzled flesh of its muzzle wrinkled in pleasure and fresh, hot saliva boiled out of its gums and dripped onto the grass.
The Wolfman began stalking these new sounds, following the glow from beyond the trees.
Then it paused a dozen yards away from the glowing walls of glass that formed one side of the conservatory. Its eyes narrowed as it studied the terrain and calculated the best point of attack. But its stomach rumbled with hunger and as it began stalking slowly forward the Wolfman bent and licked the glistening red gore that coated its arms from claws to elbow. The blood was sweet but it was already growing cold. Hot, fresh blood was so much more delicious . . . and there was so much of it before him, confined, contained within those glowing glass walls.
The Wolfman smiled a predator’s smile, filled with red delight.
ALL ACROSS LONDON the telegraph wires ignited with the news. Officers by the score grabbed pistols and shotguns and took to the streets. Aberline, still on foot, led his small party of men back into the park, drawn by a fresh wave of terrible screams. In the far distance, all the way on the other side of the vast park, he saw the lights of the conservatory and his heart sank. There was a masked ball tonight and half the nobility of London would be there.
As he ran his mind burned with a litany of pleas. Oh, God . . . oh, God . . . let me be in time.
But he knew that he would not be in time.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The glass-domed conservatory was decorated like a fairy kingdom, with hundreds of tiny candles hidden among the evergreen garland and colorful bunting. Tables were laden with food of every description: there were pot-bellied baskets of steaming chestnuts, pyramids of polished pears and apples, half a dozen varieties of fat grapes, silver trays laden with salmon and trout garnished with pineapple and lemon, a row of suckling pigs roasted to pink perfection, a dozen plump geese overflowing with sage and onion stuffing, and central to it all a huge roast of beef that was red and luscious.
Hundreds of people crowded the chamber, each of them in exotic costumes. A pirate with an eye patch and tricorn walked arm-in-arm with Cleopatra; a satyr stood talking politics with Apollo, King Henry VIII and Merlin. King Arthur and Sir Francis Drake vied for the attentions of Marie Antoinette, while Bacchus sat in a corner getting quietly drunk with Jack-of-the-Green and William Wallace. There were Greenmen and Celtic warlords, most of the Greek and Roman gods, and six separate Tam Lins, who each affected not to notice the others. The costumes were expensive and elaborate, some very specific, others more vague, but all were beautiful. Threescore people sat in chairs arranged in front of a dais which was occupied by the orchestra. The rest walked in and out of doors, sat at small tables with plates of food, or stood huddled together in conversational groups that broke and reformed.
Wine flowed like the blood of heaven and applause rolled like thunder as the orchestra finished the Clarinet Quintet in B Minor, Opus 115, the latest piece by Johannes Brahms.
As the applause died down a young girl dressed like a fairy princess led a blind soprano to the center of the stage. The soprano was gorgeous, in an elegant gown of silk and lace, and her milky eyes seemed to possess an awareness that transcended the mundane world. The audience was excited for this performance, the centerpiece of the evening—Rowena’s aria from Ivanhoe, accompanied only by the first violin. The violinist stepped up and bowed to the lady and to the audience and tucked his beautiful instrument under his chin.
The soprano drew a slow breath, waiting for the introductory note, and the musician delicately placed his bow on the strings and closed his eyes to immerse himself in the music that was about to flow through him. With a deft turn of his wrist the bow glided over the first string, coaxing out the whisper of the initial sweet note, and when the introduction had run its course the soprano began to sing.
The Wolfman stood in the rear doorway and watched as the colors moved and swirled around him. The music enchanted him and it caused his mind to vacillate between the urgency of the hunt and some other, more deeply hidden need. He entered the huge room but did not attack. He was confused by the prey. None of them feared him. A few wrinkled their noses at him, but he could sense no fear, could smell none of the scents of panic and flight that triggered his instinct to hunt and kill. When the soprano began to sing, the Wolfman turned his head toward her, picking out her voice from amid the din of laughter and conversation. The sound was like nothing else the creature had experienced, and almost immediately it lifted him above the hunger, above the input of its other senses.
The Wolfman took a step toward her, and another, drawn to the sound of her voice, and for a moment the hunt was forgotten.
As the creature moved among the revelers he brushed past a woman in a white gown. The woman gaped at the red smear that now glistened on the expensive fabric of her costume. She touched her fingers to it and sniffed. Her eyes widened. She had been on too many fox hunts not to recognize that unique coppery smell.
She screamed, but the cry was nearly lost beneath the weight of the music and other noise. The people around her glanced at her, and at the hairy thing moving among them, and smiled.
Robinson Crusoe leaned close to shout in the ear of Sir Galahad. “Bloody good costume, don’t you think?”
Galahad, a city banker with a long nose, sniffed disdainfully. “Hardly looks real, does it?”
The Wolfman kept moving toward the stage, its eyes glazed with fascination. He bumped into people and pushed aside a waiter with a tray of canapés. When the entire tray of roast baby new potato with caviar and crème fraîche chive mash tumbled into the lap of the Third Earl of Rosse, everyone at his table leaped to their feet in outrage.
The Earl’s nephew, a rich merchant, grabbed the Wolfman’s arm.
“I do say, sir,” he began with loud indignation, “your manners are quite disgus—”
That was the last thing he ever said. The moment the merchant touched the Wolfman’s arm the spell of the music was broken. All at once the inner call vanished and was entirely replaced by the unyielding compulsion of the hunt. The Wolfman lashed out with incredible speed and ferocity, clamped his powerful hands on the merchant’s upper arms and snatched him off the ground and then clamped his jaws around the man’s head. Bones cracked, skin split and gore showered everyone around.
The screams this savage action invoked were not lost in the din, and they did not go unnoticed.
In his fury the Wolfman had bitten down so hard and so deeply that his fangs were locked into the hard bone of the merchant’s skull. It snarled in frustration and rage, shaking the man’s body to try and tear itself free. Despite the dreadful wound, the merchant was still alive, and he screamed and beat furiously at the monster, but each of his blows carried less force. The Third Earl gaped at the spectacle playing out inches from where he sat, his face spattered with hot blood.
&n
bsp; The revelers scattered as fast as if a bomb had dropped in their midst, everyone running madly in every direction with the blind urgency to be anywhere but where they stood. Those who did not move fast enough were knocked down and trampled by lords and ladies as panic ruled the moment. People screamed in terror at what they had seen and in pain as they were buffeted and battered underfoot. Notable men shoved women out of the way; a visiting duchess yanked her daughter’s hair to clear the way for her own escape; a highly regarded Member of Parliament collapsed into a blubbering heap, too frightened even to flee.
The Wolfman, unable to tear its fangs free, bent forward and bit down hard, crushing the bones in its powerful jaws, and then it reared back and tore the entire crown of the merchant’s skull off. The man collapsed to the ground, dead and limp, and the Wolfman howled with triumph.
On the stage it was the same, as the orchestra flung down their instruments and dashed for the edges of the rostrum. One hearty cellist grabbed his instrument by the neck and swung it like a war hammer so that it splintered across the monster’s broad back, and a moment later he was dead, his broken body discarded among the abandoned instruments.
Alone and forgotten in the mad surge, the soprano held her ground and tried to understand what her remaining senses told her. She heard screams and the stampede of people, and she heard a growl that sounded like a wild animal. None of it made sense.
ABERLINE HEARD THE first screams a second before the revelers began surging out of the conservatory in a mad rush. He ran toward the entrance, but it was like wading into a crashing tidal surge. Bodies buffeted him, people tried to shove him back to clear a path for their own escape, desperate women clawed at him in their terror.
By the time Aberline and his men reached the doorway, the floor of the conservatory was already awash in blood. Aberline stepped inside and raised his pistol, trying for a clear shot, but there were so many damned people . . .
THE WOLFMAN TURNED in a slow circle, enjoying the flight of prey, but when it saw the soprano standing there it narrowed its eyes. This one was not acting like prey, and the Wolfman sniffed the air for the telltale scent of another predator. But no . . . all it smelled was fear and it growled quietly as it took a step toward her, its lips curling back from its teeth as it opened its mouth to take a bite.
Then suddenly it was knocked sideways by two hard punches to its shoulder. The Wolfman spun, snarling a challenge, but there was no enemy at hand. There was a loud pop and a third impact drilled fire into its chest and the creature saw a man standing twenty feet away. Fire erupted from the man’s hand and there was more pain. The Wolfman recognized this enemy and it tensed to spring even as the four bullet wounds closed and vanished.
FRANCIS ABERLINE STOOD his ground and continued to fire at the monster even though he could see that the bullets were doing little real harm.
The bullets distracted the creature from the blind woman, but the creature did not fall. How in God’s name did it not fall? Aberline fired his last shot as the creature tensed for a leap, and then the air was filled with the firecracker bursts of a dozen shots as a wave of bobbies came pelting into the conservatory.
“Kill the bloody thing!” bellowed Aberline as he dug fresh bullets out of his coat pocket.
A fusillade of bullets struck the Wolfman, driving it back from sheer impact and drenching its clothing with fresh blood, but it did not fall. It did not even flinch.
But it did not like the shrill bleat of the whistles.
The creature roared a challenge and then spun and leapt over the buffet tables and smashed through one of the glass walls. The exploding glass tore a thousand jagged cuts in the monster’s hide and bullets tore the heaped food to fragments, but the monster was gone.
THE WOLFMAN LANDED on the sidewalk outside of the conservatory. It crouched low and stared around, momentarily overwhelmed by the noise and movement. There were hundreds of people on the streets. Gentlemen and their ladies out for an evening stroll, street vendors by the dozen, street urchins dashing in and out of the crowds, corner musicians, and others, crowding the London intersection. Scores of carriages and coaches rattled along the cobblestone streets, and a clunky steam-powered omnibus trundled along, every seat filled and people hanging onto side straps.
The noise was painful. Screeches and squeals and shouts. Women shrieked, horses whinnied in fear, men yelled in fright as the creature stalked slowly into the center of the square. A blind beggar pulled off his black glasses and stared at the monster, and then he turned and bolted faster than his own dog could follow.
The driver of the omnibus was the last person in the square to understand what was happening. People suddenly started running across the street, heedless of the big machine. The driver jerked the lanyard for the shrill steam whistle and he emphasized the warnings with a string of curses that would have shamed a dockhand. No one paid any attention to him and he swerved and swung the wheel to avoid committing mayhem.
And then something impossible reared up directly in front of the omnibus. A thing from a nightmare, with tall tufted ears and a face from Hell itself. The Wolfman hissed at the big machine and the driver jerked the wheel hard to one side, but in his panic he swung it too hard. Mass and momentum, and the weight of all the passengers, were against him and the omnibus canted sideways, two of its tires lifting off the ground. It paused for a moment, balanced on the other wheels, and then there was a loud snap as the front axle collapsed and the whole mass of it fell sideways even while the omnibus was still moving forward. It crashed down with a thunderclap and slid along the cobbles past the monster. A dozen passengers were crushed under the weight of the whole crowd falling sideways and down. Everyone screamed in confusion and pain, and the Wolfman had to leap atop the bus to avoid being crushed. It landed on a side window and before the bus had stopped sliding the creature began pressing its face against the cracked glass. It could smell the fear of the mass of writhing people inside. The window cracked more, dropping pieces inside. The Wolfman thrust its hand in through the jagged hole, ignoring the teeth of the broken glass, reaching, stretching to grab an arm or leg or throat.
Then suddenly the whole window caved in and the Wolfman pitched headlong down onto the wriggling tangle of trapped passengers. It landed with a howl of surprise and anger. This was not a hunt, this felt like a trap. Panic flared in its heart and the Wolfman scrabbled to right itself, inadvertently tearing flesh with its claws as it fought to get out of the confined space.
Then the bobbies burst from the park, Aberline at the forefront, all of them firing at the creature as it crawled out of the overturned bus. Whistle bleats filled the air. Still confused by the sudden confinement, the Wolfman turned and fled down an alley on the far side of the fallen omnibus.
ABERLINE GRABBED A burly sergeant. “Take ten men and block the alley. I’ll take the rest and circle behind. We’ll catch the bastard in a crossfire.”
The sergeant gave him a curt nod and was calling out names as he headed into the alley. Aberline took the rest and raced to the corner as fast as he could.
IN THE ALLEY the Wolfman ran with incredible speed, occasionally dropping to all fours before springing over heaped garbage or tethered horses. The bobbies ran as fast as they could, all of them fit and tough, but the monster outpaced them with ease.
The sergeant, a fleet-footed Scot with a dark red mustache and the cold eye of an ex-soldier, aimed his pistol as he ran. He’d been in running fights before and he knew how to time breath and stride with the pull of the trigger so that he was a deadly marksman even at a full run. His pistol bucked in his hand and the bullet caught up with the fleeing monster. Blood pocked the back of the tattered white shirt. The sergeant grinned as he ran and put a second bullet into its back a hands-breadth from the other.
The creature slowed and stopped, and the sergeant shared a quick look with the bobby running next to him. They had the thing!
They raced toward it, still firing, wanting to tear the thing to pieces.
With a howl of bloody delight it leaped at the policemen, and before they could realize that the trap had turned on them the Wolfman was among them.
WHEN INSPECTOR ABERLINE and his men flooded into the alley from the far side of the block they found nothing alive.
The creature had done its butchery and escaped.
Aberline stood amid the wreckage of sanity and order. His own clothes were as red-splashed as those of the dead officers who lay around him, his face as bloodless.
He looked down at the pistol he carried. It had been useless. Less than useless, like a toy gun against a tiger. All of the fight that was left in him drained away, leaving him empty. Spent.
Aberline was not a religious man. He had never held much stock in faith. But he whispered, “God help us.”
And he meant it.
“God help us all.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The Wolfman squatted for a long time in the inky shadows of the bridge. He tore a bite from a severed arm, chewed slowly, took another bite. When the flesh was gone he snapped the forearm and sucked out the marrow.
When there was no more to eat, he dropped the bones and gristle into the water and settled back against the moss-covered bricks. They were cool and soothing. The sound of whistles and people yelling had faded off to the north and soon died altogether.
The Wolfman Page 21