City Under the Moon (19 page)

“Enough of your damn tests!”

“Okay, we’ll take a break. We’ve got enough for now.” He tossed his syringe on the table and snapped off his rubber gloves.

“Are you feeling irritable, Melissa?” the wife asked.

Stupid question. No wonder these humans couldn’t cure any—

“What’s that on your hand?”

Tweedlestupid and Tweedlestupider looked over his hands.

“What?” he asked.

“
That
,” she repeated the obvious. “On your hand.”

“What do you see?” Jessica asked, turning over his palms.

“The star! The star in the circle.” The fools were oblivious.
“On his hand.”

“Can you describe it?” Jessica asked.

“It’s right there!”

It was clear as day! Practically glowing! And alluring. Tickling her salivary glands. Like the firm ass on a strong young man. God in Heaven, she didn’t want to look away. She wanted to be free, now more than ever. She needed to touch that star on his hand. To taste it.

“Let me out of here!” she screamed.

“Stay calm, Melissa,” Jessica said with a quiver in her voice.

No, she wouldn’t stay calm. She had another life now, another world far more interesting than the one where she was restrained under these
fucking
bright lights.

She’d lived in fear of God all of her damn life: praying, begging, showing penance—and for what? What had she ever gotten in return?

Now she had a new Man, alongside her and inside her always. Finally, a Father who reciprocated her faith. All she wanted now—all she would ever want, for all eternity—was to return to the dream and hunt and love with Him again.

Their love was angry and passionate, a greater
feeling
than any she’d ever experienced. The sex was brutal and animalistic, because they were animals. But it was also primal and honest, a mutual ravaging. None of the fumbling stupidity of human sex, the politics before and the abandonment after. When He was inside her, it was the apex of a bond eternal.

And they fed from the weaklings because they could. Not to kill, not yet. Now only to spread, as was His decree.

She longed to rejoin Him and rend these fools, especially this man with the star on his hand.

Oh, how she wished she could tear into his flesh.

They asked about the transformation, and she told them about the physical truths: the pain, the stretching, the descent into the rage dream.

They asked about the dream, and she told them about the sensations, but she protected Him. She was a faithful soul.

The hunger would wait. In her heart, He whispered that she would have that star. And she believed in Him.

Ten

CDC Conference Room

11:51 a.m.

Jessica was drowning in panic.

The pentagram. A quick Google search confirmed what she already knew, what she’d seen in those creature double features. But instead of acting, she was waiting—
waiting
—on hold while some White House operator connected them to Transylvania. Richard always got his way.

“It right here in the—“

“It’s everywhere!” he shouted.

They’d been yelling across the table for 20 minutes. What started as loving concern had devolved into utter pugilism. As always during their worst arguments, her tears hadn’t slowed him one bit.

“The pentagram figures in every major religion, from Neopagans to Pythagoreans,” he barked. “It’s the wounds of Christ, it’s the
rejection
of Christ, the ‘elemental spirit’, the
descent
into spirit—“

“A werewolf saw it in your palm, Richard, and
there’s only one explanation for that, anywhere!”

“They’re putting us through,” said Rebekkah Luft over the intercom, as if to remind them she was listening. On top of it all, the disintegration of their marriage was unfolding before an audience of the country’s best scientists and culminating on a conference call with the National Security Advisor of the United States.

“Hello?” Lon Toller’s thick voice was barely audible above the din of a helicopter.

Richard seethed while Luft quickly explained to Lon that Melissa Kenzie had seen a pentagram in the palm of his hand.

“If a werewolf sees a pentagram in someone’s palm, it means that person will be their next victim,” explained Lon.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Richard snapped.

“Richard—“ Jessica started.

“No, Jess, you’re saying the disease can see the future. It’s absurd.”

“I’m just telling you how the story goes,” Lon said. “It’s an obscure part of the mythology. Honestly, I thought it was invented by Hollywood. It didn’t appear in any legitimate texts before the
Wolf Man
movie in 1941. But the virus thing looked like a pentagram too, right?”

“That’s right,” Jessica said pointedly. They’d gone around on that too.

“It goes back to the whole thing being a curse,” Lon continued. “The werewolf usually sees a pentagram in the palm of their loved one, someone they’re tragically destined to kill.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed as he scribbled in his file. “There is no curse. A curse is a sentence for a crime. This woman didn’t do anything wrong. She didn’t deserve to be bitten by a werewolf. And I’ve never even met her before today. We have no connection.”

“I guess so,” Lon said. “Like I said, I never really believed in the pentagram lore. But, I mean, you should get away from that werewolf, as far as you can. Better safe than sorry.”

Jessica nodded at Richard, who went on simmering. “Okay, we understand. Thank you, Mr. Toller, and thank you, Ms. Luft.”

“You’ll keep us updated, Doctor Tanner.”

“Of course. Our team will be in touch within the hour.”

Richard made quickly for the door. “I have results coming in. When you’re ready to get back to science, come find me.”

Eleven

Transylvania

6:58 p.m. EET

The
Forţele Aeriene Române
helicopter crossed between the jagged stone peaks of the snow-capped Carpathian Mountains.

Lon recognized this valley as the convergence between the Southern and Eastern Carpathian Mountains, the bottom right corner of the triangular Transylvanian plateau. He’d seen plenty of pictures of this area, but he never imagined the real thing would live up to the glamour shots. The snow glimmered so brightly under the moon that the mountain ledges cast upside-down shadows.

He sat by Tildascow and the Shadow Stalkers in the rearmost seats of the helicopter’s cabin. They’d given him a helmet that smelled like metal and aged vomit. The headset was terrible compared to the one in the Aurora; the volume kept leaping from whispers to ear-splitting and back again. Nevertheless, his headache and sour stomach were all but gone thanks to Tildascow’s pills. In fact, he’d felt great until that phone call.

“They see a pentagram in the hand of their next victim?” Tildascow asked him. They’d overheard the call patched through from the States.

“Seems that way,” he said. “Man, it’s number three on my list of most ridiculous lycanthropy misconceptions. So embarrassing.”

“Fucking nuts,” said Mantle. “Right on their hands?”

“In the palm. God, they’re gonna filet me on the forums. I’m an idiot.”

“Lon.” Tildascow turned to look him the eye. “The people on the forums weren’t enlisted by the United States government to fly to Romania in an experimental plane and find the source of the werewolves.”

“I know.”

“Go a little easy on yourself, alright?”

Great
. He’d promised his therapist he’d work on the self-criticism, and he fell right into—

“Pentagram,” a tepid voice whispered through their headsets. It was
Maistru Militar
Trandafir, the soldier Tildascow had picked out of the crowd. But they didn’t know Trandafir could speak English. “Mark of the werewolf.”

Trandafir sat across from them in the helicopter cabin along with five other Romanian soldiers. He was a spiny man-child with a big head over a chicken neck and brown eyes bugged out by thick glasses, hardly what you’d expect from military. In fact, the other soldiers towered over him.

“You speak English?” Tildascow asked, leaning forward in an intimidating manner. “Tell me what you know about werewolves. Why are we headed to this location?”

Trandafir recoiled like she’d held a gun to his head. “My aunt marries Gypsy carpenter. They settle in village north of Braşov. It is simple place, close families, Gypsies who only stay short time. Men work in copper mine.” The other soldiers whispered jokes about Trandafir. The poor boy just kept his eyes down and went on. “We visit the village when I am young. Each night, wolves’ howls keep us awake. Villagers all lock doors and hang fresh—“ Trandafir hesitated, searching for the English words, “flowers. On windows.
Mărul Lupului.
”

“Wolfsbane,” Lon explained. “
Aconitum tauricum Wulfen
, of the buttercup family
Ranunculacea—”

“Okay, Lon,” Tildascow interrupted.

“It keeps werewolves away,” he needed to add. That was the point.

“Okay. Thank you.” Tildascow nodded to Trandafir to go on.

“One night there is more than howls,” Trandafir continued. “Wolf was near. My uncle’s goats cry all night long, very scared, and then we hear wolf kill them. It is terrible sound, they cry even after they are dead. My cousin Andrei covers his head with pillows. Soon we hear scratches at door. My uncle loads his gun and tells us stay under our beds. Andrei does as he is told, but I want to see. I peek through window—“

Trandafir shook his head. The other soldiers had grown quiet.

“Go on,” said Tildascow firmly.

“It is right in front of me, terrible beast. Wolf’s face on body of man. It reaches through window and grabs my neck. I am certain I am to die. But my uncle shoots creature, and it runs off.” He took a long swallow and shook his head.

“Did your uncle say anything about it?”

Trandafir shook his head. “We never speak of this. I wish to believe it is dream. I refuse to return to village for many years, even for my uncle’s funeral. Until one year ago, Andrei calls and says he is to be married. He begs me to come, and he says beast is killed. I had not seen my cousin in long time, so I return. We hunt deer for feast to celebrate reunion. In forest, we come across another hunter, most fearsome man I have ever seen. Seven feet tall and wide as two men. Andrei tells me this is man who kills werewolf. His name is Yannic Ilecko.”

“Yannic Ilecko.” Tildascow repeated.

“This is the man he told us to find,” Dumitru confirmed from the front seat. “I have investigated with the SRI,” he said, referring to the
Serviciul Român de Informaţii
, the Romanian Intelligence Service. Lon had also sent them a letter back when, to request a police report about a murder that Romanian Internet conspiracists had attributed to a werewolf. Dumitru continued, “There is a Yannic Ilecko employed at the
Costeşti
Mine. A few miles southeast of Covasna.”

“Would he be at work?” asked Tildascow.

“We expect so. They operate around the clock.”

“Hooah!” yelled Mantle. Jaguar and Beethoven hollered back the same.

“Hooah,” agreed Tildascow. She settled into her seat.

“This was last time I speak with my cousin,” Trandafir continued quietly. “This summer, everyone in his village disappears.”

Twelve

Carpathian Mountains

7:12 p.m. EET

Ten minutes later, the helicopter touched down on virgin snow at the cusp of the open-pit copper mine. The Carpathian Mountains loomed high above them, pointing toward the moon. They were a few miles from Transylvania’s easternmost cities.

The helicopter conjured a snowstorm as it lifted off, forcing all but the Shadow Stalkers to all fours. She thought the bite would relent once the bird was in the air, but the narrow valley created a wicked wind tunnel that kept it coming. Whistling freeze blew from every direction, kicking up intermittent whiteouts.

The helicopter’s spotlight illuminated their path around the wide perimeter of the mine’s basin. A hundred yards from the drop point, they reached a zigzagging vehicle path and began the steep descent into the pit. The entrance was only fifty feet below the valley’s surface, but it was treacherous ground.

Three neurotic miners greeted them, human squirrels chirping in Romanian as their headlamps lit up the swirling snow. The pit’s vortex carried the bitter reek of cyanide used in the copper extraction process. Tildascow could only imagine what it was like inside the mine. Poor guys were probably poisoning themselves.

Dumitru’s soldiers barked threats at the miners. Weapons were up before Tildascow cleared the vehicle path.

“Whoa, whoa,” she yelled at Dumitru. “What are they saying?”

“They don’t take kindly to men who refuse to join the army,” said Dumitru. “They say they are
dezertors
, traitors to their country.”

“Shut them up,” she said.

Dumitru whined in Romanian, but the soldiers ignored him and kept on riling the miners.

“Shut them up now! What kind of help are your people?”

“They are not
my
people,” Dumitru exclaimed between barbs with the soldiers. “I am only a liaison!” He pleaded some more, but the soldiers had their dicks out for a swordfight.

And then something stopped them cold.

A man with a pterodactyl’s span emerged from the pit, caked in soot and steaming from sweat, flanked by swollen, stonework arms. Tildascow’s train of thought went way off its tracks as she… the… uh… the rest of him was barely covered by triple-patchwork pants and a canvas tunic tied with rope. His face was hidden behind a graying caveman’s beard, and tangled auburn hair fell past his shoulders. But who the hell was looking at his face?

“This is him,” whispered Trandafir. The pipsqueak had found his way to a coward’s position in the back, even behind Lon. “Yannic Ilecko.”

She hardly needed the confirmation. Carnal thoughts had never been an issue on the job. The taste of the hunt was far more intense. But this guy—she chuckled out loud when the wind blew a new chill through her warming body—this guy screamed violent fantasy. Greco-Roman wrestling or jackhammer fucking? Either would do. Both.