High Moor 2: Moonstruck (28 page)

John snorted. “Yeah, that’s all. I’ll sort that out right after breakfast.”

Marie put her cup down, got to her feet and put her hand on John’s shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. We made a mistake but we’ll be better prepared next time. No one got hurt, so there’s no point dwelling on it. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered. I think we should call it a night and sort the mess out in the morning.”

John finished his tea. “You’re right. I’ll take the sofa and you can have my bed. It only seems fair, given that I turned yours into matchsticks.”

Marie brought her hands up to John’s face, then planted a light kiss on his lips. “That’s okay, there’s plenty of room for us both in the bed.”

“What? You mean…?”

She took his hand in hers and gently pulled him to his feet. “Yes, I do. Now stop talking.”

Marie led him through the debris−strewn living area, up the shattered staircase, to the bedroom. She sat down on the single bed and pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around him while her hungry tongue slipped between his lips. John returned the kiss, losing himself in the feeling of the woman in his arms. The warmth of her body. The pounding of her heart as she crushed herself against him. The waves of gooseflesh that sprang up across his back at her caress.

Marie lay down on top of the duvet and removed her pyjama top, then hitched up her legs and slid out of the bottoms. John fumbled with his own clothing, his nervous hands catching on cloth. He tried to remove his jogging bottoms, but got one of his feet caught in the legs, so he had to hop around until he managed to free himself. When he turned back to Marie, she’d already slipped beneath the covers. She turned back a corner of the duvet, beckoning him to her. He was only too eager to comply. He slid in beside Marie, marvelling at the feel of her naked skin against his own. He brought his hands up to her face and kissed her, losing himself to the moment. Right now, nothing else existed but the woman in his arms.

Marie pulled him to her, wrapping her legs around his back, drawing him closer. Her fingernails traced lines across his back, lighting up his nerve endings. He felt the hot, moist core of her push against him. Gently teasing. Then the world seemed to dissolve as a bomb burst of ecstasy tore through him.

John opened his eyes, the realisation of what just happened dawning on him. “Oh. Oh no, I’m so sorry.”

Marie seemed to be having trouble keeping a straight face. “Well, that was… brief. Look, don’t worry about it. It happens to men all the time. And it’s hardly surprising, given that it’s, you know, your first time.”

John rolled off her. “This is… embarrassing. I can’t believe that I…”

Marie stroked the side of his face. “Don’t. Worry. We can try again later. Practice makes perfect and all that. Now, would you mind passing me one of those tissues?”

***

15th December 2008
.
Naver Cottage, Kinbrace. 03.27.

The dream shocked John awake. He’d been running from something, but as his mind struggled to grasp at the individual threads of consciousness, they became insubstantial, dissipating like breath on a cold winter morning. For the briefest moment he thought he heard howling outside, and felt a surge of fear that brought him fully awake. Once the last remnants of the dream faded, he recognised the noise as nothing more than the sound of the wind as it whipped around the chimney pot and rattled the windows of the cottage. He relaxed again, enjoying the feeling of Marie beside him, letting the sound of her breathing lull him back to sleep.

It was then that he became aware of his need to go to the toilet. His bladder ached and, once he formed the thought, it became the only thing on his mind. He tried to ignore it. He concentrated on the comfortable bed and the woman beside him, but the need was nagging and relentless. Groaning, he removed himself from Marie’s arms, doing his best not to wake her, and put a leg out from under the duvet. As he’d expected, the room was freezing cold.

John cursed under his breath, climbed out of the bed, threw on his jogging bottoms and T−shirt. He had every intention of making this excursion as quickly as he could. The cold was already stealing the lingering heat of Marie’s body from him, and he longed to be back in her arms.

He staggered into the bathroom, suppressing a sigh of relief as the pressure on his bladder eased. He quickly washed his hands and was about to retreat to the bedroom again when he heard the scratching.

The noise was coming from downstairs. Insistent, like a dog pawing at a locked door. He tried to convince himself that a rat was causing the sound, but he knew from experience that the sounds made by a rodent in the walls or beneath the floorboards would be different to the constant, rhythmic scratching he heard now.

He considered waking Marie, but then thought better of it. She’d had a difficult few days, and the chances were that this was nothing. A fox or badger going through the bins were the most likely candidates. If the pack werewolves had found them, John doubted they’d be scratching at the door when it was more likely that they’d simply tear the thing off its hinges.

He made his way down the stairs, taking care to avoid the jagged splinters of wood that still covered the floor, and made his way to the front door. Abruptly, the scratching stopped. John smiled. The fox or whatever it was must have realised that it was not alone. He’d open the door to chase the thing off, then go back and warm his cold body against Marie. He was sure she wouldn’t mind.

He undid the latch and unlocked the door, then threw it open, expecting the animal to run away, if it hadn’t already. The last thing he expected to find was a naked man standing on the doorstep.

The man smiled. “Alright, mate. Long time, no see. Any chance you could let me in? It’s a bit nippy out here.”

John’s mouth fell open. Although he’d not seen Michael in over twenty years, there was no mistaking his childhood friend. The years had taken their toll. Worry lines creased the man’s face, and despite the lopsided grin that John remembered so well, Michael’s eyes were cold and hard. John registered all of this in a fraction of a second. Then he threw a punch at him.

Michael, however, was ready for the attack. He stepped forward into the punch and brought his left arm up into the crook of John’s elbow, blocking the wild hay−maker with ease, while his right fist slammed into John’s solar plexus. John stumbled back, struggling to catch his breath. He felt the beast rise up within him, and this time he welcomed it with open arms. The colour drained from his vision; time seemed to slow to a crawl. He snarled at the intruder and felt a surge of power race through him.

The sharp crack of a pistol being discharged from behind him stopped the transformation dead in its tracks. He turned to find Marie standing on the ruined staircase, holding a .44 Magnum pistol. She did not look happy. “John, back the fuck off. I mean it. Michael, what the hell are you doing here? How did you find us?”

Michael put his hands up, a mocking smile playing across his lips. “The car. You left Connie’s phone in the boot and they used it to track you.”

“Fuck. I can’t believe I missed that.” She pointed the pistol at her brother. “Are you here to kill us?”

Michael shook his head. “No, but the others are. Under the Council’s orders.”

Marie let the gun drop to her side. “Which ones, and where are they now?”

“Oskar, Anya, and Leonid. They’re back in the hotel in Thurso, but they’re going to move on you first thing in the morning. It would be better if you weren’t here when they came.”

The strength seemed to drain from her and she held onto the shattered remnants of the banister for support as she made her way down the stairs. She walked over to Michael, handing him a blanket from the back of the sofa. Once he’d covered himself, she embraced him. “I’ve missed you, big brother.” Then she slapped him across the face. “And you’re a fucking idiot for coming here. What the fuck were you thinking? If they find out that you warned us…”

Michael put up his arms in a mock defensive pose. “There’s no way I was going to let them kill you, Marie.” He threw a dirty look in John’s direction. “Even if you are harbouring a moonstruck.”

“As you saw, he’s not a bloody moonstruck. We’re working on bringing it under control.”

Michael nodded to the devastated remains of the living room. “Yeah, looks like that’s going well.”

“Michael, we haven’t got time to go into this. You need to get back to the others before they realise you’re gone. John, clear the snow off the car, and while you’re at it, find that fucking phone and smash it. We need to be out of here in five minutes.”

John pulled on a coat and opened the front door while Marie turned to go back upstairs. Michael grabbed her wrist.

“Marie, leave him and run. He’s the most wanted man in the country. His face is plastered across every newspaper and TV station. You’ll stand a better chance without him. Let Oskar and the others have him. Maybe then they won’t bother coming after you.”

Marie pulled her hand free. “It’s not going to happen, Michael. I caused all of this. I fucked up his life, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that prick Oskar get within five miles of him.”

“Did you owe him a fuck as well?”

Her lip curled up into a snarl. “I’ll screw whoever I want to. It’s none of your fucking business. Now, you need to get the hell out of here and stop distracting me.”

John pushed the front door wide open. “You heard her, mate. You’ve outstayed your welcome. High time you fucked off.”

Michael walked over to John until he stood nose to nose with him. “I’m going. But if anything happens to her because of you, there won’t be anywhere you can hide that I won’t find you. Remember that, mate.”

Just as Michael stepped outside a long, mournful howl echoed around the cottage. It was joined by another, higher−pitched howl from the open moorlands to the south. The colour drained from Michael’s face and he pushed past John to get back inside. He turned his face to his sister, his brow slick with sweat and his eyes devoid of any hope. “They’re here. They must have followed me. Oh fuck, Marie. I’m so sorry. I’ve brought them right to us.”

***

15th December 2008
.
Steven’s House, High Moor. 03.45.

The alarm on Mark’s phone brought him awake in an instant. He reached down and turned it off, not wanting to wake Phil and Paul. They’d been given an empty room and some camp beds by Wilkinson, while he slept in his own room down the corridor. None of the spare rooms had beds. They’d been converted into storage rooms and workshops, although the forensics teams had not left much behind. The four police officers and their host had spent two hours gathering everything that could be used as a weapon but had still come up short. Two Glock pistols with a single magazine each, two H&K MP5’s, again with one magazine of silver bullets each, plus Rick’s Beretta, loaded with regular ammunition. An ornate, razor−sharp samurai sword had been left behind, the crime scene teams no doubt believing it to be decorative, plus a pressurised weed sprayer that Wilkinson had filled with a mix of acid and silver nitrate. It was hardly an arsenal.

After that, they’d spent most of the evening arguing over strategy. Rick had insisted that they draw the werewolves here, to this house. It made sense. The place was rigged to make it as difficult as possible for the creatures to get inside. The only problem was that they couldn’t use any of those defences while Steven was in the house, except for the infra−red detectors that covered the grounds. Steven, understandably, objected to his home being used for the trap. He wanted to go after John Simpson first, and then deal with the assassins in Scotland before finishing up with the ones hunting them. Rick and Phil hadn’t been convinced. They’d argued that the last thing they needed was to get caught between two groups of werewolves, that it was better to deal with one problem at a time. By the time midnight arrived, the situation still hadn’t been resolved, so everyone had decided to turn in for the night, then look at things with fresh eyes in the morning.

They’d agreed on taking two−hour watches through the night, and he was due to relieve Rick in fifteen minutes. He eased himself off the wire−frame bed, retrieved his weapon and telephone, and headed downstairs in search of coffee.

Rick sat on the leather sofa, turning his Glock over in his hands. He nodded to Mark as he entered the room and put the pistol down on the coffee table. “Sleep well?”

Mark rubbed his eyes, “Yeah, those camp beds are more comfortable than they look. All quiet, I take it?”

“As the grave. I hate this time of the day. The temperature drops just that little bit, like the night’s giving one last ‘fuck you’ to the morning. My mam used to work in a nursing home, and she said that nine times out of ten, if some old dear died during the night it was between half three and half four.”

Mark smiled. “Thanks for that, mate. Nice cheery conversation piece for me to mull over while you snore your head off upstairs.”

“You’re welcome. There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen. I knew you’d want one when you dragged your arse out of bed.”

“Cheers, mate. I’ll see you in a few hours. Phil’s got the last watch, but I’ll probably just stay up with him. I’ll make sure I get some bacon sarnies on the go before you surface.”

“With that bacon in the fridge? You've gotta be kidding? It’s gone fucking green.”

“Don’t worry, mate. I’ll pop out to the shops first thing.”

Rick nodded in appreciation then left through the hallway door while Mark headed to the kitchen and the tantalising promise of caffeine.

Mark poured a large mug of the steaming liquid, adding several teaspoons of sugar. He hated black coffee, but all of the milk in the refrigerator was at least a month old, and Wilkinson didn’t keep any coffee whitener about the place. With any luck, he’d not notice the bitterness if he piled enough sugar into his mug.

Once he’d sweetened his drink into something tolerable, he walked to the patio doors and peered out into the darkness. This far out into the countryside, the blackness was impenetrable. Not even the comforting orange haze of the streetlights in nearby High Moor were visible. The freezing fog bank had settled over the moors, and if anything, had actually thickened during the night. It swirled like a living thing in the light breeze outside, reducing visibility to no more than ten feet from the window. It made Mark feel safe for some strange reason. Like it was some sort of blanket, come down to hide them from their enemies. Nonsense of course − what hid them could also hide something with claws and fangs, but he thought he’d rather stay with the positive image. Otherwise he’d be jumping at every shadow, and the paranoia would drive him up the wall. Besides, the alarm system would let them know if something made it onto the grounds. They were as safe as they could be, all things considered. He stepped away from the patio doors and wandered back into the living room.