High Moor 2: Moonstruck (32 page)

Of course. He could have slapped himself for not thinking of it sooner.

Phil managed to get the door open. He turned back to Steven. Steven nodded. “I’ve got this, Phil. You two get the fuck out of here.”

Phil didn’t say anything. He led Paul through the door and out into the night, letting the door click closed behind them. Steven shifted the grip on his sword, and turned around to face his death.

Connie stood in the doorway, less than ten feet away. She’d sustained terrible injuries. One of her front legs was broken, with white shards of bone protruding from the blood−stained fur. Chunks of muscle had been torn away from her shoulders, and the blue bulge of internal organs was visible through the ragged tears on her abdomen. Steven wasn’t even sure how she was still standing until he realised that it was hate. Connie Hamilton’s hatred for him had kept her going long beyond where she should have lain down and died. She would spend her last breath tearing out his throat.

She glared at him, wrinkled her snout and snarled. Steven looked into her eyes, and let the world fade around him. All that mattered was the monster. Time stretched out. The scent of blood washed over him, energising him. The werewolf’s eyes twitched, a tiny movement that lasted for a fraction of a second and betrayed the creature’s intentions.

It sprang forward and Steven rushed to meet it, driving the sword before him. The blade sank into her chest up to the hilt and Steven drove Connie backward, pushing steel through the wall to impale the monster. The beast howled in agony as the blade sliced through internal organs, its attempts to escape inflicting more damage than the initial wound. Her claws lashed out, tearing through Steven’s flesh and her head darted forward. Steven felt her jaws close around his collarbone, shattering it in a single bite.

The pain was unbelievable. Steven had suffered some grievous wounds in his life, but nothing like this. He reached up with his uninjured arm while his shoulders exploded in a white bomb−burst of pain. Connie ripped her head back and forth, rending his body into tattered strips of meat. Despite the pain, he managed to gasp. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your daughter.”

The werewolf’s eyes flared with fury and it plunged its head forward again, this time aiming for Steven’s heart. As the fangs punctured his skin and cleaved through his sternum, his hand found what it had been looking for: the activation panel for the house security systems. He jabbed at the buttons frantically while Connie chewed her way into his chest.

The world dissolved into a red cloud of agony. The security system had registered werewolves inside the property and took appropriate measures. The ultrasonic siren dropped him to his knees, while Connie thrashed on the sword, howling in anguish at the all−consuming shriek of the alarm. Steven felt a warm trickle of blood run down his face as his ear−drums burst. He knew what was coming next.

Rough hands grabbed him under his arms, pulling him away from the screaming figure of Connie Hamilton, who tore herself apart on a samurai sword. He looked up and saw Phil and Paul drag him towards the open door. At which point, the sprayers burst into life, filling the air with a grey mist that burned everything it touched, a mixture of sulphuric acid and silver nitrate, concentrated enough to eat through flesh in seconds. Phil and Paul both cried out in pain as the acid began to dissolve their skin. Steven wouldn’t have blamed them if they’d dropped him and run. Instead, the two police officers redoubled their efforts, dragging him outside into the cold night air.

Once outside, the howl of the ultrasonic siren lessened to the extent that Steven was able to think. The pain from the wounds Connie had inflicted were agonising, and he was dizzy from blood loss, but he didn’t think she’d disrupted anything vital. The alarm had stopped her attack before she’d finished chewing through his ribcage. The acid, however, was another story. The pain was worse than anything Steven had ever experienced. The corrosive chemicals ate into his flesh, as his wolf tried to heal the damage. Unfortunately, the silver nitrate weakened the monster further, making its regenerative abilities less and less effective while the acid seemed to burn hotter with every passing second.

How much worse then, for Connie? Steven looked back through the door to her screaming form, pinned to the wall like a bug, caught halfway between human and wolf states. The acid melted her skin faster than it could regenerate, but not by much. Her face trickled down her mangled chest, washed away by the constant stream of fresh sulphuric acid, while the burn marks grew gradually larger. Connie Hamilton was dissolving before his eyes. After long minutes, her screaming stopped and she slid off the sword, crumbling into a smoking pile of ruined flesh on the floor just as the acidic deluge stopped.

Phil grabbed two bottles of water from Mark’s Range Rover, splashing the liquid over his own injuries before passing the other bottle to Paul. Phil reached his side and poured the rest of the water across the worst of his burns. Steven grabbed Phil’s wrist. “Thanks, you didn’t have to do that.”

Phil nodded. “No problem.”

He looked up, past Steven to where rows of headlights could be seen through the thinning mist. “Looks like the cavalry’s turned up then. Late as usual.”

Steven coughed and looked again at the headlights. Too big for a squad car or ambulance. Even with the shriek of the ultrasonic alarm reverberating through his skull he could still make out the heavy diesel growl of the vehicles’ engines. The same sound that military transports made. He shook his head. “Phil, something tells me that’s not the cavalry.”

***

15th December 2008
.
Naver Cottage, Kinbrace. 04.40.

Marie scrambled back, trying to put some distance between herself and the werewolf in front of her. During her time with the pack, she’d known Anya, but they’d kept a respectful distance from each other. She’d always had a typical moonborn stick−up−her−arse attitude, however they’d tolerated one another and even worked together on occasion. Friends would have been pushing it, but they’d certainly respected the other as a colleague. One look at the elation in the werewolf’s eyes told Marie that none of that counted for a damn thing anymore. Anya was enjoying this. She knew Marie was defenceless and was savouring her prey’s fear before moving in for the kill.

Another gun−shot rang out, blowing a chunk from the wall that John was hiding behind. Marie couldn’t help but feel a surge of contempt for Oskar. It was just like him to stay back and not get his hands dirty. The Norwegian rarely transformed on an operation, claiming that he was more effective as a strategist in his human form, orchestrating the assault like a conductor. Marie knew the truth, however. Oskar had not responded well to the silver immunisation process. His wolf form was small, stunted in comparison to the other wolves on field teams. He was still a formidable killer in human terms, but in reality little more than the poisoned runt of the litter.

Anya’s eyes blazed and she snapped at the air by Marie’s feet, sending her scurrying back until she hit the low wall separating the gardens from the woods beyond. She had nowhere else to go. Anya’s lips curled into what could almost have been considered a smile. For a second, neither of them moved. Then Anya surged forward and sank her fangs into Marie’s side.

The pain was nothing compared to the horror she felt when she realised that Anya was eating her. The werewolf tore its head back, ripping away a bloody scrap of her abdomen in the process. It tilted its head down so that it fixed Marie’s gaze, then slowly chewed and swallowed the chunk of flesh. It darted forward again, but despite the pain and terror, this time Marie was ready for her. As Anya’s muzzle snapped at the wound in her side, Marie’s right arm flashed out, driving a silver knife through the bottom of Anya’s jaw into her brain.

The monster let out a high−pitched squeal of agony and fell to the side, its claws leaving deep gashes across Marie’s thighs as it twitched and thrashed on the ground.

Marie started to crawl away from the wounded creature, not daring to look at the wound. She felt nauseous and weak. Her vision began to darken around the edges, but she fought against it. If she passed out now, she was dead. Her hands closed around the stock of her assault rifle. She brought it up to her shoulder, then looked through the conservatory into the blazing house.

Michael and Leonid’s combat had slowed in pace. The heat, smoke and combined injuries taking an obvious toll on both of them. Part of Leonid’s fur was on fire, but the black werewolf ignored the flames and circled its opponent, searching for an opportunity to strike. Michael bled from dozens of dreadful wounds. One of his eyes was little more than a pulped, bloody mess, and white bone gleamed from beneath the tears across his ribcage. Another part of the ceiling crashed down into the room, sending the flames higher. Marie didn’t hesitate. She opened up with the assault rifle. Bullets punched into Leonid, the wounds erupting in flowers of blood across his side, throwing him backwards, away from Michael.

Michael surged forward, using the distraction to his advantage. He slammed into Leonid before the black wolf was able to recover, clamping his jaws around the other beast’s neck. Leonid howled in fury and lashed out with his lethal claws, opening more gaping wounds across Michael’s chest. Michael ignored the fresh injuries and bit down. Blood sprayed from Leonid’s throat, and his howl of pain turned into a bubbling cry of anguish. Then Michael’s jaws closed. Leonid’s head rolled from his body. Michael turned to face his sister, hardly able to stand. Then the roof of the cottage collapsed.

Marie dropped the assault rifle and brought her hands up to her face. “Michael!” The grief hit her like a punch in the stomach, driving the air from her lungs, constricting her throat until drawing breath was painful. Her brother was dead. There was no way that he could have survived that. The loss threatened to overwhelm her, when, from behind her, came a savage growl. Her heart froze in her chest. She turned her head, knowing what she’d find. Anya had managed to dislodge the blade and stood four feet away from her, with bloody saliva dripping from her open jaws. She reached around for her only remaining weapon, the Beretta tucked into the waistband of her jeans, knowing that she might as well throw snowballs at Anya for all the good it would do.

A furious roar split the night, freezing Anya in her tracks. The werewolf turned away from Marie, to the source of the noise as John burst from cover.

Marie’s heart sank. John had not fully transformed into a wolf, as she’d hoped. Instead a hulking, seven−foot−tall moonstruck werewolf hurtled towards her and Anya. The beast’s eyes shone with a feral rage. There was no reason behind them, only fury. John would probably kill Anya, but then she would be next.

A gunshot rang out, and the snow beside her erupted into a white cloud. She’d almost forgotten about Oskar, hidden in the trees with a high powered rifle. There was nothing she could do about John. When the time came she’d go without a fight and hope that eventually John would be able to come to terms with it. Oskar, on the other hand, was a problem she felt able to handle, comparatively speaking. First, however, she needed to get something. Clutching her wounded side, Marie threw herself over the low wall, then staggered away into the trees.

***

Oskar wiped the sweat from his eyes and tried to get the moonstruck in his sights. John Simpson’s transformation was an unfortunate turn of events, even if not wholly unexpected. That was part of the reason that Oskar had stayed back, letting Leonid and Anya assault the cottage while he provided cover. He had no intention of getting into close proximity with that monstrosity. Just seeing it through a telescopic sight had made his heart pound and his palms ooze perspiration.

He’d set up his sniper’s nest almost twelve hours before and had simply sat back and waited. Leonid and Anya had been under instructions to follow Michael if he attempted to leave the hotel, and the former alpha had played right into their hands. Krystof would be overjoyed when he found out, although he had indicated that Michael be taken alive if possible. It was unfortunate that he’d perished in the burning cottage along with Leonid.

He huffed in frustration as another round failed to find its target. Anya was among the fastest wolves in the pack, and the moonstruck was having difficulty in landing a blow. The combat was so fast and fluid that the damn thing didn’t stay in one place long enough for him to blow a hole through it. Anya snapped at its legs, darting it to swipe gouges in the beast’s legs or sink fangs into exposed flesh, before leaping back. She was working the beast, tiring it before she moved in for the kill. Still, Oskar remembered what it had done to Troy and Gabriela. Anya would not stand a chance if the raging moonstruck managed to grab her. And once it finished with her, Oskar had no doubt as to where it would turn its attention.

He fired again, splintering the truck of a pine tree where Simpson’s head had been a second before. The moonstruck turned its head toward him and snarled before renewing its attack on Anya. Oskar tried to aim the rifle again, but his hands trembled, unable to keep the weapon steady. He reached a decision. The Council needed to know about Michael’s treachery. That was more important than Simpson at this point. There was no sense in him dying here.

“Fuck this.”

He slung the rifle over his back, drew a Beretta, and climbed out of the tree. His car was down a small lane, almost quarter of a mile to the west. With luck, he would be able to reach it before the moonstruck finished Anya off and then come after him. If he was really lucky, the beast would go after Marie Williams first, drawn by the scent of blood from her stomach injury. He really just needed to be further away from it than she was.

He reached the ground, only to freeze in his tracks at the sound of a pistol being cocked. He turned his head and almost laughed. Marie Williams stood twenty yards away from him, along the trail leading to his car. She was bloodied, seemed on the verge of collapse, and yet she faced him down with a Beretta in her hands. The absurdity of it was ridiculous.