Midnight in Berlin (2 page)

“Where are we going?” I asked the madman behind the wheel, cursing my voice when it started to waver.

“Where you’ll be safe,” he replied curtly.

Funny how I wasn’t reassured. I was sobering up fast now, so when we stopped at a junction, I took my chance and hit the door handle.

I didn’t get far. I didn’t even get out the fucking door. A hand shot out like a bullet from a gun and grabbed me, hard. Christoph’s steely fingers felt like a vise tightened painfully around my arm, but I was more worried about the way he’d hit the gas like the all the hounds of hell were after him. We shot through a red light, the passenger door still swinging open. My right foot hung inches from the road. Horns blared. I nearly fell out as we swerved to miss a truck, only that iron grip on my upper arm keeping me in the car. Part of me was wondering how the hell he was managing to steer one-handed, but most of my brain was occupied with wishing real hard I’d paid attention when Dad told me hitchhiking was for idiots. I was thinking I was never going to see him and Mom again. I wanted to tell them I was sorry for all the grief I’d caused them over the years, and Dad was right and I should’ve finished college and gotten a proper job. I was so sorry.

“Close the door!” my killer barked.

I did it. He let go of me finally. I sat back and rubbed my bruised arm with my right hand. The buzz from the vodka was a distant memory and there was a block of ice sitting in the pit of my stomach. I knew I should do something—anything—but I was frozen to the seat, my limbs too numb to move.

“You’re out of control,” Christoph told me, and I couldn’t help it, I started to laugh.

We drove a ways through the forest before psycho guy turned down a bumpy track that had to be hell on the Porsche’s suspension. It damn sure wasn’t doing mine any good. With the way we had to go slower here, the thought of trying to get out crossed my mind again, but my limbs were too heavy to move and there was a sick feeling in my gut. While I was still swallowing bile, we pulled up outside a crumbling old villa.

“Get out,” he said, baring those damn teeth again.

The rain had finally stopped, I noticed as I climbed out of the car, all stiff like my body had gotten rusty during the ride. I still couldn’t believe this was happening. Shit like this didn’t happen to me, only to sad losers who let themselves get picked up by creeps because they were so damn desperate for company.

Fuck. Dying for a ride home.

I wondered if I’d see my brother in whatever afterlife I was headed for. But if there was a heaven, Ben would be there for sure, and I figured my chances of ending up in the good place were pretty damn slim. Funny how making something of your life never seems a real priority until you’re about to lose it. I looked up at the house, which was big, old and tired. Shutters leaned off drunkenly like they were getting ready to jump ship, and the paint was stained with neglect. It looked like someplace Scooby Doo and the gang might stay if they ever took a vacation in the Fatherland.

It was about now, though, that I noticed something else, which was a damn sight more cheering: I was free, I was out of the car, and there was the thickness of a Porsche between me and the crazy guy with the sharp teeth and the pincer grip.

I ran.

Not back down the track—that’d be too easy to follow. I lurched into the forest like the Terminator with metal fatigue, my wet clothes making it feel like I was carrying a dead man on my back. I breathed a sobbing prayer of thanks that the skies had cleared. There was enough cold light from the moon filtering through the forest canopy that I didn’t brain myself on a tree. I was thinking that where there was one house, there were maybe more. All I had to do was make it to the next one whose inhabitants were actually sane…

I didn’t make it.

I didn’t hear Christoph coming after me—all I could hear was the sound of my blundering footsteps and the frantic pounding of my heart. For a moment, I was back there in the tent with the clash of metal upon metal, the brutal noise of destruction all around. Then there was a great weight upon my back, and I was falling. Suddenly I realized it was me who was the dead man, and the destruction was all mine.

“
Verdammt noch mal!
”

It was more of a growl than a curse as he rolled me over and pinned me down again. I was still winded from the impact, but that was okay because I didn’t reckon I could breathe anyhow. He wasn’t the guy who picked me up in the Porsche anymore. My mind flashed crazily to stories I’d read of Peter Stübbe, the werewolf of Bedburg. He met a gruesome death four centuries ago, but it looked like he might have left a descendant or two. I was pretty sure I was staring at one of them right now.

I was really going to die.

Christoph’s face had lengthened. His nose and mouth had fused and distended to form a shape more animal than human, covered in fine, dark grey hair. His ears had grown, turned pointed, and weren’t in the right place anymore. Those sharp little canines had turned into vicious long fangs; all the better to tear your throat out with, my dear. There was no white in his eyes now. They were pure amber, shining with malice and flecked with hunger.

I looked at his hands, then wished I hadn’t. They weren’t hands anymore. Hands aren’t that hairy, and they don’t have claws.

The worst thing—absolutely, gut-churningly the worst—was that he was still wearing the clothes he’d had on in the car. Still recognizably—well, not human, but there was no mistaking that’s where he was coming from. So I couldn’t even pretend to myself that this was some wild beast or some escaped pet. This was a nightmare, an
Alptraum
. This was a fairy tale in the blood-soaked original, the version first written down by the brothers Grimm they don’t dare tell the kiddies anymore.

There was a strange, animal noise. I realized it was me who’d made it, not him. I guess that’s all we are in the end, predator or prey, and there were no shades of grey there, only black-and-white certainty.

So I lay there beneath his body, waiting to die in pain and horror, and if I made a few more noises that might possibly have been described as whimpers, so what? Everyone craps themselves when they die, at least that’s what a med student I was with for a week or three once told me. You want to hang on to your dignity? Forget it. You’re human, so basically you’re screwed. Ashes to ashes; shit to fucking shit.

I waited, but it seemed to me that either he hadn’t read the script or I’d missed a cue as the beast that’d been Christoph stilled suddenly, then lowered that face that was almost a muzzle to me and sniffed, long and hard. “You’re human,” he growled at me, his breath hot on my face but oddly sweet smelling, his voice so thick I could barely make out the words. The crazy thing was it came out like an accusation. Hurt, and shocked, even, although what the hell he had to be shocked about I couldn’t begin to guess. It was almost as if he thought I’d betrayed him somehow. “You are not one of us.” His face changed; I could see the hair receding and the nose flattening, shrinking. The teeth got way less scary until finally I was left staring up at Christoph. His hair had gotten loose from the tie and was draped wild around his face, but you know what? He wasn’t any less terrifying that way.

It was about now that my mouth realized it could maybe be doing something more useful than mewling like a kitten. “I won’t tell, okay? I’ll keep your secret, I swear it; you can let me go,” came out of my throat in a stranger’s voice. I felt sorry for the stranger. He sounded like he was on the edge of blubbing like a baby. Me, I was thinking, right, let’s talk our way out of here and then we can get the cops onto the psycho beast-guy, let them deal with the werewolf shit.

I guess I thought that a little too loud.

“I’m sorry,” Christoph said. The crazy thing was, I actually believed him for a moment, but then his face warped again and the teeth grew and his hot breath was on my face and I was thinking,
Oh, God, Mom, I’m sorry
—then he lunged to tear out my throat.

Chapter Two

It was actually a little anticlimactic when I woke up in a strange bed with sunlight falling on my face. There was a dull throbbing in my shoulder, and my head felt like it was stuffed with feathers.

Feathers. That sparked a synapse. I looked down at myself. Not only was I not wearing the clothes I’d had on last time I looked, I wasn’t wearing
anything
, unless you counted a heavy bandage on my left shoulder and a comforter that’d mostly fallen off the bed.

Huh. Looked like werewolf-guy’s aim had been off.

Werewolf… Suddenly my heart was pounding, and the room felt like it’d started to spin. I’d been bitten by a
werewolf
. I stared at my hands, but they looked normal. The rest of my body—the same? I thought so—but hell, when was the last time I really looked at myself? Would I notice a subtle change? My shoulder was hurting worse now as I twisted and turned, trying to see every inch of me. I seemed to be okay. But what about my face? My fingers traced my features. The stubble around my jaw seemed kinda long, but I couldn’t remember when it was I’d shaved last anyhow. I moved on down to my teeth. Fuck, had they always been this pointy?

A small sound escaped me. I wondered if the werewolf—the
other
werewolf, I corrected myself, fighting the urge to giggle like a moron—was near enough to hear it. Apparently he had been, as the door opened. Except it wasn’t the psycho werewolf who’d picked me up last night; it was some other guy.

Of course, the new guy was possibly also psycho and/or werewolf, but hey, I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

I was
desperate
to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He wasn’t tall—just an inch or two on me—but he was powerfully built. Icy-cold eyes, sort of pale grey-blue, watery. Stasi eyes, I thought immediately, but perhaps he just reminded me of one of the bit players in
Das Leben der Anderen
. This guy was old enough to have been Stasi, that’s for sure. Late forties, I’d have said, whereas Christoph was around about my age.

“Uh, hi?” I said. Maybe my tone was a little higher than usual, but it was definitely
not
a squeak. I’d covered my dick up with my hands like they always do on TV. While I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of in that department, I was getting decidedly straight vibes from this guy, so maybe it was just as well I wasn’t hanging out my junk and holding up a sign saying
Come and get it, big boy.

“You are awake,” the guy told me, like I couldn’t have figured it out for myself. “I am Peter Schreiber.” He didn’t offer to shake hands, so I guessed the gaydar was in good working order.

“Leon Jacobson.”

He nodded. Like maybe he knew already, like maybe he’d been through my wallet while I was asleep. I made a mental note to count my bills when I got it back. If I got it back.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

How did I feel? Nice of him to care. I guessed. “Sore. Groggy.” And freaked, and scared, and pissed at the asshole who bit me, but I didn’t add that. I figured I should hold up a finger and see which way the wind was blowing first.

“It is to be expected. I regret what happened to you. You will be pleased to hear that Christoph has been punished for his lapse in judgment.”

Good. I hoped they’d ripped his balls off and made him eat them. Raw. And pissed on them first. “He…he bit me,” I said. Looked like stating the obvious was catching. I didn’t like the way my voice sounded, so I cleared my throat before I spoke again. “Am I…?” I couldn’t say it. I mean, it would have just sounded dumb in broad daylight. Like I’d dreamed it or something.

God, I hoped I’d dreamed it.

Schreiber smiled—well, his lips pulled back from his teeth, so that was a smile, right?—and yeah, he had that whole pointy-canines thing going on just like that bastard Christoph. “You are one of us now,” he told me like I should be pleased or something.

“One of us? That would be a, a”—I could feel my whole body tensing up as I forced the word out—“a werewolf?” It came out sounding like I’d been sucking on a helium balloon.

“Naturally.” That toothy smile hadn’t wavered. I realized I wasn’t taking to this guy any too much. “I will have some clothes brought to you.” He turned on his heel in a kind of snappy, military way that had me thinking Stasi all over again.

“Uh, thanks,” I started to say, but Schreiber was already halfway out the door before I finished getting the words out. He didn’t bother turning back to give me an answer.

I sat on the bed and stared at the wall, which was cracked and pitted, badly in need of re-plastering. The room was small, with a high, square window half-hidden by faded, dusty curtains. I got up to look out, but all I could see was trees. I guessed I must be around the back of the house, two floors up. The only furniture was the ugly iron bedstead I was sitting on and a battered, watermarked dresser I figured would fall to pieces if the woodworm all moved out at once.

I couldn’t believe it. I mean, really I couldn’t. It had been one thing while I was freaking out over maybe having gotten infected or wolved or turned or whatever the fuck they called it, but now? Now it all seemed unreal. Like Schreiber and Christoph were in it together, just yanking my chain. Any minute now, I’d spot the hidden cameras—and when that happened, someone would be going home with their teeth in a bag.

A knock on the door made me turn so fast I cricked my neck. “Come in,” I snapped without thinking, and had to grab the comforter PD fucking Q when I realized it was a girl. Not that she could have seen anything—she was staring at the floor like she was worried the carpet was about to come to life and start snapping at her ankles. She looked young, late teens maybe. Skinny and pale, with dark hair kept long so she could hide behind it. My anger drained away to be replaced with a gut-wrenching doubt. If this was some kind of stunt, would they really have sent in a frightened kid?

“I have some clothes for you,” she said so quiet I could barely hear her. She risked a glance up at my knees before putting the bundle on the bed and hurrying out again without waiting to be thanked. Or hit, maybe. Damn well looked like that was more what she was used to, anyhow. I was liking this place less and less. “One of us,” Schreiber had told me, like it was all one big, happy family here in werewolf land. Shit. I really was starting to believe it.