Midnight in Berlin (7 page)

Shit. “Hey, Silke…” I stopped. How the fuck to say this? “Christoph’s kind of a mess. Schreiber ripped him up some.” I ran my fingers down the side of my face to make sure she got the picture and managed to creep myself out nicely.

She trembled like a fucking leaf. Then she nodded. “I saw when it was done.”

What the hell? Was Schreiber selling tickets? Jeez, didn’t the poor kid have enough to deal with without being made to watch corporal punishment in action?

Silke looked up at me earnestly. It was probably the first time she’d ever looked me in the eye. “It was—he didn’t deserve that. Not Christoph.” She swallowed. “He was kind to me.”

I nodded. “Okay. Come on, then.”

I went to take her arm, then thought better of it. We headed downstairs again. I was light-headed with tension—what if Sven came back? What if Schreiber and the guys took an early lunch break? My mouth was so dry I was glad I didn’t have to speak. It would’ve come out like a fucking death rattle.

When we got downstairs, Ulf grabbed a hold of Silke and spoke to her so quietly, so fast, I couldn’t catch what he was saying. It wasn’t helping the paranoia any, but I figured I could guess the gist of it when she shook her head violently and pulled away from him.

Damn, I wouldn’t have thought she had it in her. Ulf threw up his hands and slouched away. Hopefully to keep a lookout for trouble, though I figured I’d best not rely on it. “Come on,” I told her again. “Wait—he’s going to need shoes. Damn.”

“It’s okay.” Silke fetched a pair of grimy, worn-in sneakers from a room off the kitchen that seemed to serve as a dumping ground for shoes, boots and all sorts of crap. She handed them to me. They smelled better than they looked—like forest earth and something familiar, almost comforting… Damn. They smelled like Christoph.

We scuttled back to the old house through the woods like Little Red Riding Hood—sorry, Hat—and the Big, Bad Wolf. Christoph was right where I’d left him. Like a lamb waiting for the guy in the striped apron with the damn big knife to come along and finish the work he’d started. His limbs didn’t seem to be working any too good, so I had to help him on with his clothes. Jeans—some down-market European brand. No underwear—maybe Silke liked her guys to go commando, though I’d had Schreiber figured as a boxers guy. There was an uneasy moment when I wasn’t sure if I should zip up for him or not, which he solved by batting my hands away and doing it himself. There was plenty to fit in there, I couldn’t help noticing.

I wasn’t perving on him, okay? It’s a guy thing. Compare and contrast.

Then the T-shirt—faded grey that might have been black way back before I was born. A checked shirt Christoph pulled on stiffly and didn’t bother to button. The broken-down sneakers.

Not a lot we could do about that damn face, though.

Silke turned away while I was dressing him, so I guessed she hadn’t just come down here to cop an eyeful. I took a couple deep breaths once we’d gotten him decent. “We have to get out of here right now. There’s just Ulf in the house, but I don’t know for how long. Silke, can you distract him while I get Christoph out of here?”

“No,” Christoph said harshly. “Silke, you must come with us. He will know that you helped us—”

“Whoa,” I said, holding up my hands in the universal symbol for fuck-this-shit. “I never said anything about her coming with us.” Okay, so maybe her life here wasn’t great, but was it really worth her risking everything by throwing her lot in with us? Who was in charge of this rescue, anyway? “She’ll be okay. I told her to say I made her help us. Schreiber’s got to cut her more slack than the rest of us—”

“He will not spare her. Silke, you must come.”

Damn. “Silke, will you be okay if we leave you?” I mean, hell, she must have gotten into this thing with Schreiber of her own free will. Chances were she’d want to stay with him anyhow. Just because a guy’s a bastard doesn’t make you love him any less. And yeah, that’s the voice of experience talking.

Silke was staring at the floorboards. Trembling. “My father—”

What the hell? “Schreiber’s your father?”

She nodded to my feet. I tried to get my head around the idea that I’d so totally mistaken their relationship. Then my stomach flipped over as it occurred to me that maybe I’d gotten it right after all. Damn. “Look, you can come if you want to, okay? But you’ll have to do what I say.” I figured she’d be used to that anyhow, poor kid.

Guess she figured the same, because she nodded.

“How long do we have until the others return?” Christoph asked.

“Damned if I know. Sven got called away suddenly, and I came to get you as soon as he’d left. How far away is this scrap yard, anyhow?”

“Not far enough. We need to leave right now.”

“I’ll go grab my stuff,” I said quickly. If I was going to be on the run, I wanted to do it in my own underwear. Hell, that backpack had been with me for five years, traveling through more countries than I could count on both hands. I had my Levi 501s in there, and my camera and a whole load of other stuff I’d dragged all the way from the States. Plus my only photo of me and Ben. It’d gotten a little creased and faded over the years, but I wasn’t leaving it here for Schreiber, Sven and the gang to chew on.

“Silke, you have anything you wish to bring?” Christoph asked.

She shrugged her thin shoulders. “It’s okay. I have nothing.” Jeez, not even a goddamn cuddly toy? Schreiber was one hell of a father.

“Leon, you must be quick,” Christoph said. I gave him a dirty look. The sooner he realized who was in charge here, the better.

“You wait here,” I told them, staring Christoph down in case he was planning to protest. It wasn’t easy, holding firm with him looking like that, but I managed. “When I get back, we’ll head out through the woods this way—too risky to go along the roads on foot. Sven could be back along there any minute.”

Christoph nodded. I set off down that path again, my nerves jumping worse than they had on the way out. Hell, for all I knew, Ulf had called in the cavalry already.

The house was quiet when I reached it. I breathed a little easier. I tiptoed up the stairs, all two damn flights of them, and grabbed my backpack, jamming my clothes and stuff back inside. Then I crept back down again. Still quiet, thank God.

Then Sven stepped out of the kitchen, Ulf looking hangdog behind him.

Shit.

I panicked and swung the backpack around into Sven’s face, following it up with a desperate kick to the groin. Shit, shit, shit. If I let him get up now, I’d be dead. I saw Ulf’s face, pale and frightened in the doorway. I wanted to scream at him to fucking
do
something, but it came out as a growl, and I realized I’d started to freak out again. Literally.

Sven was struggling to stand, his face red and meaner than hell. Then it started to distort.

It was pure instinct that saved me. As the change took me over, I threw myself on him, lunging for his throat. I took a savage bite. Blood welled up, hot and thick, the coppery scent of it overpowering. I didn’t know whether to drink deep or throw up… As the thought hit, I backed away, horrified. I could feel myself changing back again, becoming human. Like my body was trying to disclaim all responsibility. Nope, not me, wasn’t even there. “Oh, God…” Had I killed him? I looked at Ulf. “We need to call an ambulance—”

“Just get out of here!” Ulf’s eyes were wide. “When Schreiber finds out about this…”

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and nearly puked when I saw the red streak I’d left. Go. Yes. I grabbed for my backpack, managing to pick it up on the second attempt. Then I lurched back down the hall and nearly fell out the back door.

The fresh air outside, the sunshine—it didn’t seem real. How could the damn birds still be singing after what had just happened? At least it cleared my head some. If Sven was back, so was the Porsche. I staggered back, trying to ignore the twitching figure on the floor. Things were…bubbling. Not good. Really, not good. Focus. I swallowed. “Ulf. Get the car keys off him and meet us out front.”

“I can’t…” He was kneeling by Sven, bare-chested, trying to stanch the bleeding with his wadded-up T-shirt.

“What the hell do you think’s going to happen to anyone who’s still here when Schreiber gets back?” I swallowed again, took a deep breath. “Get the damn keys.”

I turned away. He’d do it. If he didn’t—hell, I’d worry about that when it came to it. I needed to get Christoph and Silke.

I needed to get out of that damn slaughterhouse.

The day must have been getting warmer. Sweat poured off me as I ran down the path to the old house. Christoph and Silke were waiting on the stoop. She gasped when she saw me in my blood-soaked shirt. He didn’t.

“Who?” he asked stepping forward, his face tense. His gait was awkward as hell, his legs still cramped up from the cage.

“Sven.” I turned away to wipe my forehead with the hem of my shirt, realizing too late that was bloody too. “Means we got a ride.”

“Come on, then.” He didn’t wait for me, just grabbed Silke by the arm and jogged down the path, his face set in hard lines like moving was still hurting him. I guess I must have been shaken by the fight, because right then I was just glad someone was taking charge. I stumbled after them.

By the time I’d caught up, Christoph was in the house telling Ulf he had to come with us. And okay, that pissed me off a little. Just who the hell did he think he was, Oskar fucking Schindler? I still wasn’t sure whose side Teenwolf was on. He sure as hell hadn’t been a lot of use when I was fighting for my life against Schreiber’s chief enforcer.

Who was still writhing around on the floor there. I swallowed and looked away. “Let’s just get the hell out of here, okay? You got the keys?”

Ulf handed them over a little more slowly than I would have liked.

“Okay. Come on—and if you change your mind, Ulf, we’ll drop you off somewhere,” I promised. Hell, I’d have promised him a Playstation if it would get us all on our way out of there before any more shit hit the fan.

We all went out front and piled into the Porsche. I got the damn thing in gear and headed down the driveway—and just before we got out on the road, Ulf opened the door and jumped ship.

My foot wavered over the brake as Ulf rolled on the dirt, staggered to his feet and ran back to the house. Back to Sven.

“Keep driving,” Christoph growled at me. I drove on.

Chapter Seven

“You should not have done this,” Christoph said softly as we sped up the A115 toward the center of Berlin. No destination, exactly; I just had a vague idea it’d be good to be around people right now. Human people. The kind who don’t, as a rule, tear your throat out as soon as look as you…

I swallowed and tried not to think about throats and blood and bodies thrashing on the floor. I could have done without Christoph fucking with my mind as I tried to keep my eye on the road, work out where the hell I was going and not freak out over the idea that Ulf had probably patched up Sven. The whole goddamn pack was most likely searching for the Porsche right now.

If Sven was still alive. If I hadn’t killed him. Shit.

“You think I should have left you to rot in that fucking cage? Enjoying it that much, were you?” Where the hell could we go? All I’d wanted to do was to get out of that place fast, but driving until we ran out of gas—which I figured, looking at the gauge, would be in under thirty miles from here—was looking less and less like a plan and more and more like suicide.

“He will hunt us down.”

“You’re a regular glass-half-full guy, aren’t you?” I muttered. Damn it—did he think I didn’t know that already? “Have you got any money?”

Christoph barked a laugh. “Where do you imagine I was keeping it?”

Okay, maybe he had a point. “Silke?”

“No.” Just a whisper.

Shit. “Me either.” That asshole Schreiber never did give me back my damn wallet. “Okay, ideas for where we could go?”

Silence. Dammit. I swung the Porsche round a corner, trying to think. “Okay. There’s this guy I know who owes me.”

“Where?” Again, Christoph had a point. Schreiber and the gang were probably heading off to the hostel right now.

“There’s a bar I used to work at. Before all this shit. I told Jon there’d be a job going.”

“Jon?”

“He’s a friend.” Okay, maybe that was overstating it. “He owes me.” If he was even still in the city… Damn, had it really only been yesterday I’d last seen him? It felt more like a month ago.

“Which bar?”

“Corvino’s. You know it?”

Christoph nodded. “Will he be there now?”

I looked at my watch. “It’s Monday, right? If he took my job, he ought to be.” And if Jon wasn’t there, maybe Timmi who did the glasses would be good for a few euros. Hell, at this point, I was willing to consider robbing the joint.

We left the Porsche illegally parked down a side street, with Christoph in it. It seemed kind of wrong to leave him on his own, but jeez, the guy was covered in his own blood. Taking him with us would have attracted all kinds of attention, not to mention freaking the hell out of Jon. Anyhow, I figured he’d scare off any traffic cops easy, the poor bastard. I had to change my shirt, but I decided my pants would pass—there were a couple spots of blood on them, but as long as you didn’t know, you’d just think I was a messy eater or something. Of course, that wasn’t too far from the truth… I gagged and tried really hard not to think about Sven’s throat anymore. There was a half-drunk bottle of water in the car which I used to clean up a little, at least enough that people wouldn’t take one look at me and call the cops.

I wondered again whether Sven was alive or dead. Then I wondered which of those two options I actually preferred.

It’s not murder if the other guy would’ve done the same or worse to you.

Right?

Silke and I walked the rest of the way, down the Kantstrasse. Taking Silke with me ought to keep Christoph from getting any ideas about heading off and leaving me stranded. I hoped. She was wide-eyed and trembling and she flinched every time someone got within three feet of us, but that was okay. It helped me remember not to eat people. I was holding it together, but barely.