The Wolfman (42 page)

Lawrence, his mind still numb, was trying to crawl along the floor. He made it as far as the entrance to the
Great Hall, but Sir John stalked over, grabbed him by the collar and belt and lifted him off the ground and threw him all the way across the Hall. Lawrence hit the settee and tumbled over it to land in the coals of the dying fire. Sir John came to examine his handiwork, pleased at the pool of blood that was spreading under Lawrence’s head.

Chest heaving—more from passion than effort, Sir John stood still for half a minute as he fought the animal beneath his skin. He wanted his human side to experience this. Then he bent and knotted his fingers in Lawrence’s hair and dragged him from the fireplace, hauled him across the room toward the great window that looked out onto the patio. Beyond the gleaming brass of the telescope the landscape fell away to offer an unrestricted view of the moon.

It was vast and white and now only a sliver of it remained below the horizon.

The Goddess of the Hunt ruled the sky . . . and the hour of the wolf had come.

“O
h my God!”

The cry was torn from Gwen Conliffe as she reined her horse to a whinnying stop halfway along the road to Talbot Hall. She stared at the high walls and tall towers, but all she could see were the flames. Tongues of fire licked upward from every window, thick columns of smoke spiraled upward into the sky like the pillars of heaven.

O
NCE MORE LAWRENCE
opened his eyes to pain and destruction. His life seemed to be composed of nothing else. He rolled over and spat blood onto the tiled floor. The room was far too bright and as his senses returned to him he realized with horror that the house around him was on fire. He gasped and smoke filled his lungs, sending him into a paroxysm of coughing.

“She’s almost here,” said Sir John behind a pall of smoke, his voice loud and rough.

Lawrence raised his head and saw his father standing above him, his back to the window. Flames clawed at the timbers overhead and they cried out as the house died.

Sir John nodded past him, and Lawrence turned to see the fully risen moon hanging ripe and lush over the moors. “Can you feel her?”

“No . . .” said Lawrence weakly, putting the lie to what he knew to be true.

“You were the heir to my kingdom.”

“Why are you doing this?” Lawrence asked wretchedly as he climbed to his knees.

Sir John pressed his palm to his chest where the silver rapier had stabbed him. He held out his palm to show that it was red with blood. There were splatters of it on the floor. “The wound won’t stay closed as long as the beast is caged.”

“I should have aimed better!”

That made his father laugh. “Do you know what wolves do to their unfit young?”

Another coughing fit tore through Lawrence.

“It’s purity, really.” Sir John’s eyes were no longer human. The irises had taken on an unnatural yellow tint. As Lawrence watched, his father’s ears grew into points, and when Sir John smiled his fangs gleamed in the moonlight. “Untroubled by conscience. Oh God . . . to be free of it.”

“Father . . .”

Sir John opened his eyes. “Sweet animal oblivion.”

“Lawrence!”

The cry came from outside the house, drifting through the thick smoke. Sir John and Lawrence both turned toward the sound. Sir John smiled; Lawrence’s mind tottered on the edge of the abyss.
No! She could not be here. Not here.

“Gwen? . . .” He murmured.

Sir John laughed aloud, and his voice was like thunder. “This is perfect, boy! Now everything will be as it should be. A true pack. An alpha, his pup . . . and now the alpha will have his
bitch
.”

Lawrence knew that his father meant it. Sir John’s
covetous lust for Gwen had led to Ben’s death and to the damnation that now faced Lawrence this night. Now that he had decided to let the beast have total murderous freedom, Sir John would take whatever he wanted. He had the will, the coldness of mind, and the power to do it. Nothing human could stop him.

Nothing.

Something suddenly snapped in Lawrence’s mind. The fear and despair that were wrapped like barbed wire around his soul
broke.
Weariness dropped away like a discarded garment and all that remained was a towering rage that gave him the power to get off his knees and climb to his feet.

Sir John was not impressed and mocked him with laughter that shook the heavens.

Gwen
. It was the only thing in Lawrence’s mind. Everything else had been burned down to a screaming howl of bloodlust.

Sir John’s smile faltered as he saw his son’s eyes change from brown to a yellow that was hotter and brighter than the flames that rose all around them.

Then Lawrence threw himself at Sir John, slamming into his chest with hands that had already begun to shift and change. The impact was far more savage and powerful than Sir John expected and it drove them backward a dozen steps, sliding and slipping in the blood. Lawrence grabbed his father’s throat and pressed forward with his thumbs, trying to crush Sir John’s windpipe—but his father’s throat thickened beneath his fingers, the tendons expanding to force Lawrence’s hands apart. With a grunt of effort Sir John shoved Lawrence back, and as he did so his own eyes flared from ice blue to hot gold. He snarled with black lips as sharp teeth began tearing through his gums.

“Lawrence!” Again Gwen’s voice cut through the smoke and the roar of the blaze.

“The bitch is
mine
, boy!” Sir John bellowed in a voice that had lost all traces of humanity.

“Be damned!” Lawrence shouted back and slashed at his father with the claws that had sprouted from each finger. He opened up rents in his father’s clothes and droplets of blood seeded the air. For the first time, Lawrence wanted the change to happen; he willed the monster to emerge so he could tear this man . . . this true
monster
. . . apart before he could bring harm to Gwen Conliffe.

But the beast had lived in Sir John far longer than it had in Lawrence.

Even as Lawrence tore at him, Sir John transformed. Sir John’s chest and shoulders suddenly swelled with enormous muscles, silver-gray hair erupted from his skin, and the gaping mouth elongated as wicked fangs grew to needle points. One moment Sir John stood there and in the next it was the Werewolf.

Monstrous, huge, and with the fires raging behind it, the creature looked like the Beast of Hell itself. The Werewolf roared its challenge and lashed out with a backhand swipe that was so shockingly hard and fast that Lawrence never saw it. The impact broke a huge bell in his head and suddenly he was flying through the air, smashing furniture to kindling, rolling and tumbling until he crashed into the blazing stone fireplace. Smoke billowed up around him and the flames glowed like hell-fire.

T
HE WEREWOLF STOOD
there in the center of the burning Great Hall: powerful, invincible. But then it
winced as pain flared in its chest. The wound from the silver rapier had not closed. It had not vanished as all of the other injuries had over the years. The Werewolf felt a tiny flicker of doubt.

It heard a sound and turned toward the fireplace. A shadow moved weakly behind the smoke, and the Werewolf bellowed its fury. It stalked forward, swatting furniture out of the way, aching for the kill,
needing
it with a passion hotter than the flames that chewed the walls.

It reached the fireplace and saw only a broken chair sagging into the flames.

There was a guttural sound behind him and the Werewolf turned to see something huge and dark leap through the fiery smoke on the far side of the room. It crashed down ten feet away, snarling, its eyes ablaze.

The Wolfman.

T
he Wolfman stalked the Werewolf across the burning room, its claws rending the heated floor tiles. The furnace heat made steam hiss from the clothing that still hung in tatters from its powerful frame. It snarled at the creature that stood twenty feet away. The Wolfman could see the glow of blood seeping from a wound in its shoulder. It sniffed again, expecting the stink of fear to accompany the wound, but there was nothing but challenge. This was not wounded prey—this was a wounded predator. The Wolfman narrowed its eyes, its instincts igniting both caution and hatred.

The same intensity of vigilant bloodlust was mirrored on the Werewolf’s evil face.

The Werewolf abruptly moved sideways and began circling; the Wolfman turned to match both pace and distance. They were both massive and built for destruction; armed with fangs and claws that could tear through anything and driven by a blood hunger beyond all control. Above the Hall the Goddess of the Hunt watched as her two most powerful children began a battle unlike anything ever fought.

Time after time the Werewolf faked lunges at the Wolfman, trying to coax its enemy into a foolish and ill-timed attack, but each time the Wolfman only slashed at the other monster. The fire grew bigger and hotter
around them. All through the house windows exploded outward.

The monsters attacked.

They both moved at the same time, each of them becoming a blur of lethal speed. They collided chest to chest in the middle of the room, inches from the glass dome, and the light from the dome painted their bodies with fire as they slammed together. The impact was so intense that shockwaves tore tiles from the floor and the last of the windows splintered to glittering dust.

The monsters fell to the floor, locked together in a slashing tangle of fangs and claws. They tore at each other, cutting through muscle and tendon and bone, but the wounds closed almost at once. The pain only made each of them more furious, pumping more murderous energy into their attacks. Each of them tried over and over again to go for the one injury they knew on the deepest of instinctive levels that the other could not withstand: a savaged throat. But just as they knew the best attack their instincts gave them the preternatural reflexes to avoid the fatal bite over and over again.

G
WEN LEAPED DOWN
from her horse and ran toward the house, heedless of the tongues of flame that licked from the black mouths of the shattered windows. Heat buffeted her in waves as she flew up the stone steps to the front door. The doors stood ajar and she whipped them open and rushed inside.