Wolf in Shadow-eARC (9 page)

A Code One insertion was a leak of information, and a Two involved the transfer of energy. A Three meant that something physical had penetrated the walls of the cozy little backwater of the multiverse inhabited by mankind. Something from outside. That was freakin’ serious mojo.

The smack of flesh on flesh followed by a loud scream sounded outside the car.

“Do you have an analysis?” asked Jameson, pushing the phone more securely into his ear to drown out the noise.

“Yes.”

“Might I have the summary?” Jameson asked.

“Just finding it.”

The tap of a computer keyboard sounded over the phone.

“The source is unknown, object unknown, exact location unknown,” said Randolph, succinctly.

“Great!” said Jameson. “I am glad to see that our understanding of the situation is unprejudiced by actual facts.”

White van man’s bullet-shaped head appeared through the open driver’s window. He appeared to be crying.

“God’s sake, make her stop,” white van man pleaded. He disappeared abruptly, dragged away like a cork out of a bottle.

“What do you expect me to do about it?” asked Jameson.

“I don’t know. Can’t you round up the usual suspects, or something?” asked Randolph, coldly. “You’re the field team, field something.”

Another scream sounded outside.

“I’ve got to go. I’ve got a situation here, as well,” said Jameson.

“I can hear,” said Randolph, dryly. “Karla, I suppose. You really should keep her on a tighter lead.”

“Yah, that’d work,” said Jameson, clicking off the phone.

He got out of his motor to assess the damage, and cursed. Karla had white van man across the bonnet, holding him down by the throat with one hand. She was poised over him, fangs extruded. She revelled in his fear. Slowly, ever so slowly, she lowered her head towards his neck. White van man had stopped struggling. She focused on the blood running down his face. Scalp cuts bleed so ridiculously freely. It would be difficult to restrain her once she started to feed.

“Karla,” Jameson said, softly, reaching towards her.

He touched her cheek and gently pulled her head round towards him. She looked at him expressionlessly, metallic green eyes glittering against white skin framed by jet black hair. He stroked her cheek, and her fangs retracted. She tilted her head sideways, rubbing against his hand. White van man took the opportunity to slide out from under her and scuttle away on his hands and knees. She was monstrous but oh, so beautiful.

“Get in the Jag’s passenger seat, Karla. I’ll clean up here.”

She walked around the motor, moving with the elastic grace of a tigress.

Jameson took a wallet out of his inside pocket and extracted ten twenty-pound notes.

“That will fix the dent in your van,” Jameson said.

“I’ll have the Old Bill on you,” said white van man, finding his voice.

“You won’t tell the police anything,” said Jameson. “In the first place, you would have to admit that you were beaten up and scared shitless by a girly half your size. In the second place, they won’t believe you, and, in the third, our employer would be displeased and might send someone worse than Karla round to dissuade you.”

Actually, The Commision had nothing worse than Karla on the payroll, if you excluded the daemons that made up the Human Resources Department. Jameson patted the man’s cheek before climbing into the driver’s side of the car. Jameson swung round a device like a sat-nav fastened under the dashboard.

“Round up the usual suspects, the man said. I suppose we could always see if any of the usual suspects have been spotted around here.”

Jameson tapped out a series of instructions on the screen. Karla ignored him. When she was bored, she slipped into immobility. Not relaxed like a woman would be, but just stationary, like a machine on standby.

“Well, well, well,” said Jameson. “An old friend of ours has a place nearby. I should have remembered.”

He started the car, U-turning to head back the way they had come.

Rhian dreamed, dreamed of running under cold, clear skies. Her paws pounded across frozen ground. This time she was the prey, and her pursuer was gaining. Rhian pushed harder, but her paws lost traction on the ice, and she skidded. Her hunter was so close that she could smell him. He pulled alongside her, powerful muscles bunching under a thick hide. She bared her teeth at him, refusing to be intimidated.

Steam rolled off her coat, and she lolled her tongue out into the freezing air. She was tiring fast, muscles aching. She made one last attempt to increase her speed. He shoulder-charged her, bowling her over into a snow drift. She struggled to her feet to find him standing over her. He watched her intently while growling gently. She lowered her head in submission and he strutted stiff-legged to her. He gripped the loose skin at the back of her neck with his teeth. Forcing her down onto the cold, hard earth, he mounted her roughly, claiming the mating rights of an alpha male. He had proved his fitness by chasing her down. He howled his conquest to the Moon when he filled her with his seed.

Rhian struggled awake and opened her eyes. It was dark except for the flames. She coughed and gagged as smoke filled her lungs. Her eyes adjusted to the dull, red, flickering illumination. An unpaved lane was lined by low stone and wooden buildings. Some were in darkness, but others burned furiously. A roof fell in with a crash, shooting bright sparks and yellow-orange flames high into the air.

Through the crackle of the flames, she heard the screams of those too old, too weak or too stupid to get out of the burning town. Standing on the back of a chariot, she tapped the bare-tors’od driver on his shoulder. He flicked the reins across the back of the pair of horses, and the chariot started with a jerk. She gripped one of the hooped wooden rails on the vehicle’s open sides. The lane opened out into a small square with a two-story building. Iron-helmeted enemy soldiers formed a defensive semicircle around the portico. They crouched behind long red shields decorated with white lightning symbols.

“
Kill them
,” Rhian ordered in Welsh.

Battle chariots surged forward, warriors jumping off to strike the enemy with swords and spears. She was Morgana’s instrument, the queen of water and death, the goddess of Moon and shape-shifters. She extended her right arm to the night sky, spreading her fingers so that she could see the full Moon through them. The wolf came to her like a thief in the night.

Rhian came awake with a jerk. She lay naked on her back between crisp, clean sheets in a large four-poster bed. Her shoulders were propped up on lilac-smelling pillows. The spacious bedroom was decorated with heavy cream-flock wallpaper and dark brown pelmets. Portraits and monochrome photographs of people in archaic costumes looked down from the walls. Heavy, dark drapes hung in folds under the pelmets. The room was lit by ornate bronze light-holders that were designed to look like candles weeping molten wax.

Rhian had no idea how long she had been unconscious. It always took her like that when the wolf left. She remembered every moment of the transformation into the beast, but never anything about the change back. It was as if all the energy was sucked from her body and she collapsed into unconsciousness that faded gently into sleep. Here, in this comfortable bed, she might have slept for some time.

She tried to work out whether she was truly awake or in another illusion. The bedroom was like a film set for a costume drama. She imagined Jane Austen sleeping in a room like this. But she was plain old Rhian again, not a pagan queen or a wolf, so this must be real.

She levered herself up to look for her clothes, assuming any had survived the change. Her coat should be in one piece. She recalled dropping it down her back before she morphed. There was a wardrobe near the bed, and she made the logical assumption that where there was a wardrobe, there would be things to wear. She pulled the bedclothes back and swung her bare legs over the side of the bed.

Rhian doubled up, gasping. Jagged pain thrust through her left side like a knife. She remembered the glowing whip scouring the wolf’s flank and examined herself. The damage was not as bad as she had feared. The skin was an angry red but unbroken. She tried to push herself to her feet, but the pain was too much. She sank back onto the bed, concerned that she had internal damage.

“My little Snow White wakes without the traditional kiss,” said a deep voice.

“What?” Rhian spun her head round.

A man leaned against the wall by a dresser. The door had not opened, so he must have been in the room all the time. How could she have not known he was there? She froze in shock. He chuckled, breaking the spell, and she pulled the sheets right up to her neck.

“A little late for modesty, wouldn’t you say, Snow White,?” the man said. “Who do you think cleaned the blood off and put you in your bower? I congratulate you on your healing properties. You were a real mess.”

It was the gunman from the tunnel. She had only seen him briefly while human. It took a little time to join the dots and connect the wolf’s impressions of the gunman to the man she saw now. He was good looking in a smooth sort of way, but he oozed an arrogant self-confidence that she disliked at first sight. Men like this frightened her, but the wolf sized him up and was not unhappy. Rhian suppressed the thought.

“You put me to bed?” she asked.

She regretted instantly the stupidity of the question. Hadn’t he just told her?

“My pleasure,” he said, smirking.

Rhian was close to freaking out. She clenched her fists tight, digging her nails into the skin. The pain made her feel better. Pain was control.

“How did I get here?” she asked. That was a better question.

“I carried you. I’m a philanthropist, always picking up waifs, strays, and fallen women. Like that prime minister they had some little while ago, what was his name?” The man clicked his fingers in irritation. “Gladstone, that was it. He used to tour St. James Park looking for ladies of the night to rehabilitate. Are you a lady of the night, Snow White? Do you need rehabilitating?”

“Stop calling me that,” she said, losing her composure again. “My name’s Rhian.”

“Max.” He bowed, the movement looking polished as if he had done it so often that it had become second nature. It should have looked really pseudo, really contrived and clumsy, but he made the archaic gesture seem sophisticated.

“Where am I?” She asked another good question.

“In my bedroom, and that’s all you need to know.”

A truly dreadful thought occurred to her. “You didn’t carry me naked through the streets of London, did you?”

“Your coat survived your, ah, transformation, so I wrapped you in that. I chatted to you all the way to my car about what a lazy minx you were to want to be carried. How next time you were to wear sensible shoes. I think I was rather convincing,” he said, complacently.

Smug seemed to be his default setting.

Rhian screwed her fists up. He was so annoying that she forgot to be frightened. “Where—is—my—coat?” she asked, articulating the words carefully between gritted teeth.

“It was such a tatty thing that I gave it to a tramp as bedding for his dog.” He beamed at her.

Rhian was speechless. Max walked casually across the room and sat on the bed, folding his arms. Rhian shrank back as far as the sheets would permit. He grinned showing white, even, and completely normal teeth. But the wolf had seen long fangs.

“You bled all over the coat from that wound on your side,” he said. “Your body underwent such impressive accelerated healing while you slept that I decided to leave you in my bed for a while. You look so decorative there, Snow White, that I may decide to keep you.”

He tapped her on the end of her nose, making her blink in surprise.

“That’s an interesting little trinket you have round your neck,” Max said, pointing at the outline of her breasts under the sheet.

The Celtic brooch was cold against her skin. It was always cold no matter how long she wore it.

“Fascinating how it survived your transformation,” he said. “One might almost think it played some role in the magic.”

“No doubt you examined it carefully?” Rhian asked.

“I tried to.” Max held up his hand and gave her a rueful grin. His fingers were marked by burn blisters. “It has one hell of a protection spell.”

Rhian blinked. The pendant had never hurt anyone before, not directly, anyway.

“How am I to go home without clothes?” she asked, changing the subject.

“It’s a puzzler,” he replied.

Rhian took a deep breath. “Could you lend me some things?” she asked, politely, which took a degree of willpower.

Taking a deeper breath, she added, “Please.”

If you were going to charm a man with politeness then you may as well go the whole humiliating hog. Especially when the man in question was an utter sexist pig.

He chuckled. “A cute little thing like you, Snow White, dressed in my clothes?” He spread out his arms. “Don’t you think they might be a little large for you?”

Rhian ground her teeth in anger, although he had a point. He must be a good foot taller than her.

“You and I need to have a little chat, Snow White. Tell me what you know.”

“About what?” asked Rhian, genuinely confused.

“The European Union’s monetary policy, what do you think? Tell me what you know about the Sith?” Max snapped at her, making her jump.

His smile had gone.

“Sith?” asked Rhian, baffled. “Aren’t they the bad guys in
Star Wars
?”

“
Star Wars
?”

They looked at each other in mutual incomprehension.

“You really don’t know, do you?” he said slowly.

He looked at her intently as if he was trying to see into her head. “What were you doing in that subway?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I was going home from work, if you must know; I’m a barmaid. I don’t have to answer your questions,” Rhian said boldly. He had bounced her into replying without thinking but she was now asserting her rights.

“You’ll answer if you want to leave here alive, Snow White,” he said, his voice as bleak as the Cumberland moors.