The Wolfman (26 page)

I
NSPECTOR FRANCIS ABERLINE
paused with his glass halfway to his lips as the howl cut through the din of the tavern and smashed everything to silence. The echo of the creature’s call lingered in the smoky air for several seconds.

And then Aberline slammed down his glass and jumped to his feet. He grabbed his coat and hat from their pegs, patted his pockets to reassure himself of his whistle and pistol, and dashed out into the night.

The patrons stared at the open door for half a minute, and then Cramer raced over, slammed it and dropped the bar in place.

A
BERLINE DASHED TO
the stable, kicked open the door and saddled his horse with desperate haste. He barely had the girths buckled before he swung up into the saddle, kicked the horse in the flanks and headed out of town at a full gallop.

I
N THE SHADOWS
of the ruined abbey, the hunting party heard the howl and froze like rabbits. Colonel Montford cut a look at Strickland, who had gone as pale as the moon. Dr. Lloyd’s face was bathed in icy sweat and he looked ready to collapse. Only MacQueen’s face
was neutral, though his jaw was set and he adjusted his grip on the heavy rifle.

MacQueen turned slowly and scanned the terrain, first checking to see that each of the other men were invisible in their hunting blinds among the ruins and then eyeing the stag to make sure it was standing in clear moonlight.

Everything looked perfect.

The howl came again, cutting through the air like a scythe.

“Did you hear that?” sputtered Dr. Lloyd.

“Of course we heard it you old fool,” snapped Montford.

“Begging your pardon, sirs,” said MacQueen quietly, “but it might be a good time to shut the hell up.”

No one argued with him.

The howl tore at the night.

T
HE WOLFMAN MOVED
like a ghost through the mist of the forest. Its huge feet made almost no noise as it ran along at a fast lope. It leapt gorges and ravines without effort, jumped atop fallen trees and ran their length before springing into the darkness. It never missed its footing. Where an owl might find the darkness and fog too gloomy, the eyes of the creature saw everything. Heard everything. Smelled everything. The woods withheld no secrets from it. If an insect wriggled beneath the loose bark of a sycamore three hundred yards down the slope, the creature heard it. If a fox two miles away sprayed a shrub to mark the edges of its territory, the Wolfman knew it. It could hear the thunder of their heartbeats, see the heat of their life force, smell the heady salt and sugar in their blood.

It smelled water and stopped, bending to drink—and then it paused, muscles tense, muzzle wrinkled in anger as something else leaned upward from the pond toward him. The Wolfman lashed out at it, raking claws across its eyes and slapping water high onto the banks. The image of the other monster wavered and then settled as the agitated waters stilled. The Wolfman eyed the reflection warily. With a low warning growl, it bent to drink.

Then all at once it was in motion again, running, leaping, moving at the speed of hate and hunger.

The moon bathed the creature with silver light, and in that light it was the most powerful thing under heaven. It feared nothing, hungered for
everything.

It ran and ran and then stopped all at once, pressed up against the trunk of a tree, its claws digging into the bark, head raised to sniff.

There, on the wind.

Blood.

Fresh and hot. Exposed, naked to the breeze.

Drool fell from the creature’s mouth onto the tatters of its shirt.

T
HE STAG COULD
smell its own death out there in the shadows. It struggled against the ropes, throwing all of its weight against the restraints, crying out in the raw and strangled voice it only used in panic. Its eyes were wide and wild.

C
OLONEL MONTFORD PEERED
down the length of his rifle barrel, sweat running down his bruised and lacerated face.

“Damn it, MacQueen,” he whispered. “What’s it waiting for?”

“Shhh,” murmured the hunter.

T
HE STAG STOPPED
its tortured cry and stood stock still, and the whole forest around it went quiet as well. To the watching eyes of the Wolfman the stag’s blood was fire-bright and so hot and sweet. Though there were other prey in the forest, the bleeding stag was right here, its blood singing to the werewolf.

The Wolfman’s muzzle wrinkled back in a silent snarl of unbearable hunger, and then it
moved.
Racing, running, its body a blur of impossible speed as it came out of the shadows and lunged for the bleeding stag. It leapt forward, a massive dive that cleared twenty feet so that it landed within inches of the deer.

And then the ground beneath it collapsed, without sense or substance, dragging the creature down into darkness. It fell and fell and landed with a huge crash into the stone-lined depths of the abbey’s cellar.

Trapped.

T
he hunters rushed forward, opening fire in a haphazard barrage that tore chunks out of the ground and gouged trees. A half dozen whizzed past the stag, grazing its throat and chest and flanks and splashing it with blood, but none of the shots were fatal. The screaming stag lunged once more against its tethers and they finally snapped and it bolted into the darkness.

Montford fired and fired and fired, working the level on his rifle, sending his bullets down into the darkness without aim. The bullets struck fire from the stone walls of the cellar, ricochets pinged and wanged and buzzed through the shadows like furious hornets.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” he cried as he fired, his eyes half mad with fear and murder. When his rifle clicked empty he drew his pistol and continued firing.

MacQueen materialized beside him and slapped the colonel’s barrel up so that the last bullet blew a hole through layers of dried leaves overhead.

“Enough!” cried the hunter in a voice so loud and commanding that everyone came to their senses and took their trembling fingers off of their triggers. The air around them echoed with the thunder of the gunfire.

MacQueen crept to the edge of the cellar and peered down into the darkness. Below, the Wolfman screamed in fury and tore at the unyielding walls of its prison.

“Did I hit it?” demanded Montford breathlessly. He inched forward and dared a look down into the hole, but the bottom of the pit was black and half hidden by the remnants of the canvas screen they’d erected to hide the hole.

“Get a light!” MacQueen ordered, and Dr. Lloyd stumbled away from the trap to secure a lantern. He removed the blackout shades and suddenly yellow light flooded the clearing.

“I’ve got it,” he called as he hurried back to rejoin the others.

“Bring it here,” said MacQueen. “Let’s see how bad we’ve hurt the bugger!”

Squire Strickland took the lantern and knelt by the edge. “I can’t see it.”

“Lower the lantern,” ordered Montford. “A little more—”

Suddenly the Wolfman’s taloned hand darted out of the shadows, closed around Strickland’s face and ripped him down into the pit.

Immediately everyone screamed and stumbled backward, firing into the pit, firing wild into the trees, colliding with one another.

Something dark flew out of the pit and struck Montford in the chest. He looked down in dumb horror to see Strickland’s torn and severed arm, the hand still clutching the pistol, finger hooked around the trigger.