The Wolfman (33 page)

E
IGHT BLOCKS AWAY
a constable sat astride a bored horse in the center of Leicester Square trying impatiently to manage the flow of traffic. He had not yet gotten word of the escaped killer and the rush and bustle was irritating him. There was only an hour left of his shift and he liked things calm and quiet.

An old woman struggled across the square, moving with painful slowness on arthritic legs and blocking the flow of carriage traffic.

“Come on, come on,” he barked. “Move along smartly!”

The lady looked up at him, startled at his rudeness, and then her eyes flared wider and wider and her mouth opened into a silent “O.”

“What is it, you old—”

The bobby never saw the mass of muscle and claws that hurtled down at him from the rooftop of the nearby clock tower. He felt a sudden jolt and then the world seemed to be tumbling and spinning around him.

T
HE WOMAN WHO
ran the flower cart heard a scream and the sound of an impact and turned just as a vast something smashed into her cart and something smaller and heavy hit her in the chest. She fell backward with the object resting on her skirts between her outstretched legs. She stared, unable to comprehend the severed head of the traffic constable. Her eyes met those of the bobby and there was still life there. Dazed, she turned and watched as the bobby’s body, still sitting astride his horse, went galloping wildly down the street. Then she looked down at the head in her lap. Impossibly, the bobby opened his mouth and tried to scream. He could not.

So she screamed for both of them as a bloody thing rose from the wreckage of her cart and turned a drooling face toward her.

A
BERLINE SAW THE
lights of the local police station and cut across the street toward it. He blew his whistle
as he ran and a cluster of officers scrambled down the stairs. A sergeant strode toward him, one hand up to stop him.

“What’s all this then?” he demanded, but Aberline skidded to a halt and flashed his inspector’s badge.

“Sergeant, telegraph the Yard. Issue weapons.”

“What for, sir?”

As if in answer to the inquiry an unearthly howl split the night, the echoes bouncing off of the surrounding buildings as if a pack of monsters was descending on London.

“
Now!
” bellowed Aberline.

T
HE DEAD TRAFFIC
officer’s horse ran at a full gallop down the middle of the street, its headless passenger still mounted perversely in the saddle. The corpse’s booted feet were jammed into the stirrups and the reins were knotted around one slack hand. It was a grisly sight, something out of a penny dreadful, and pedestrians—men and women alike—screamed and recoiled from it. The horse veered off toward the park, its shrill cries filled with panic.

And in its wake, running on all fours, the Wolfman followed.

When the crowd saw what pursued, they turned and fled, convinced that the gates of Hell itself had been thrown wide and devils walked the earth.

B
RIGHT LIGHTS, MUSIC
and the tinkling sound of laughter washed over the Wolfman’s senses. It slowed, letting the headless horseman gallop away. The creature rose from all fours and stood erect, sniffing the air,
smelling meat and blood, hearing pulses throbbing beneath fragile skin. The grizzled flesh of its muzzle wrinkled in pleasure and fresh, hot saliva boiled out of its gums and dripped onto the grass.

The Wolfman began stalking these new sounds, following the glow from beyond the trees.

Then it paused a dozen yards away from the glowing walls of glass that formed one side of the conservatory. Its eyes narrowed as it studied the terrain and calculated the best point of attack. But its stomach rumbled with hunger and as it began stalking slowly forward the Wolfman bent and licked the glistening red gore that coated its arms from claws to elbow. The blood was sweet but it was already growing cold. Hot, fresh blood was so much more delicious . . . and there was so much of it before him, confined, contained within those glowing glass walls.

The Wolfman smiled a predator’s smile, filled with red delight.

A
LL ACROSS LONDON
the telegraph wires ignited with the news. Officers by the score grabbed pistols and shotguns and took to the streets. Aberline, still on foot, led his small party of men back into the park, drawn by a fresh wave of terrible screams. In the far distance, all the way on the other side of the vast park, he saw the lights of the conservatory and his heart sank. There was a masked ball tonight and half the nobility of London would be there.

As he ran his mind burned with a litany of pleas.
Oh, God . . . oh, God . . . let me be in time.

But he knew that he would not be in time.

T
he glass-domed conservatory was decorated like a fairy kingdom, with hundreds of tiny candles hidden among the evergreen garland and colorful bunting. Tables were laden with food of every description: there were pot-bellied baskets of steaming chestnuts, pyramids of polished pears and apples, half a dozen varieties of fat grapes, silver trays laden with salmon and trout garnished with pineapple and lemon, a row of suckling pigs roasted to pink perfection, a dozen plump geese overflowing with sage and onion stuffing, and central to it all a huge roast of beef that was red and luscious.

Hundreds of people crowded the chamber, each of them in exotic costumes. A pirate with an eye patch and tricorn walked arm-in-arm with Cleopatra; a satyr stood talking politics with Apollo, King Henry VIII and Merlin. King Arthur and Sir Francis Drake vied for the attentions of Marie Antoinette, while Bacchus sat in a corner getting quietly drunk with Jack-of-the-Green and William Wallace. There were Greenmen and Celtic warlords, most of the Greek and Roman gods, and six separate Tam Lins, who each affected not to notice the others. The costumes were expensive and elaborate, some very specific, others more vague, but all were beautiful.
Threescore people sat in chairs arranged in front of a dais which was occupied by the orchestra. The rest walked in and out of doors, sat at small tables with plates of food, or stood huddled together in conversational groups that broke and reformed.

Wine flowed like the blood of heaven and applause rolled like thunder as the orchestra finished the
Clarinet Quintet in B Minor, Opus 115
, the latest piece by Johannes Brahms.

As the applause died down a young girl dressed like a fairy princess led a blind soprano to the center of the stage. The soprano was gorgeous, in an elegant gown of silk and lace, and her milky eyes seemed to possess an awareness that transcended the mundane world. The audience was excited for this performance, the centerpiece of the evening—Rowena’s aria from
Ivanhoe
, accompanied only by the first violin. The violinist stepped up and bowed to the lady and to the audience and tucked his beautiful instrument under his chin.

The soprano drew a slow breath, waiting for the introductory note, and the musician delicately placed his bow on the strings and closed his eyes to immerse himself in the music that was about to flow through him. With a deft turn of his wrist the bow glided over the first string, coaxing out the whisper of the initial sweet note, and when the introduction had run its course the soprano began to sing.

The Wolfman stood in the rear doorway and watched as the colors moved and swirled around him. The music enchanted him and it caused his mind to vacillate between the urgency of the hunt and some other, more deeply hidden need. He entered the huge room but did not attack. He was confused by the prey. None of them
feared him. A few wrinkled their noses at him, but he could sense no fear, could smell none of the scents of panic and flight that triggered his instinct to hunt and kill. When the soprano began to sing, the Wolfman turned his head toward her, picking out her voice from amid the din of laughter and conversation. The sound was like nothing else the creature had experienced, and almost immediately it lifted him above the hunger, above the input of its other senses.

The Wolfman took a step toward her, and another, drawn to the sound of her voice, and for a moment the hunt was forgotten.

As the creature moved among the revelers he brushed past a woman in a white gown. The woman gaped at the red smear that now glistened on the expensive fabric of her costume. She touched her fingers to it and sniffed. Her eyes widened. She had been on too many fox hunts not to recognize that unique coppery smell.