The Wolfman (38 page)

G
WEN CONLIFFE BENT
low over the ancient text, picking through the Latin slowly. She had learned the language from her father, who used it regularly as part of his trade, but some of the phrasing here was very
dense and obscure. She spoke the English translation slowly as she read. “. . . buried deep within this terrible aspect the heart of the victim still beats. Though the werewolf is a monster of the Devil’s creation . . . the immortal human soul still resides therein, trapped and helpless by the evil power of this unnatural transformation. . . .”

She looked up, tears glistening in her eyes.

“Lawrence,” she said softly.

Then she took a steadying breath, brushed the tears angrily from her eyes and bent back to her work.

T
HE NEXT DAY
Lawrence Talbot left London on foot. With his satchel of clothes slung over his shoulder and his back bent beneath the weight of loss and guilt he headed away from the gray sprawl that was the City. Perhaps once he was away from the scene of his crimes he could beg, borrow or even steal a ride. He needed to reach Talbot Hall while there was still time.

If, indeed, there was still time.

L
awrence waited for the stable lads to finish mucking out and head back to the main house and then he slipped from his hiding place in the hedges and crept toward the stables. If he could steal a horse then he might still make it home before the full moon. It was a ride of no more than twelve hours, but on foot it would take two full days.

The barn door was latched but not locked and he lifted the metal bar slowly, making no noise at all. The barn smelled of horse manure and fresh straw. Light slanted in from several small windows and the whole thing had a smoky, homey feel. It made Lawrence want to find a corner and curl up on a pile of straw. But that was a fantasy he knew he would never make real.

He slipped inside and looked down the row of horses. A dozen animals, all of them munching hay or oats. The nearest was a roan with strong legs. A horse that could take a heavy pace, or so he hoped. Lawrence scooped a handful of straw from a manger and held it out, speaking slowly and soothingly as he approached. He’d always been good with horses . . . but when he was ten feet from the animal it tossed its head and rolled an eye toward him. Lawrence froze. The horse suddenly shied backward, neighing in protest and fear.

“No!” called Lawrence. “Shhhhh, shhhh . . . it’s all right . . .”

But the horse was panicking. It reared back and kicked at the stall door, which startled the horse in the adjoining stall. Within seconds all of the horses were crying out in fear. They bucked and kicked and bit the air in terror.

There were human shouts from outside.

“God damn it!” Lawrence swore; then he turned and fled.

I
T WAS STILL
early morning when the rear door of Conliffe Apothecary was opened slowly by a cautious hand. Gwen peered out, looked up and down the alley, and saw no one. She slipped outside and closed the door silently. Her father was busy in the shop and was convinced that Gwen, exhausted from her ordeal, was asleep. Fat chance. She may not be an actor like Lawrence, but there wasn’t a woman deserving of the title who could not conjure tears on cue or playact a case of the vapors. She was a little surprised, though, that her father—who knew how strong and independent she was—fell for the drama anyway.

Gwen gathered some money and put a few things in an oversized purse, and once she was convinced the alley was clear she hurried along to the bystreet where she could catch a cab.

L
AWRENCE TRUDGED ALONG
the back roads, frequently cutting across country—both to shorten the trip and to avoid the main roads. He spent a night huddled
in the lee of the remaining wall of an ancient Roman fortress whose name was forgotten even by historians of the region. In the morning, while digging a small hole to bury the remains of his meager breakfast, he found a Roman coin on which the profile of Caesar could still be seen. Lawrence pocketed the coin, telling himself that it was a lucky find, and he needed any luck he could take with him on this last leg of his journey.

He walked all day, cold and weary to the bone, his mind unable to let go of the image of last night’s moon, which was nearly full and heavy with threat. Twice he saw mounted men riding in pairs across the fields and rightly guessed them to be police. Aberline was no fool, so it was reasonable that he would have men watching the roads leading to the Hall. Lawrence was glad of the warning and doubled his caution as he picked paths whose dirt and grass showed little or no signs of recent use. And as he walked these paths he stayed to the edges or just inside the edge of the forest so that he left no marks of his own. Like the wolf who howled within his blood, Lawrence had grown cautious. There was a wisdom that becomes apparent to those being hunted, and Lawrence let his mind work through the logic of cause and effect so that he made it all the way to Talbot Hall without once being sighted.

The forest path was the safest for the last part of the journey, and he walked along the pool at the base of the cliff that separated the old growth forest from the marshy downlands. He passed the circle of standing stones and stood for a long time glaring at the heel stone. Tonight the full moon would spill her light across the stone and the hour of the wolf would be here. Moonrise was only a few hours after sunset.

Lawrence had made a decision that if he could not
find and stop his father by moonrise, then he would throw himself off of the cliff wall into the jagged rocks of the shallow pool, or if not there then from the top of the house. He was not optimistic enough to believe that the fall would kill him, but if he did it while he was still human then maybe the injury plus the St. Columbanus medal would interfere with the transformation. Perhaps he might make it through the rest of the night unable to do harm.

The other option was Singh and his silver bullets. If the Sikh would not take a hand in the fight, then Lawrence would do it himself. A silver bullet in the thigh would surely disable him, possibly even prevent the transformation . . . and it would still give him his arms with which to shoot should his father finally come around.

On the other hand, if he found his father, then everything would need to be handled once and for all time. Lawrence no longer cared if he lived. Not unless a cure was guaranteed, and he was less optimistic about that than Gwen had been.

Gwen . . . Her name brought the memory of sweetness and hot kisses to his mind and he touched the medal beneath his shirt.

“God . . . whatever happens,” he prayed as he walked, “please spare her more pain. Please God . . . spare her.”

The cold wind blew past him and brought no answers and no promises.

G
WEN RODE THE
train to the stop before Blackmoor and then grabbed her bag and departed quickly, checking always to see if she was being followed. If there were any of Aberline’s men on her trail then they were
too subtle and sly for her to spot. Even so, she took every precaution she could manage.

She spent several hours asking questions, occasionally having to pay for reliable answers. In the early afternoon she hired a horse from a stable and headed quickly out into the country, following a series of directions scrawled on a slip of paper by a milkman who had sworn he had spotted the person for whom Gwen was searching. Just before two o’clock, Gwen spotted a wagon further along the road. A Gypsy vardo. Gwen kicked her horse into a trot and soon caught up with the wagon.

The driver was a fierce man with a scarred face and two daggers in his belt. He eyed Gwen suspiciously and leaned out to look up and down the road to see if this was part of some trap. A second man sat next to him, a rifle across his thighs.

“What do you want?” the first Gypsy demanded.

“I’m looking for a woman named Maleva,” said Gwen. “Would you know her?”

The two men exchanged a look.

When they answered her it was in a long string of Romany. None of it sounded like directions where to find Maleva. Much of it sounded like threats.

Gwen almost snarled at them in frustration and kicked her horse again. When she looked back, the Gypsies were standing on the wagon, watching her.

L
AWRENCE HUDDLED IN
the lee of a disused barn, tearing at a cooked chicken he’d stolen from a farmhouse. It was meager, but he was so famished that he was grateful even for this.