Blood Moon (2 page)

A smoking crater dominated the centre of the clearing, its epicentre almost exactly at the point where Markus had stood seconds before. There was no sign of his alpha, but pieces of torn flesh and blood covered everything within twenty feet. The other members of the pack stood in mute silence, unable to believe what had just happened. Several of them were wounded. Dmitri, who had brought Michael from England nine years before, was missing most of his right leg, while Kasha, his wife, struggled to push her intestines back into her rapidly healing stomach cavity. Even Lukas and Krysztof seemed unable to process what had just happened. Their faces were blank, bloodstained masks of shock, and they stood by the side of the crater, gazing at the smouldering ruins of their alpha.

Michael’s ruptured ear-drums popped back into place, and he felt a warm rush of fluid stream down each cheek. Noise flooded back, as if he’d emerged from underwater. The cries of pain and fear from his pack mates filled the air. And something else. The rumble of another inbound artillery shell.

He pushed himself to his feet and ran towards the others. “Go! Get into the forest. Now!”

One of the log cabins exploded in a fireball, sending vicious shards of wooden shrapnel slicing through the flesh of the villagers. His eyes sought his sister, who cowered beneath the branches of the grand old oak tree along with Connie, Isaac, Megan and James. He ran to them and pushed them towards the trees on the northern side of the village. “We have to get out of here. Now. Head to the east, towards Grbavci, and I’ll meet you at the edge of the forest.”

Marie shook her head. “No, come with us. I won’t leave without you.”

He pushed her away. “I’ll be right behind you, but I’ve got to get the others moving. I won’t leave anyone behind.”

Marie looked like she was about to argue, but her shoulders started to sag and she nodded her head in agreement. She put her arm around Connie and led her and her friends towards the edge of the village, while Michael tried to help Dmitri and Kasha to their feet.

Kasha’s face was pale and streaked with sweat, but she’d managed to push her innards back inside, and her wound had already closed. Dmitri was another story. Tattered strips of flesh hung from his severed leg, and several wooden splinters the size of baseball bats protruded from his chest. Michael looked around and saw, to his relief, that the rest of the pack were stumbling after Marie. He called out to one of Markus’s closest advisors, who was close to the rear of the retreating group. “Steffan, I need some help here. I can’t carry him on my own.”

Steffan looked back, and without hesitation, ran to Michael’s side.

Dmitri was on the verge of unconsciousness, but managed to shake his head and growl at Michael. “Leave me. Get Kasha clear instead. I’ll just slow you down.”

Kasha struggled to her feet and yanked one of the splinters out of her husband’s chest, eliciting a scream from Dmitri. “Enough of that talk, Dmitri Kosovan, or I’ll twist the next one as I pull. Stop whining like a kicked puppy and get on your foot.”

Another cottage erupted in a fireball, and Michael felt a warm rush from his leg as wooden shrapnel shredded his flesh. He ignored the burning sensation and the metallic aroma of his own blood, and, with Steffan’s assistance, dragged Dmitri up from the ground.

They’d made it halfway across the clearing when, above the cries of pain from the wounded pack members and the crackle of flames from the burning buildings, came another sound. The rhythmic thud of an inbound chopper. Michael exchanged a worried look with Steffan, and they pushed themselves harder, but it was too late. Above the trees to the south rose the sleek, insect-like shape of a Soko Gazelle helicopter. Weapon pylons protruded from the aircraft’s side, and almost immediately, the Gazelle began to rain heavy machinegun fire and rockets down on the fleeing werewolves. The trees to the north erupted in a column of flame and smoke, scattering bodies like confetti across the clearing.

Michael felt his heart lurch. Marie had been heading for those trees. He screamed her name, just as the nose of the helicopter tilted towards him. Then the world turned red.

***

Michael’s eyes snapped open. He felt a moment’s disorientation at the bright fluorescent glare of the overhead light and the overpowering stench of disinfectant. Cold metal pressed against his bare skin, and when he tried to sit up, he found his arms, legs and chest restrained by thick nylon bands. He struggled to piece together his thoughts, his mind groggy with the remnants of a narcotic haze. It came back to him then. The battle at the cottage in Scotland, against pack mates he’d known for years. Fire. Blood. The military units falling upon him as he tried to heal the terrible burns he’d received. He was still in the military base they’d brought him to. This was bad.

A face peered at him. Bald, with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and a forest of nasal hair protruding from wide, flaring nostrils. Terrible halitosis. The face smiled. “Ah, good. You’re awake. I would have been rather disappointed if you weren’t conscious for the experiment.”

The man backed away, out of his field of vision. Michael attempted to turn his head, but found that another wide strap across his forehead prevented him from moving.

“What are you doing?” He asked, his voice thick with the lingering effects of the drugs.

The man ignored him and busied himself with some metallic implements that scraped and rattled on a tray somewhere to the right.

“Hmm, now, let’s see. The date is 20th December 2008 at approximately… erm… zero eight thirty hours. The subject is a male lycanthrope, Caucasian origin, possibly from Northern England based on his accent.”

The man’s face appeared once more. He held a vicious looking blade with serrated edges that glinted in the harsh glare of the overhead lights. “Today, we shall attempt to ascertain the limit of the subject’s regenerative capabilities and pain threshold.”

Chapter 1

20th December 2008. Underhill Military Base, Sublevel Three. 11:43

Steven’s eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright in the metal-framed bed. The movement tugged at his stitches, setting his chest and shoulder alight with a sudden flare of pain. He’d been dreaming. A nightmare, really. Hardly a surprise, given the events of the last few weeks. There’d been a little girl, crying, begging him for help. Something in the shadows, stalking them both. Something with glowing red eyes that cut through the darkness like laser beams. The details of the dream danced on the edge of his consciousness, insubstantial, ethereal and fleeting, fading into nothing until all that remained was a persistent feeling of unease.

He licked his lips, grimacing at the foul taste in his mouth. A glass of water sat in a wire holder attached to the bed. He reached over with his uninjured arm and drained the tepid liquid in a single gulp, relishing the moistening of his cracked lips and swollen tongue.

First job done. Now for the hard part.

Steven swung his legs off the edge of the bed with exaggerated care, so as to minimise the howls of protest from his injuries, and detached the saline drip from its holder.

So far so good.

He steeled himself for the inevitable surge of agony and staggered across to the toilet in the corner of the room. He honestly couldn’t remember feeling worse than he did right now. Even the chemotherapy he’d undergone in a vain attempt to fight his cancer hadn’t been as bad as this. The bullet wound on his shoulder throbbed, but was almost insignificant compared to the damage that Connie Hamilton had inflicted on him. She’d shattered his collarbone and done a damned good job of chewing through his rib-cage before she died. He knew he was lucky to be alive, even if he didn’t feel that way. Even the smallest movement felt like someone grinding shards of broken glass into his torso.

He reached the toilet and, steadying himself against the featureless concrete wall, released a stinking stream of dark yellow urine at the porcelain. At least his gracious hosts had allowed him that dignity. The pain he had to endure to make that small journey was terrible, but it was immeasurably better than being strapped to a table, pissing into a bag through a plastic tube forced up his dick. In fact, since his conversation with that slimy tosser of a politician, his captors had been quite accommodating. Downright pleasant even, if you ignored the fact that he spent his days locked in a soundproof room in the arse-end of some military base.

As if on cue, the lock on his door clicked, then swung open on reinforced hinges. A young woman with dark hair and vivid red lipstick appeared, flanked by two muscular men with machine guns. The woman, Rose, frowned at him.

“Mr Wilkinson, you know you’re not supposed to get out of bed on your own. Pull the cord if you need to go to the toilet and I’ll come and help you.”

Steven shook his head. He liked Rose. She was friendly, attractive and always smiled at him, even when she was telling him off. The last thing he wanted her to be doing was standing there watching while he took a piss. Even in a place like this, where his movements were monitored twenty four hours a day by CCTV, he preferred to at least retain the illusion of some privacy. He thought about saying that to her, but instead just returned her smile. “That’s okay, Rose. I’ll manage.”

Rose sighed. “Well, don’t come crying to me if you rip all your stitches out. You’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

“I know, but a bloke has to keep a little self respect. Besides, if I show all the goods off now, you might lose interest.”

Rose rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “Mr Wilkinson, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

“I could make a couple of suggestions, and please, call me Steven.” He winked at her, taking small satisfaction at the flush of colour in her cheeks. “Now, as much as I enjoy your company, I somehow doubt you came in here for the pleasure of mine. What is it today? More blood samples?”

Rose stood to one side and let one of the machine gun toting meatheads push an antique wheelchair into the room. “Not today. If you’re feeling up to it, there are some people who’d like to meet you.”

Steven sighed, then nodded his assent. “Lead the way, Rose. It’ll make a nice change to get out for a while.”

He allowed Rose to help him into the chair while one of the guards held it steady. The other guard watched him like a hawk, and Steven couldn’t help but notice that the safety catch of the man’s MP5 was disengaged. It felt strange to be in a sitting position after spending days lying flat on his back, and the sensation was far from pleasant. His abdominal muscles pushed against his ruined ribcage, and he ground his teeth together to prevent the cry of pain from escaping his lips. Rose must have noticed his discomfort and, after she’d attached his saline drip to a holder on the back of the wheelchair, administered a liberal dose of morphine into the line. The warm glow of the opiate filled him, diminishing the pain until it was barely noticeable. A glimmering ember that would, in a few hours time, flare back up into a raging bonfire.

They pushed him through a series of plain white concrete corridors, illuminated by harsh fluorescent bulbs whose light glared from the sterile walls. Doors lined both sides of the corridor, all of which were reinforced and had magnetic card and keypad access. Some of the rooms had been set up as cells, while others were being used as offices. As he passed the windows, he could see military personnel sitting behind shabby, cramped desks, working on antique computer equipment. It looked like the place had been outfitted with whatever old junk they had in storage, and Steven realised that probably wasn’t far from the truth. No doubt in a month or so, once orders were approved, the rooms would be filled with new desks and modern computer systems with flat screen monitors. For now, they were making do with whatever they could get their hands on.

They eventually arrived at a pair of double doors, which Rose opened. The guards wheeled Steven in and positioned him next to a conference table, then stepped back to the corners, weapons at the ready.

Steven recognised some of the people at the table. Phil Fletcher and Paul Patterson sat next to each other at the far end of the room. Steven was glad to see them both. He’d heard nothing about their fate since they’d been taken by the military. Both men’s heads had been shaved, and their scalps were red and blotchy from the acid burns they’d received while rescuing him. Phil nodded a greeting, while Paul barely registered his presence. The firearms officer’s jaw was clenched and he stared into the middle distance. Steven had to remind himself he’d only lost his family a short while before. He struggled to reconcile the fact that it was only a little over a week since he’d woken from his coma in a hospital bed. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Steven didn’t know any of the room’s other occupants, but he didn’t need to. They were clearly military. One of them, an older man with a moustache who stank of expensive aftershave, was obviously the commanding officer. The other five men and women held themselves with a casual alertness that only came from combat experience. Even in the safe environment of the conference room, their eyes were continually flitting around, checking for potential threats.