The Wolfman by Jonathan Maberry
Lawrence turned slowly, seeing that the damage was not confined to the window. The whole room was a shambles. Furniture was broken, the heavy carpets torn from the walls, pillows gutted so that their stuffing spilled like pale entrails onto the littered floor. He looked for the parallel marks of savage claws but saw none. This room was a study in rage, but it was the rage of men.
Lawrence took an involuntary backward step, but then the texture of the carpet beneath his shoes crackled strangely. He looked down to see that he was standing in a large puddle of some black, viscous fluid. He bent and touched it with his fingers.
Blood.
But it was dried, days old.
Lawrence looked up slowly, following the line of blood from the carpet to the baseboard and up the wall. Then all at once the weapon sagged in his hand and his mouth dropped open.
A dead man hung in the shadows of the wall behind him, his body impaled by a heavy silver-bladed knife that had been slammed through his chest. The man’s head lolled backward, mouth thrown wide into an eternal scream.
“Singh!”
The sight nearly took the heart out of Lawrence. The gun fell from his nerveless fingers, and he backed away in mute terror.
“Oh my God . . . ,” Lawrence whispered. Tears burned in his eyes.
Realization and understanding flooded into Lawrence. Singh had been the guardian of the family, the holy Sikh warrior of God who had dedicated himself to keeping the Talbots safe while at the same time protecting the world from the family’s curse. Singh might have forgiven Sir John for the death of Ben. It had been a kind of accident that had allowed the beast to roam free that night. But there was no way that Singh could have been a party to what had happened beyond that. He would have been outraged when Sir John allowed the beast within Lawrence to roam free and to kill. He would have confronted Sir John about it. The state of Singh’s room spoke to how that confrontation must have played out.
Singh had tried one last time to oppose evil in the name of his God and for his love of the family.
Somehow Sir John had taken away the Sikh’s holy kirpan and had used the heavy knife to kill this good and faithful man and then perversely mount him on the wall as if he was just another trophy.
In Lawrence’s heart, sickness gave way to grief, and grief crumbled in the face of rage. It was more than the beast that howled within his chest. Those things that made Lawrence Talbot the man he was screamed now with bestial wrath as terrible as that of the wolf.
And then the strengthening moonlight coaxed a gleam from something small that hung from the dead Sikh’s throat.
The key!
Lawrence steeled himself and took a step toward Singh’s body. He curled his fingers through the silver chain and with great delicacy slid it over Singh’s head and turban.
“I’m so sorry,” he said to his old friend.
The chest had been knocked on its side, but Lawrence righted it and bent over it, wasting several precious seconds trying with trembling fingers to fit the key into place. He dropped it twice and once had to fish for it after it bounced and rolled under a shattered dresser. Then he managed to slide the key in the right way and turn it. The lock clicked and Lawrence tore the drawer out.
There they were, standing in neat rows. At least fifty silver bullets for the four-gauge hunting rifle.
Lawrence sobbed with relief as he scooped out a handful of them and shoved them into his pocket. He took two more, broke open the gun and shoved the shells solidly into place. When he closed the rifle, he felt the very first shred of hope take root in the black soil of his heart. At very worst he could at least take his own life and save his own soul from further damnation.
Setting his mind for the grim work ahead, Lawrence headed for the door.
He tightened his grip on the gun and screwed up his own resolve.
“For you, Ben,” he said through gritted teeth. “For you, Singh. God help me . . . for all of us . . .”
Then a sound intruded into the shadows of the room. Soft, light, musical, as if the silvery moonlight itself had found a voice and was whispering to him.
Lawrence stood stock still, straining to hear.
It was music.
The quiet, haunting notes of a strange melody. Played on the strings of a piano.
Lawrence left the room and in the hallway he could hear it more clearly. Someone was at the grand piano in the Great Hall, playing a sad song to the ghosts of all the Talbots.
Sir John?
It had to be . . . but it was so strange, so bizarre a thing. And the music was so delicate, so skillfully played that it spoke of a degree of control totally at odds with the carnage Lawrence had found.
As he crept to the head of the stairs, he heard the music more clearly.
He knew that music. It was there in his earliest memories. A sweet song from some exotic land that his mother sometimes hummed to him as he lay with his head on her lap. And for a fractured, hopeful moment Lawrence held the irrational hope that it was Solana down there in the Great Hall, seated at the piano, playing sweet music to soothe the beast within her son’s chest . . . and within her husband’s.
Lawrence began descending the steps, holding on to that fantasy, willing it to be true. Even if it was her ghost, then perhaps this night could end differently. With understanding. Without more blood.
“Mother,” he murmured, “please . . .”
Even as he said it, he raised the gun and aimed it over the bannister.
The music continued. Unbroken, flowing like scented water through the landscape of that old house.
At the bottom of the stairs, Lawrence took a steadying breath, unsure now whether he walked through Talbot Hall or through drug-induced nightmares back at the asylum or through a dream. But when he entered the Great Hall and saw who it was that sat at the grand piano, he knew that he was not in dreams or his own home. He was in Hell.
Without looking up, Sir John murmured, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee.”
Lawrence stopped, hope dying in his heart.
Sir John said, “I am no more worthy to be called your son.”
Lawrence’s heart was hammering in his chest, and the world felt twisted and unreal.
Finally Sir John looked up. His white hair was unruly, his eyes dark and wild. “And lo and behold, here he stands, the Prodigal Son returned. . . . Shall I have my own robe brought to be placed upon your shoulders? Rings for your fingers and shoes for your feet?”
Lawrence raised the rifle. “I’d say you should pray now, you son of a bitch. But we both know it wouldn’t do any good.”
“I take it you have one of Singh’s silver bullets in my gun.”
“Yes,” Lawrence hissed in fierce triumph.
“It seems you have me at an advantage. But . . . it makes me happy, you know.”
Lawrence frowned. “What does?”
“Seeing you here like this. It truly is glorious, isn’t it?”
“No! It’s hell.”
“Hell?” Sir John said softly, amused. “The beast isn’t evil.”
“Damn you!” growled Lawrence. “It’s the essence of evil.”
“No. It’s just a beast. Beating it into submission is the mistake.”
Lawrence shook his head. He did not want to hear this. He had sworn to himself that he would not allow his father to weave his sorcery, but Sir John pressed on and Lawrence didn’t pull the trigger.
“Locking it up . . . that was a mistake. It enraged the beast.” He chuckled and played another few notes, but now they were random and disjointed. “Here’s my advice: let the dog have its day.”
Lawrence adjusted his grip on the rifle, steeling himself to take the shot.
Sir John nodded approval. “Still remember how to use that? Not that you need one anymore. Perhaps we should take a hunting trip together? A grand tour? The Continent . . . Africa. America. So many places . . . so much fresh meat.”
It was too much. Lawrence could feel the chang
“Father,” he said thickly, “God damn you to hell . . .”
Lawrence pulled both triggers.
And absolutely nothing happened.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Lawrence stared at his father down the length of the useless rifle. He pulled the triggers again . . . and again.
Nothing. Just the dull click of the firing pin on the brass casing.
“That’s it, boy! Excellent,” said Sir John, looking immensely pleased. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Lawrence backed away and hastily cracked open the rifle, flung the shells away, fished two replacements from his pocket and jammed them into place. He slammed the rifle shut and jammed the stock hard against his shoulder.
Sir John waited patiently throughout, his face beaming with approval.
Lawrence squeezed one trigger and then the other.
Nothing.
Lawrence retreated, backing all the way across the Great Hall, as Sir John, chuckling quietly to himself, rose to his feet and followed. Just inside the doorway Sir John stopped by the grand piano. There, laying atop the polished black wood, was the wolf-headed sword cane. Sir John picked it up and considered the weight, then nodded toward the hunting rifle Lawrence held. “I emptied the powder from those shells years ago. Singh never knew. I doubt he ever suspected. But . . . God, if I’m not pleased with your nerve.”
Sir John thumped the silver head of the cane into his palm. Lawrence began backing away and his father kept pace with him, whacking the cane against his palm in time to their steps.
“Finally you’re the man I always wanted you to be,” he said. “What do you say then, boy? Will you run with me?”
“ ‘Run with—’?”
“Or am I going to have to beat some sense into you?”
Lawrence reversed the rifle in his hands, holding it by the barrel.
“You can try,” he said with more steel in his voice than he felt in his arms. Then he lunged at Sir John, moving as fast as he could, swinging the heavy rifle in a deadly arc, aiming for the grizzled white hair, aiming to kill. The rifle stock whistled through the air.
But Sir John was not there.
He moved with incredible speed. Not just fast for an old man, but fast for any man. He moved so fast that for a moment it seemed to Lawrence as if the rifle stock passed through his body. The power of Lawrence’s swing spun him in a half-circle and he staggered sideways off balance. As Lawrence wheeled around he saw a flash of silver and then the head of the cane crunched against his jaw. Blood flew from his mouth and he twisted around and fell to one knee.
Sir John used the cane to hook the rifle stock and with a grunt of effort he tore it from Lawrence’s hands and sent it flying across the hall. It smashed into the Ming vase and exploded it into a thousand jagged fragments.
Lawrence crabbed backward and then scrambled to his feet. His jaw was a mass of pain but his rage was building now and he let loose with a fierce bellow and waded toward his father to swing a vicious hook punch. But Sir John stepped inside the punch, blocking the fist on his left elbow and chopping a short uppercut into Lawrence’s floating ribs. Lawrence gasped as if all of the air had been suddenly sucked out of the room and he stumbled backward.
Sir John stepped toward him but as he did so his face changed. His eyes flashed with yellow fire and his skin darkened as the wolf inside screamed to be let out. The old man growled sharply—not at Lawrence but at the force of his own transformation, and the wolf suddenly receded. His eyes turned cold blue again and Sir John maintained dominance over his own form. At least for the moment.
Outside the moon continued to rise.
Lawrence fought for breath, and as he was finally able to drag in a chestful he stepped back toward his father, wanting to grapple with him before they were both lost to the inevitable transformation. Sir John was no longer smiling. His face was set into a vicious snarl as he tossed aside the cane and moved to meet Lawrence in the center of the hall. He checked Lawrence’s punch and hammered him with a short left and then an overhand right that knocked Lawrence to his knees, but he didn’t stop there. Sir John rained down another overhand and another, splitting the skin over Lawrence’s eyebrows, bursting his lips against his teeth, pulping his right ear, breaking his nose. Lawrence had no chance at all. Not against a man who had studied bare-knuckle fighting in dives and thieves’ dens in seaports all over the world. Lawrence was outclassed as a fighter and overmastered as a predator.
Sir John grabbed Lawrence by the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet and then turned and flung him onto a small table and held him down with one hand while he continued his assault. Punch followed punch. Lawrence could feel the bones in his face crack and break.
Then Sir John stepped back and let Lawrence roll off the table onto the leaf-strewn floor. Lawrence landed hard and lay there gasping, watching with bulging eyes as Sir John walked slowly over to where the cane had fallen.
Sir John bent and picked it up by the shaft, and then turned chopping at the air with the head of the cane. As he walked toward Lawrence, Sir John’s dark smile blossomed once more. Cruel, impassioned, in love with his own violent skills. He raised the cane high overhead, his whole body trembling with power as he prepared for the killing stroke. Then with a cry of awful delight he brought the cane down with savage force.
And Lawrence caught it.
It was a reflex action powered by fear and desperation and it shocked both of them into a moment of stillness. Lawrence’s hand closed on the shaft just under the silver collar and the shock of the impact drove splinters of pain into his wrist. He immediately darted out with his other hand and grasped the wolf’s head. Lawrence turned his wrist and heard the click! as the hidden lock was released.
Sir John struggled to free the cane, not yet realizing his threat . . . and Lawrence twisted and whipped his arm away so that the handle parted from the shaft and the glittering length of the rapier swept through the air like silver fire.
Sir John staggered back a step, holding the wooden shaft of the cane, blinking in shock and surprise—he saw the blade and understood on some primal level that the weapon was not just polished steel, but steel coated with silver. Sir John knew that his death was in his son’s hands, and he paused.
And in that one second of hesitation Lawrence pivoted from the floor and drove the entire length of the silver rapier through Sir John’s upper chest. The thin blade tore through muscle and bone . . . but it missed his father’s black heart. Sir John clamped his hands around the carved hilt of the sword and held fast as Lawrence climbed to his feet. They strained against each other, locked in a contest of strength that drew on resources both human and unnatural.
Then Sir John chopped at Lawrence’s ankles with a vicious foot-sweep that sent his son crashing to the floor again so hard that his head struck with a meaty crunch. Lawrence lost his grip on the rapier and rolled away, dazed beyond thought or action.
Standing wide-legged, chest heaving, Sir John stared down at Lawrence for a long moment, teeth bared in pain and fury. With an inhuman scream he ripped the blade out of the wound. Blood sprayed Lawrence’s face and the floor.
Sir John looked at the sword for a moment and then threw it the length of the hall where it struck and rolled out of sight. He drew a deep breath, expanding his chest muscles against the damage as if daring the wound to bleed. The flow of blood slowed and stopped, though because of the silver coating on the blade the wound did not close and vanish. Even so, Sir John smiled in dark satisfaction.
Lawrence, his mind still numb, was trying to crawl along the floor. He made it as far as the entrance to the Great Hall, but Sir John stalked over, grabbed him by the collar and belt and lifted him off the ground and threw him all the way across the Hall. Lawrence hit the settee and tumbled over it to land in the coals of the dying fire. Sir John came to examine his handiwork,
Chest heaving—more from passion than effort, Sir John stood still for half a minute as he fought the animal beneath his skin. He wanted his human side to experience this. Then he bent and knotted his fingers in Lawrence’s hair and dragged him from the fireplace, hauled him across the room toward the great window that looked out onto the patio. Beyond the gleaming brass of the telescope the landscape fell away to offer an unrestricted view of the moon.
It was vast and white and now only a sliver of it remained below the horizon.
The Goddess of the Hunt ruled the sky . . . and the hour of the wolf had come.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
“Oh my God!”
The cry was torn from Gwen Conliffe as she reined her horse to a whinnying stop halfway along the road to Talbot Hall. She stared at the high walls and tall towers, but all she could see were the flames. Tongues of fire licked upward from every window, thick columns of smoke spiraled upward into the sky like the pillars of heaven.
ONCE MORE LAWRENCE opened his eyes to pain and destruction. His life seemed to be composed of nothing else. He rolled over and spat blood onto the tiled floor. The room was far too bright and as his senses returned to him he realized with horror that the house around him was on fire. He gasped and smoke filled his lungs, sending him into a paroxysm of coughing.
“She’s almost here,” said Sir John behind a pall of smoke, his voice loud and rough.
Lawrence raised his head and saw his father standing above him, his back to the window. Flames clawed at the timbers overhead and they cried out as the house died.
Sir John nodded past him, and Lawrence turned to see the fully risen moon hanging ripe and lush over the moors. “Can you feel her?”
“No . . .” said Lawrence weakly, putting the lie to what he knew to be true.
“You were the heir to my kingdom.”
“Why are you doing this?” Lawrence asked wretchedly as he climbed to his knees.