High Moor (36 page)

The impact hurled John backwards, and they both crashed through a pair of wood and glass doors into the main school building. Malcolm’s fangs darted forward and sank into the flesh of John’s chest. John howled in pain and swiped at his assailant with his right arm. Malcolm had expected the response, however, and darted back, out of range, before surging forward again. Claws tore at John’s arm, tearing fur, flesh, and muscle. Sharp teeth ripped chunks of meat from his body.

He was losing. Already disoriented as a result of his enhanced senses, the pain and blood loss only made things worse. He couldn’t think. An electric bolt of fear surged up his spine. He realised that he was going to die.

Then his beast spoke to him in a cascade of images and emotions. There were no words, but the meaning was clear.

GET OUT OF MY WAY.

John relinquished control, and the beast’s consciousness hit him. Thought, indecision, and doubt washed away in a wave of instinct and fury, submerging him in the bottomless red waters of his beast’s rage.

John dug his claws into the back of Malcolm’s neck and hurled the two-hundred-pound werewolf away as if it weighed nothing. Malcolm crashed through a glass display cabinet into the unyielding concrete wall behind.

He regained his feet in a flash, lowered his head, and snarled a challenge to the seven-foot-tall, dark-haired monster that filled the corridor. Then the two creatures sprang forward, meeting in a flurry of claws, teeth, and blood.

John’s jaws clamped around Malcolm’s right foreleg and crushed it to bloody pulp. Malcolm swiped with his left foreleg and tore four ragged, parallel wounds across John’s muzzle. John brought his left arm up in a savage counter-attack and raked the right side of Malcolm’s face, puncturing his eyeball with one of his claws. Malcolm’s fangs bit down on John’s leg and tore away a grapefruit-sized piece of muscle. The leg gave way, and John fell to the ground.

Malcolm thrust his jaws forward at impossible speed, towards John’s exposed throat. John’s claws flashed out and grabbed the underside of Malcolm’s jaw. Malcolm thrashed and snarled, but John held him steady. Claws sank through fur and flesh. John curled back his black lips into a bloodstained snarl and drove his head forward, jaws agape. His teeth fastened around Malcolm’s throat. Fangs crunched through cartilage. Hot, sweet blood filled his mouth. He closed his jaws and ripped his head back in a single movement. Blood sprayed from the open wound. Malcolm’s thrashing weakened, then stopped. Hair retreated into flesh. Bones cracked and reformed. Within seconds the werewolf had transformed back into the ruined corpse of Malcolm Harrison.

Darkness closed in on John. Blood flowed from his terrible wounds, and with that blood flowed the last of his strength. The beast whined and collapsed beside the dead body of its enemy. The last thing that it was aware of was the sounds of sirens in the distance.

14th November 2008. King’s Close School, High Moor. 18.57
.

The armed response unit was the first to arrive at the school. After the killings the previous day, the chief constable had ordered an ARV to be on constant patrol in the town so that any further reported incidents would have an immediate response. Despite this, the early evening traffic, combined with the road closures around the crime scenes, meant that it was over twenty-five minutes from the first report before the first responders arrived at the scene.

Constable Mark Briggs, the armed response vehicle’s operator, got out of the passenger door of the BMW and opened the boot. Sergeant Rick Grey, the team’s observer, got out of the back door, walked to the rear of the car, and unlocked the reinforced metal box within, then removed one of the MP5 carbines. Mark did the same.

Rick walked around to the driver’s door and tapped on the window. Constable Paul Patterson, the driver and the last member of their three-man team, lowered the electric window.

“OK, Paul, Mark, and I are going in to take a look. Keep us updated on the ETA of the ambulance and the Specialist Firearms Officers. We’ll stay in constant contact, so keep the channel open. Got it?”

Paul nodded. “OK, boss. Good hunting.”

Rick moved away without saying another word, and Mark fell into step behind until they reached the locked gates. Mark cut the chain with a set of bolt cutters he’d retrieved from the boot along with his firearm, then set it down on the floor and pushed the gate open.

The two police officers moved along the driveway toward the dark outline of the school. Rick touched his throat mike. “Fifty meters inside. No sign of life. Over.”

They made it to the side of the building without incident and flattened their backs against the concrete wall. Rick signalled for Mark to cover him, then moved to the corner and peered around.

“We have two, I repeat, two casualties in the courtyard at the northeast end of the building. One male, one female. Status unknown. Moving in.”

Rick moved out into the yard while Mark covered him. He made his way to the first body: a naked female with two gaping holes in her back. “First casualty, female, mid-thirties, naked.” He checked for a pulse and wasn't surprised when he didn’t find one. “Cause of death appears to be multiple gunshot wounds. Proceeding to next casualty. Mark, make sure no one gets the drop on me.”

He heard Mark’s whispered affirmative in his earpiece as he moved to the next victim: an old man with terrible injuries to his lower back. “Next casualty, male, late sixties.” He reached down and pressed two fingers against the man’s neck. “This one’s still alive, but he won’t be for much longer. What’s the ETA on the ambulance?”

Paul’s voice crackled in his ear. “Two, maybe three minutes.”

“Alright. Keep them away until we can secure the scene, then send them down with one of the SFO’s. Hopefully the poor old sod will make it till then.”

Rick signalled Mark, and the two men moved to the far side of the yard where the entrance to the school had once been. Rick moved into the building, conscious of the crunch of broken glass beneath his boots.

“Two more casualties inside the building. Two males, again, both naked.”

The earpiece crackled. “What do you think, Sarge? Some swingers’ party get out of hand?”

Rick ignored the younger officer and moved through the bloodstained hallway until he got to the bodies. Both men were covered in blood. Ragged wounds were apparent across their bodies. “First male, late thirties or early forties. Multiple wounds, but the cause of death appears to be a major trauma to the throat.”

He moved around the bodies and checked the other man. “Second male, early to mid-thirties. He…it…it looks like he tore the other bloke’s throat out with his teeth. He’s still got most of it in his mouth.”

The man groaned, and his eyes flickered open. Rick pushed the barrel of the MP5 into his face. “Sir, you are under arrest on suspicion of murder.”

***

14th November 2008. Nauchnnyy proyezd, Moscow. 22.57.

Michael sat by a desk in the dingy room and removed a silver knife from one of the drawers. He turned it over in his hand and let the glare from the table lamp reflect on the blade, then he pushed it against his left forearm and sliced through the flesh. Blood welled up in the wound and ran down his arm. Red raindrops spattered the green leather surface of the writing desk, then stopped as the wound healed. He grunted and pressed the silver into his arm, repeating the process over and over until there was a knock on the door. A small, grey-haired man entered the room without waiting for a response.

“Mikhail. We’ve had an update from England. I’m sorry, but it’s been confirmed. Marie is among the reported casualties, and John Simpson is in police custody.”

Michael pressed the silver into his arm again. “Did I ever tell you, Steffan, that John was turned because he tried to save me? For years, I felt responsible. When The Pack broke apart, I tried to find him and bring him into the fold. I even allowed my sister to execute her ridiculous plan because I thought it had a chance of working.”

“You had no way of knowing he was moonstruck, Mikhail. Marie was experienced, and she knew the risks. You cannot blame yourself, and you can’t let the others see you like this. I have no aspirations to be Alpha, but there are some that do not feel that way.”

Michael looked up at the other man. “You are right, my old friend. We have a situation to handle, and I have no time for grief or regrets. I will mourn my sister later.”

Steffan lowered his head. “What would you have me do?”

“Send two teams. Retrieve Marie before they can examine her body.”

“And the moonstruck?”

Michael’s lip curled into a snarl. “Bring me his fucking head.”

***

15th November 2008. University Hospital of Durham. 13.26

Marie floated in darkness. She had no idea how long she’d been like this. Time ceased to have meaning when there was no frame of reference.

Is this what death is? Nothing? Then why can I think? Why do I still hurt like a bastard?

The inky blackness of her world exploded into red light.

What the fuck?

She heard voices. Quiet, muffled, as if she were underwater, becoming clearer as the pressure in her ears equalised.

“So, we have a female. Mid-thirties. Hmm, the chart says the cause of death appeared to be multiple gunshot wounds, but I can’t see any evidence of that, just several contusions that seem to be from an animal attack,” said a deep, male voice.

A woman's voice replied. “It’ll be that idiot, Jenkins. He’s fucked the paperwork up again. I’m going to put my foot up his arse when we get done here.”

“Well, never mind that now. Let’s see if we can establish exactly how Miss Williams, if that is her name, really did die. Susan, can you pass me the scalpel.”

Marie felt the cold steel of the blade press against her stomach.

Oh fuck!

The people of High Moor are united in horror at the latest tragedy to befall their small town. As dawn breaks, the town is left to count the cost and mourn its dead, while breathing a collective sigh of relief.

John Simpson, the apparent perpetrator of the horrific murders, is in police custody. The nightmare is over.

Isn’t it?

Detective Inspector Phil Fletcher and his partner, Constable Olivia Garner, have started to uncover some unsettling evidence during their investigations of John Simpson’s past — evidence that supports his impossible claims: that he is a werewolf, and will transform on the next full moon to kill again.

However a new threat is now lurking in the shadows. A mysterious group have arrived in High Moor, determined to keep the existence of werewolves hidden.

And they will do anything to protect their secret. Anything at all…

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Acknowledgments

I owe a great deal of thanks to the following people. Without their help and guidance, this book would probably never have seen the light of day. My editors, Rick Taubold and Lisa Jenkins for all your advice and help. Stu Smith from Graviton Creations for putting up with my constant tinkering and producing a wonderful cover. My beta readers, Neil John Buchanan, John Arthur Miller, Tony Smith, Paula Ray and Jodi Macarthur for helping me work out the kinks in the plot. And thanks to everyone in my critique group on Zoetrope, especially Scott Gamboe, Karl Rademacher, Shari Wice, Sandra Ramos O'Briant, Shell Willby, Shane McKenzie, RLB Hartman and everyone else who helped me whip this story into shape.