Midnight in Berlin (20 page)

“Lies,” Christoph said thickly. He was still breathing hard, and he wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth with his good arm as he spoke. “They took the true werewolf strain—the full wolves—and tried to create a mutation that would be more useful in human combat situations. To forge a better soldier.”

I’m not sure Sven even heard him. He was staring at Schreiber the whole time, his sickly color gradually darkening. It was like a storm was brewing in his head. And us with no damn hatches to batten down. I could feel the ends of my fingers tingling as my claws tried to come back out to play. Just as well Sven wasn’t looking in my direction.

Schreiber didn’t say a word, his silence damning him as effectively as a full confession.

“You lied to us,” Sven choked out. “Let us believe that we were—but we are nothing. An abomination created by a madman.” His eyes were wide, staring at nothing. “You spread this…disease to me. To the others. You let me give it to Tobias.”

Schreiber rallied, even changing back to human, I guessed to make sure what he said would be understood, but it was too little, too late. “I did it for you. For all of you. I wanted you to feel pride in what you are—”

“We are monsters! We’re the bastard creations of some scientist playing God in a white coat! We are
nothing
!” He spun around as he shouted the last bit, and a ring of white faces stared back at him. “And you—you were in league with him,” he said as his wild gaze fell on Schreiber once more. “You betrayed us all.”

He launched himself at Schreiber, morphing into wolf form in midair and bearing him to the ground with a thud I could feel even ten feet away. It wasn’t a fight. It was a goddamn execution. Schreiber was older; he’d just gone ten rounds with Christoph—and Sven was his prize pupil. I don’t think Schreiber even got a blow in. I don’t think he tried. He sure as hell didn’t bother changing back to his wolf form again. He raised an arm to shield his face, but Sven batted it away like it was a gnat. The rest of us watched in horrified fascination as his muzzle lowered—and ripped a hole in Schreiber’s throat. Blood spurted out, and Sven lifted his head to howl in victory, his eyes blazing and his gore-covered teeth bared.

We all stood there stunned—then a streak of silver flowed past us all like a river in full flood and engulfed Sven completely.

It was a wolf. A true wolf—or werewolf—that seized Sven by the back of the neck and bit down savagely, through the bandage and through his flesh. Blood spattered on the ground as he gave an unearthly scream. The wolf bore him down to the ground, tearing at him with its teeth as if it wanted to rip his goddamn spine out through his throat.

Maybe it did. Maybe it knew what happened to guys like him if you left the job half done.

Chapter Nineteen

It seemed like forever we were all trapped there, unable to move. Unable to look away. Until the savagery stopped and the wolf backed off, breathing hard—and morphed into Silke’s naked form, crouched down on the dirt. She wiped her bloodied mouth with one bare arm and scrambled to where her father lay before cradling his limp body in her arms and setting up a barely human wail.

It was the trigger that set us all free. Tobias lunged toward her, and as I was still working out that he meant to kill her, Christoph tackled him to the ground. I guessed that arm wasn’t broken after all. I scrambled to help him pin the guy down, then looked around warily at the others. Who knew whose side they’d be on?

Seemed it was ours, for now, at least. “We’ll take him to the cage,” Michael offered. His face was pale but resolute. I figured our little revelation had to have hit him almost as hard as it’d hit Sven. He signaled to a couple of the others, the ones whose names I hadn’t bothered to learn around a lifetime ago. I wondered if it’d be worth making the effort now. “Björn, Patrick, help me with him.”

One of them had to knock Tobias out with a human-style punch to the jaw before he’d go quietly. It landed with the force of a pile driver and cracked his head back against the ground. Tobias hung limply in his captors’ arms as they dragged him off, his feet leaving tracks in the dirt. When I looked around again, I saw Christoph kneeling by Schreiber, who didn’t look too good. Silke still had her arms around her father and was crying hysterically, begging him not to die, to forgive her, to come back to her.

Hell, maybe he would. After all, Sven had survived what I’d done to him and healed up pretty good. The thought made me jumpy, so I looked around to where that bastard lay.

His head was practically severed from his body, and the stink told me his bowels had voided. I guessed he wouldn’t be coming back from this one. As I stared at him, wondering why I felt so numb, a slow, hesitant movement caught my eye. I looked up—straight at Jon. His face was pale, with a greenish tinge, and he had one hand pressed to his mouth. He flinched at my gaze, then swallowed, and carried on his way to put his jacket around Silke’s shoulders.

Well, if seeing her rip Sven to shreds hadn’t put him off her, maybe it was true love, at that.

Jon’s arrival didn’t faze Christoph—he just enlisted the guy to help carry Schreiber into the house. Maybe he’d thought I’d drop him, kind of accidentally on purpose.

He’d have been right. I didn’t get why we were suddenly so worried about the bastard. Hell, I didn’t even get why Silke was so upset about it all—hadn’t he treated her like shit? I followed them all into the house anyhow where they laid Schreiber down on the sofa. He was struggling to talk, but blood kept bubbling up in his mouth. I guess I should have been grossed out, but somehow I was past all that.

“Lie still,” Christoph told him. “Silke, you know what to do.”

I didn’t think she’d even hear him, the state she was in, but somehow the words got through. She straightened up, still dressed only in Jon’s jacket. At least on her it hung to mid-thigh. Silke pushed up the too-long sleeves and padded off to the kitchen in her bare feet, coming back with what looked like a large toolbox. Just as I was about to say,
what the fuck?
she opened it up to reveal a well-stocked medical kit.

There was even a saline pack. She set up the drip, taping the pack to the back of the sofa with hands that shook only a little.

I had to look away when she started cleaning up her father’s wounds—maybe the shock was wearing off, seeing as how the nausea was returning. It wasn’t just the blood and torn flesh, either. Part of me just felt sick this bastard was not only still alive, but that she was trying to keep him that way.

I spun around when I heard a noise, but it was only Michael coming back with his little helpers—and Ulf. Shit, had I really managed to forget about Ulf? I rushed up to the kid, guilt giving me wings. If it hadn’t been for the guys holding him up, I’d probably have done something really embarrassing like hug him. “Are you okay?” I asked, which, seeing as he was being supported by the support staff, might have counted as a dumb question. I guessed they’d had to let him out of the cage before they could leave Tobias in it.

Ulf tried to smile. “You came back.”

“Yeah.” I coughed. “Yeah, I came back.” I looked him up and down. His face looked okay, but he was fully clothed, so there might have been damage I couldn’t see. “Did that asshole hurt you?” I demanded.

“He just made me go in the cage.” Ulf sounded weak, his voice scratchy.

“Did they feed you at all? Give you water?”

“Thirsty,” he said as the guys dumped him in an armchair.

“Get him a drink,” I told the taller one. “Patrick, right?”

He glared at me. “Björn.”

It’d been a fifty-fifty chance. That was my luck all over. “Right. Sorry. Would you get Ulf a drink? And something to eat?”

He looked first to Michael, which pissed me the hell off, but at Michael’s nod, Björn went off to do what I’d asked.

I crouched by Ulf. “Listen, kid, about what happened—”

“It’s okay,” he croaked. He reached out to put a hand on my arm. Way to amp up the guilt levels.

“I’m sorry, okay?” I said awkwardly. “I know I left you in the shit here.”

“You were right to rescue Christoph. And it was my choice to stay.”

I faked a smile and straightened, then turned back to Christoph before Ulf could make me feel any worse. He was staring at Schreiber, his face blank but a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Do you think he’ll live?” I asked in a low voice.

Christoph’s expression turned troubled. “I don’t know. Without proper medical help—”

“Which he’s not going to get because it’s too damn risky,” I finished for him. “Shit. If he dies, I guess that’s two people I killed today.” I tried to keep my tone light, but inside, I felt hollow.

“None of this is your fault!” Christoph said sharply, taking me by surprise.

“Oh, no? You were there, weren’t you? If I hadn’t spilled the beans about Dr. L—”

“Then I would have died.” He said it flatly. No emotion. For the first time, it struck me that maybe, when I’d talked about him having a death wish, I’d been closer than I thought. I felt sick.

I grabbed him by both arms. “And I’d do it again, okay? You’re worth ten guys like Sven and Schreiber. Just ignore what I said, okay?”

He grimaced as if in pain—and I realized I was gripping his injured arm. Jeez, I was an idiot. I let go like he was electrified, my hand coming away bloody. “Shit! Sorry. Come on, we need to take a look at that arm.”

“It’s all right,” he said, but he let me lead him to the kitchen table and sit him down. I peeled the ragged remains of his shirt off carefully, leaving him in his undershirt and the grungy jogging bottoms he’d been wearing for a century or so. His upper arm was a mess. Schreiber’s teeth had punctured Christoph’s flesh—hell, I could have reconstructed his dental records from the marks, if he’d ever been crazy enough to see a dentist while transformed—and torn through it in places. A flap of skin hung loose halfway down from his shoulder. “We could get you to a doctor, get you stitched up,” I suggested. “Just say you’ve been bitten by a dog or something.”

Christoph shook his head. “No. We heal too quickly—and a doctor would want to give antibiotics, a tetanus shot, perhaps a rabies shot… It’s not worth the risk. Infections don’t tend to be a problem with us.” He gave a short laugh. “And it’s not like I don’t already have scars. But it would be good to get it cleaned and dressed. Can you do that?”

I’d never gotten around to taking a first-aid course, but what the hell. “Just tell me what to do.”

I went and grabbed some bandages and antiseptic from Silke’s tool box, then headed back to the kitchen. It turned out Christoph hadn’t taken that first-aid course either, but between us we got his arm cleaned up. It was weird, and intimate, and confusing as hell touching his bare skin for the first time since we’d made love. My body kept thinking we were up for another round, and my brain had to remind it this was strictly business. “You know, I thought out there Schreiber had broken this arm for you,” I muttered gruffly as I dabbed away at the dried blood, trying not to let him see how much it had scared the shit out of me at the time.

Christoph’s face was tense with the pain from having his arm inexpertly messed around with—I guessed he wasn’t having any problems with unintentional arousal—but he managed a smile. “I was hoping Schreiber would think that too.”

“Sly bastard!” I grinned back at him. “I’m, uh, glad you’re not dead,” I managed, my voice suddenly gone hoarse. “And I don’t mean just because it’d have been bad news for me if you’d lost, okay?”

His smile flickered. “Thank you,” was all he said, but he stared at me intently, and my heart started to beat a little faster. The sense of connection, of intimacy, grew. It didn’t help, though, that the scent of his blood was playing all kinds of hell with my instincts and reminding me it’d been a long time since McDonalds. I licked my lips unconsciously—and froze as I realized what I’d done.

“You know, Schreiber always claimed our saliva has healing properties,” Christoph said softly. “So if you want to lick my wounds, go ahead.”

It scared how damn much I wanted to do it. “Will it work in human form?”

“Only one way to find out.” His gaze held mine for a long moment, and then I bent my head and licked carefully at the worst of the tears in his flesh. Christoph went still and then shuddered.

It didn’t seem like he was in pain, so I did it again, slower this time. The salt-copper taste of him washed across my tongue, setting off fireworks in my brain. It was… Put it this way—it didn’t feel like it was his
arm
I was licking. My dick was so damn hard, it hurt.

“Leon,” Christoph gasped.

I looked up, but he didn’t say anything more, just gazed at me, his eyes like midnight and the scent of his arousal mingling with my own. But it was more than just lust, I was almost certain. It was that connection I’d been so desperate to regain. Hope welled up within me. For a moment, I thought we were going to kiss. I wondered how it’d feel, how his mouth would taste—then Björn walked in with Ulf’s empty cup and plate and started clattering around in the cupboards. Damn it. I sighed, my heart still pounding and my lips still tingling with thwarted anticipation. Carefully, I bandaged Christoph’s arm. Then I gathered up the rest of the medical supplies. “I guess I’ll put these away,” I said in resignation, pushing back my chair, and headed back to the living room.

Silke was still kneeling by her father’s side, but at some point, she’d gotten back into her clothes. “How is he?” I asked, trying not to make it too damn obvious what I hoped the answer would be.

“The same,” she whispered.

He looked worse to me, but I figured she wouldn’t thank me for mentioning it. “I guess we just have to wait,” I said, because that’s what you do in situations like this, right? You spout meaningless platitudes in the hopes people will think you actually care.

“He keeps trying to speak.”

Now that I found more interesting. “About what?”

She shook her head.

“Hey, have you tried him with a pen and paper?” It was his throat that’d taken the worst damage, not his hands.

Silke glanced up at me, timid and pleading. She looked like her old self—more like a frightened baby bunny than a vicious, man-killing wolf. “Would you…”