Midnight in Berlin (3 page)

The werewolf part, I mean. I wasn’t buying the happy family thing any time this millennium.

The clothes she’d brought didn’t fit any too well, but hell, in baggy grey sweatpants and a faded, fraying T-shirt I wasn’t going to be getting on any fashion pages anyhow. At least they smelled clean. There weren’t any shoes. Maybe they were keeping those so if I ran away, they could set the dogs on me. Or the wolves. As I reached for the door handle, my heart was pounding so hard I got another flashback to the previous night. Fuck. I should have stayed in that damn tent and found my own Goth slut instead of going off with a werewolf with cheekbones to die for. No use crying over spilled blood, though. I yanked the door open and stepped outside to meet my new family.

The house didn’t look any better inside than it had from outside. There were more cracks than there were walls, and under the damp, there was the sweet smell of rotting window frames. As I reached the top of the stairs, though, there was a new scent that drove everything else from my mind.

Bacon.

Suddenly I was starving. Literally. I mean, I’d never been this hungry in my life. Not even that time I was living rough in Paris where the locals would sooner spit on you than throw you a euro to buy a fucking croissant. I stopped noticing my surroundings as I hurled myself down the stairs to reach the source of that heavenly smell. I think I passed some people on the way, but male? Female? Human, even? I couldn’t have told you to save my life. The next thing I knew, I was in the kitchen. Someone was whimpering at the edge of my hearing as I shoveled food straight from the frying pan into my mouth. There was grease running down my fingers and dripping off my chin, and I felt like I was going to explode from the sheer pleasure of it all.

It was only when the pan was empty that the id backed off a little and let the higher functions get a look in. That was when I noticed my hands.

My claws.

I hurled the pan away from me. There was a choked-off shriek, and for the first time I noticed clothes-girl cowering in a corner. She was looking at me like she was scared the bacon was only an appetizer. Like I was a fucking monster.

I felt…something. Like my muscles were contracting, except that these were no muscles I’d ever had before. My hands felt clumsy, and I realized my fingers had shortened and my thumbs didn’t seem to work properly anymore. They were turning into paws.
Paws
. I felt numb, disconnected.

There was another choking sob, but this time I think it was me. I lifted my—paws—to my face. But it wasn’t my face. There was coarse hair under the pads of what had once been my hands, and the nose was the wrong shape… I couldn’t process it. Clothes-girl was still huddled in her corner, and suddenly I was furious at her, wanted to kill her, because dammit, we were both terrified of the same thing—
me
—but the difference was, she got to run away.

There was a strange, low rumble coming from my throat. I hardly realized I’d started walking toward the girl until I felt iron hands gripping my shoulders. My first thought was
Christoph
. I whirled, breaking his grasp, but it wasn’t him, so I didn’t rip his head off for doing this to me. It was Schreiber.

He looked pleased. “Excellent. The instincts are strong in you,” he said like he was Obi-Wan-Fucking-Kenobi. If he’d started spouting any more crap like that, I swear I’d have bitten his fucking hand off.

Maybe Schreiber could read minds. He dropped me and turned to the girl. “Silke! You will clear this up!” he barked. I realized there was grease spattered all over the kitchen floor from where I’d thrown the pan. I took a
step forward, meaning to apologize or offer to help or something, because jeez, no one should be treated like that—but she cowered away from me, like she figured now that the bacon was all gone it was her on the menu. I stopped dead. Everything seemed brighter, somehow—more colorful than it had a moment ago.

“Come,” Schreiber said from behind me. “You must meet the others.”

“Uh…like this?” I was relieved to hear it sounded like me. Then I noticed my hands were almost back to normal, and when I touched my face, it felt human, pretty much.

Schreiber smiled. Strangely, the cockles of my heart were not warmed by this. “It is always like this, in the beginning. The changes come without your will. You will soon learn to master them.”

“How soon?” I asked, because seriously, even if these guys weren’t keeping me prisoner—and the jury was still out on that—there was no way on earth I was going anywhere people might see me turn into a freak. I needed to be in control. Control… That sparked another flashback. “Christoph. He told me I was out of control. Did he think I was a…a werewolf
already
?”

Schreiber sneered. “A child’s mistake. He will not make it again. Come. The others are waiting.”

He sounded…kinda final when he talked about Christoph. My stomach lurched, and the hairs on the back of my neck started to prickle. Okay, so I’d wanted Christoph to suffer for what he did to me—but getting him dead? I hadn’t wanted that. No way. I was starting to wonder if I really wanted to go anywhere with this guy. Schreiber sounded like he was getting impatient, though. It was just a hunch, but I got the feeling that when Schreiber got impatient, bad things started to happen. So I pulled myself together, told myself it’d just been a figure of speech and followed him into the living room.

There were what, a half dozen of them? No. Stop. This could be important. I counted up. There were seven of them, including Schreiber. All guys. “What, no girl werewolves?” I asked.

“We have only Silke,” Schreiber told me. There was an undercurrent in his voice that said,
Back off, she’s mine
.
Jeez, poor kid. I mean, she was young enough to be his daughter, easy. And from what I’d seen so far, I was betting romance didn’t figure too high in their relationship.

He went round the room, telling me their names. There was a Tobias, a Sven, an Ulf and, uh, three others. I’ve never been much good at remembering names. I figured they’d forgive me, given the level of post-traumatic stress I had to be suffering from after all the crap that’d happened to me lately. Tobias and Sven I remembered because they looked like mean sons of bitches, and Ulf because hell, who’s going to forget Ulf the wolf? He was cute, I guess, if you’re into jailbait. Thanks, but excuse me while I barf my guts up. He had a mop of reddish-brown hair above an earnest, freckled face, and was wearing a T-shirt and jeans that were hanging halfway off his skinny ass. His denim jacket was weighed down with a mass of little buttons. When I looked closer, I could see they were mostly right-on political statements, preaching recycling and other worthy endeavors. There was even one with a crossed-out swastika and
Never again
written on it in German.

“Is this all of you?” I asked. Schreiber nodded. “Where’s Christoph?” It just slipped out.

“I told you; he has been punished.” He was sounding impatient again, so I let it slide, hoping like hell I was wrong about what that punishment had been. “Now—to practical matters. What are you doing in Berlin? You have family? A job?”

“Uh, me?” I hate it when I don’t know what might turn out to be the wrong answer. “I’m just, you know, passing through. Soaking up the culture. I got a job in a bar in Charlottenburg.” We’re talking black economy here, cash in hand, no tax deducted and no questions asked. And if I wasn’t there for my shift that night, no job. Damn.

“And your family?”

“Back in the States. Hey, do I get to ask questions too? Like, what’s the deal, here?”

“Of course,” he said like it was being pulled out of him along with his fingernails. “We are a small pack—we keep together for protection.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “Protection? From what?”

“From the beasts.” I guess he saw my look of incomprehension. “They think they are superior to us, because when they transform, they become fully wolf. As if to be an animal is an accomplishment.” He spat that last word like he wished he was spitting on these guys’ graves.

Actually they sounded pretty cool to me. “You’re saying there are guys who turn into real live wolves?” That had to be way better than becoming some kind of half-assed freakazoid. “So how come we only go halfway?”

There was a low rumble. I realized Sven had stood and was goddamn
growling
at me. Shit. “Hey, not like I’m saying that’s bad, just—how’s it work, you know?”

“The others have embraced their bestial nature and lost their humanity,” Sven proclaimed, his eyes shining with the light of religious insanity. “We are the true werewolves of Germany, not they!”

I realized I’d taken a step back. “No argument from me on that score,” I said, trying not to back off any farther. Changing the subject was looking like a good bet. “So, you guys all live here?”

Schreiber nodded. “You will stay here also.”

I wasn’t any too keen on the way he put that. “Uh, listen, that’s really nice of you, but I got a room that’s paid up to the end of the week and a job to go back to.”

“You may return to collect your belongings. Sven and Tobias will go with you.”

Gee, thanks. My two favorite psychos. I wondered if they’d get to put me on a fucking leash. Something told me they’d enjoy that. “And my job?”

There was a sort of barking sound, which I figured out after a moment was Schreiber laughing. “You think you are fit to go among humans? Have you forgotten already how the transformation took you? Until you can control yourself, you will remain under the supervision of one of us.” He turned away then, like that was the end of the introductory pep talk. Werewolf 101, all done and dusted.

Damn, I needed a drink.

Chapter Three

I didn’t get a drink. The whole house was as dry as a Mormon wedding. Schreiber told me alcohol dulls the senses, makes it harder to keep control. I felt like telling Schreiber he could shove his control up his pasty, Ossie ass.

I didn’t get to do that, either, as fortunately—or unfortunately—my better judgment kicked in before I could do anything that’d likely get me carved up and eaten by the rest of the pack.

What I did get to do was to go to Charlottenburg to pack up my shit. Me and the two mean sons of bitches. We took the Porsche. Seemed it wasn’t Christoph’s; it was some kind of communal ride. It’d explain why he didn’t give a shit about the upholstery that night over a century ago. Hey, maybe if I asked real nice, they’d let me have a turn driving it.

Then again, maybe not.

At least the drive back into town gave me a chance to look around the neighborhood in daylight. Turned out there wasn’t one—if your definition of neighborhood includes actual neighbors. I’d been wasting my time trying to run for help last night. I knew some areas around the Wannsee were densely populated, but this wasn’t one of them. Maybe there were other old houses like Schreiber’s, hidden in the forest, but I didn’t see so much as a driveway.

Made me wonder just what the hell else might be hidden among the trees around here. Right now I was willing to believe anything, up to and including talking pigs and bears making porridge.

We wound through the forest tracks without passing another living soul. Within minutes, we were on the A115, speeding up toward Charlottenburg as straight and fast as an arrow to the heart. I directed Sven through the familiar streets—apparently werewolves thought GPS was for sissies—and the closer we got to the hostel, the more unreal this whole situation seemed.

Maybe…maybe it hadn’t really happened. Maybe Christoph or one of these assholes had slipped me some hallucinogen and just planted suggestions in my mind. I swallowed, clutching feverishly at that shred of hope I wasn’t totally fucked. If that was the case, all I’d have to do would be to get away from Sven and Tobias. That had to be easier in the city than in a remote house in the forest, right? I could bide my time—and then run like hell.

My heart was pounding so damn hard I was scared they’d hear it. I sat back in my seat and tried to force myself to calm down. Patience. That was what I needed right now. “Next left,” I told Sven, hoping he hadn’t noticed how croaky my voice had gotten.

”Your room is here?” Sven asked as we pulled up outside the hostel on Bahnhofstrasse, with its peeling paint and boarded-up windows. “How did you ever afford the rent?” He’s a funny guy.

Both of them came with me to get my stuff. As we walked in the door, the stink of humanity—washed, unwashed, male, female—hit my nose like a juggernaut loaded with freshly slaughtered meat. I swallowed a despairing groan as my skin started to prickle. It was real. It was all real. If there was one thing I was sure of right now, it was that my reaction wasn’t normal. Not for a human, anyhow. Shit, was I getting hairy? I wanted to ask the guys if I still looked human, but my mouth was dry and my tongue was too thick to form the words. Had the place always smelled like this? Like some great nest of people—like a herd of fucking cattle, all with a neat little brand on their asses saying
Eat me.
Suddenly my mouth wasn’t dry anymore. It wasn’t an improvement. My teeth were lengthening, and the ends of my fingers tingled from the claws that wanted out.

“
Leon!
” Tobias barked in my ear. “Hold on to yourself!” They were holding me up between them, and I was glad of it. I couldn’t seem to think human and walk at the same time.

“Hey, Leon!” The voice cut through the grey mist in front of my eyes. Nasal. Loud. American.

Objects snapped back into focus. Colors I hadn’t even noticed as they disappeared washed back across my field of vision; even the sour green walls of the hostel seeming garish. My mouth felt something like it usually did once more. “Hey, Jon,” I managed. “Y’okay?”

“Shit, man, better than you! Dude, you look like hell. And what’s with the entourage?”

Jon must have been, what, twenty-four, twenty-five? I wondered how the hell he’d managed to survive a quarter century with a mouth like that on him and no brain behind it. He was one of your corn-fed, blue-eyed all-American boys, all blond hair and muscles, screwing his way around Europe before going back to work for his daddy and marry his high-school sweetheart. I’d never gotten around to asking him why he’d come to Berlin in particular, but I figured the beer probably had a lot to do with it. “They’re friends, okay?” I managed not to choke on the word
friends
. “I’m gonna be staying with them awhile.”