William Hill - Department 19

The operator was lying on his back, blood gushing from the hole that had been torn in his neck. His face was pale, and his eyes were closed, but Jamie could see the black material of his uniform rising and falling.

He’s still alive. You have to help him.

But he couldn’t make his petrified limbs move.

Standing over Stevenson was a huge gray wolf, as large as a small car. Its coat was thick and tangled, its snout soaked with the operator’s blood, its eyes gleaming. A terrible smell was emanating from it; a thick fog of spoiled meat and sickness. It looked down the slope at him, and Jamie felt his insides turn to water. Then it threw back its head and howled, an awful, deafening noise that sounded like damnation. It lowered its mouth toward Stevenson again, the moonlight gleaming off its enormous teeth.

The crack of gunfire rang across the plain, and the wolf twitched, red blooms of blood appearing along its flank, then howled again. Jamie looked round and saw Morris and McBride making their way up the slope, fire spitting from the barrels of their MP5s.

Where’s Larissa?

He looked around wildly and saw her near the bottom of the slope. She was crouching next to Kate, holding the girl’s face in her hands, and a surge of affection so hot it was almost something else shot through him. He drew his MP5, then ran back up the slope and fell into step next to McBride, who acknowledged him with the briefest of looks. The three Blacklight men pressed forward, their submachine guns screaming in the night air.

The wolf leapt down from Stevenson’s unconscious body and roared at them, a sound so gigantic it physically drove Jamie back a step. His ears rang as he stepped forward again, his finger clamped tightly on the trigger of the MP5. Bullets slammed into the wolf, tearing clumps of fur from its coat, spraying dark blood across the grass. Jamie saw a round take one of its eyes out, leaving a neat black hole where the pale yellow ball had been. But the huge animal seemed to barely notice.

“Take it down!” bellowed Morris. “Take out its legs!”

Jamie’s MP5 clicked empty. He hauled a new clip from his belt, slammed it into place, and pulled the trigger again. The three operators concentrated their fire on its left foreleg, and the limb splattered apart, wet chunks of flesh raining to the ground. The wolf howled in pain, and leapt forward, propelling itself across the grass on its three remaining legs, closing the distance in long, shambling strides. They fired at its right foreleg, bullets flying wide as the creature swayed toward them.

Ten feet away, the wolf dipped, the muscles in its powerful back legs tensing, ready to leap. Then with a sickening tearing noise, the right foreleg came apart under the weight of the gunfire, and the leap was a howling, aborted thing. The wolf flopped into the air, screeching in pain, and crashed to the ground before them. They jumped back, out of the reach of the jaws that were snapping blindly at the air, the teeth clamping together over and over with a sound like breaking pottery. The wolf pushed itself forward, its back legs digging into the ground, and they emptied their guns into its exposed underside. Explosions of blood burst from the white fur, and the animal bellowed. Then it lay still, its ruined chest rising and falling, great jets of warm air blasting out of its nose and mouth.

“Jesus,” said McBride, breathing hard, staring down at the fallen animal.

Jamie stepped forward slowly and looked at it. The wolf was lying on its side, its shattered forelegs hanging uselessly, its snout soaked red with blood. Its one remaining eye revolved, looking at nothing.

“Check on Stevenson,” said Morris, and McBride ran up the slope to the fallen operator. Jamie walked over next to Morris and gestured down at the animal.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s a werewolf,” replied Morris, his eyes never leaving the stricken creature. “An old one. A hundred years, at least.”

Jamie stared at him. “A werewolf?” he asked.

Morris nodded, without looking at him. He was watching the creature’s flickering chest, the white fur moving in waves as the flesh beneath it rose and fell.

“Frankenstein told me they were real,” said Jamie in a low voice. “I didn’t believe him. Not really.”

Morris pulled the Glock pistol from his belt, then darted toward the wounded animal. He placed the muzzle of the pistol beside its one remaining eye and pulled the trigger. There was a dull thud, and the wolf lay still.

Then as Jamie watched, it began to change.

The fur began to thin and seemed to withdraw into the creature’s flesh. There was a horrible series of cracking noises, and angular shapes emerged beneath the thick gray skin. The snout shortened, drawing back and flattening, the nostrils narrowing, the teeth pulling up into the gums. The lower legs straightened in a series of crunches, and the color of the animal began to shift from gray to pale pink. Jamie’s mouth hung open; less than a minute after the transformation had begun, the wolf was gone. Lying on the grass where it had been was a naked man, his body twisted and broken. His arms were in tatters, his eyes were missing, and his torso was covered in holes, from which blood began to ooze.

“Believe him now?” asked Morris, placing his pistol in its holster.

Jamie nodded, slowly.

“There aren’t many of them,” said Morris. “Most of them live in isolation in the forests, but a few act as hired muscle. Alexandru must be serious.”

Larissa and Kate appeared at Jamie’s shoulder, and he jumped. They looked down at the broken body, identical expressions of disgust on their faces. Then McBride shouted that Stevenson was still alive, and they ran over to where he was lying.

The operator was convulsing on the ground when Jamie reached him. McBride was holding the sides of his head, trying to steady him; his arms and legs beat the grass, his body jerked and twisted despite McBride’s strong grip.

“What’s wrong with him?” cried Kate.

“The change is coming,” replied Morris, his face ashen.

A terrible crunching noise emerged from Stevenson’s body, and Jamie saw his forearms break. They folded on themselves, until they were almost at right angles. The operator opened his mouth and screamed, a high, terrible wail of agony. Then the noise came again, and his shins snapped. This time the scream was so loud it was like an ice pick through Jamie’s head. Stevenson thumped against the ground, his body rocking back and forth, foam frothing from his mouth, blood squirting from his injured neck. Then, as his helpless companions watched, his jaw began to stretch, the bones grinding against each other, and his scream turned into a howl.

Thick black hair began to sprout from Stevenson’s skin, bursting through his pores and tearing through his uniform. His eyes turned yellow, and his shaking became so frenzied that McBride was thrown loose.

“Somebody help him!” cried Kate, her voice high and anguished.

Morris pulled the Glock from his belt for a second time and knelt down next to Stevenson’s head. The man-if he still was a man-was twitching and shaking on the grass, apparently oblivious to the small crowd gathered around him. Morris cocked the gun, and placed the barrel against Stevenson’s temple.

Larissa turned Kate away from the stricken operator and held the teenage girl’s face tightly against her shoulder, covering her eyes. Jamie watched, unable to tear himself away, as Morris pulled the trigger.

A spray of blood and brain flew in the dark air, and then Stevenson was still. The change, which was less than half complete, reverted quickly, and within thirty seconds, the operator was lying motionless on the grass, the coarse black hair gone, his limbs straight and human again.