Darren Shan - Wolf Island

He leans back and stares up at the reading light, lips pursed. After a minute he switches the light on, then off again. On. Off. On. Off. The engines roar. We hurtle down the runway and up into the sky. Timas’ eyes close after a while and he snores softly. But his finger continues to operate the light switch, turning it on and off every five seconds, irritating the hell out of me.

Another of Shark’s crew is waiting for us when we touch down. We drive in a van to a nearby hangar and park outside, close to a large, silver helicopter. Shark’s soldiers are laughing and joking with each other, excited by the prospect of adventure. They tumble out of the van and circle the helicopter. James pats it and purrs. “This is my baby now. The Farrier Harrier. Bring it on!”

“Statistically, helicopters are not as reliable as aeroplanes,” Timas remarks, but I pretend I didn’t hear that.

We take our seats. James invites Meera to sit up front with him, but to my delight she sniffs airily and gives him the cold shoulder.

“You can sit beside me,” I tell her, and with a warm smile she accepts my offer. James glares at me and I smirk back.

Timas takes the seat beside James. He’s fascinated by the banks of control panels. He asks a couple of questions, then observes silently as James fires up the propellors. I can see Timas’ reflection in the glass. He switches between frowns and smiles as he watches the pilot at work.

“I’ve saved the best for last,” Shark roars as we rise smoothly. There are headsets with microphones but nobody’s bothered to put them on. Shark stands, bending to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling, and jerks his seat up to reveal a hidden compartment crammed with guns.

The cabin fills with excited “Ooohs!” and “Aaahs!”, audible even over the noise of the blades. Shark passes the weapons round to the eager soldiers. I shake my head when he offers me one. I’ve no experience with guns and I don’t want to learn. Magic’s cleaner and more effective. Meera doesn’t bother with a gun either.

“What about rifles?” Pip shouts, having loaded her gun and jammed it into her waistband.

“And grenades?” Stephen yells.

“Stacks of them,” Shark grins. “We’ll break them out during the journey. It’ll help pass the time.”

Meera and I roll our eyes at one another and turn our attention to the scenery beneath. We watch the ground roll away behind us, airport hangars giving way to open countryside dotted with farms and the occasional house. After a while the houses multiply, becoming small villages and towns, feeding into the suburbs of the city where we’re headed for our showdown with Prae Athim and her werewolf-armed Lambs.

With Timas navigating, we soon locate the building. It looks like any other, lots of glass and steel, nothing special. Luckily it has a flat roof, and although it’s not intended for helicopter landings, Timas assures us that it’s structurally sound and will support our weight.

“Headsets!” Shark bellows. When we’re all hooked up, he outlines the plan. “James stays with the helicopter—he’ll hover nearby after dropping us off. Once we’re on the roof, we’ll force our way down the staircase to the eleventh floor. Terry and Spenser will stay on the staircase to keep it clear. Leo will take out the elevator. There’s another staircase—Marian and Liam will head for that. The rest of us will hit Prae Athim’s office.”

“What if she’s not there?” Meera asks.

“Then we’ll find out where she is.”

“Don’t you think that’s a rather heavy-handed approach?” Meera challenges him. “If she’s elsewhere and gets wind of our attack, we’ll lose the element of surprise.”

“You have another idea?”

“Yes,” Meera says calmly. “We ask them to let us in.”

Shark laughs, then scowls. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely. Politeness often succeeds where brute force fails.”

“Brute force has always worked pretty well for me,” Shark disagrees.

Meera flashes him her sweetest smile. “Let’s try it my way. If it doesn’t work, we can hit them hard, but at least we have options. If we do it your way, there’s no plan B.”

“It’s always good to have a plan B,” Terry chips in.

“It can’t hurt to try her approach,” James says from the front of the helicopter. I’m sure he’s only saying it to score points with Meera.

“OK,” Shark shrugs. “Take us in, Farrier. Meera, it’s your show—for now.”

As Meera talks us through her simple plan, we drift in over the building, hover closer to the roof, then set down. James kills the blades and as silence settles over us, we sit in place and wait.

Security guards soon spill on to the roof. Thirty or more. They’re all armed, but only with handguns.

“A few are ex-military,” Leo murmurs, studying the guards as they fan out. “But most look to have been privately trained. We could take them with our eyes shut.”

“Leave the taking for a while,” Meera says and slides out of the helicopter. She nods for Shark and me to accompany her. As Shark moves forward, she tuts and looks pointedly at his weapons—a couple of revolvers and a small rifle strung across his back.

“Do I have to?” Shark pouts. Meera raises an eyebrow. Sighing, he drops his weapons and clambers out in a foul mood.

We take several steps away from the helicopter, then wait, hands in plain sight. One of the guards—an officer—speaks into a microphone attached to his shirt, waits for orders, then comes to meet us. His troops train their guns on us but keep them slightly lowered, so if one of them fires by accident he won’t draw blood.

The officer stops a metre in front of us. He’s wearing a ring with a large gold L set in the centre. Prae Athim wore a similar ring when I met her.

“Can I help you folks?” the officer asks with forced politeness.

“We have an appointment,” Meera replies smoothly.

The officer seemed prepared for any answer except that one. He blinks stupidly. “An appointment,” he echoes.

“With Prae Athim. Could you tell her Meera Flame and co are here?”

“We’re not expecting any visitors,” the guard says, his voice taking on a slightly threatening tone.

“You might not be,” Meera smiles, “but Prae is. Let her know we’re here and I’m sure she’ll authorise our entry.”

The guard looks troubled. He tells us to stay where we are. Moving out of earshot, he speaks into his microphone again. After a short conversation he calls to us. “Somebody’s coming up. Please maintain your positions.”

The guard returns to the ranks and waits with the others. As he passes orders along, the guards lower their weapons another fraction. I start to relax. Looks like they don’t mean to turn this into a shooting match. At least not yet.

A couple of minutes later, as Shark fidgets, the door to the roof opens and a tall, handsome, tanned man emerges. He’s wearing a suit, but no tie. His hair looks like a film star’s, thick and carefully waxed into shape. He smiles smoothly and his teeth are a perfect pearly white. Meera’s right hand shoots to her hair and she tries to pat it into place, suddenly irritated by the sharp wind whipping over the rooftop, making her job impossible.

“Good afternoon,” the man says, stopping half a metre closer to us than the guard did. He has a smooth voice. “My name’s Antoine Horwitzer. How may I be of service?”

“We’re looking for Prae Athim,” Shark says as Meera gazes open-mouthed at the man. He nudges her in the ribs and she recovers swiftly.

“Yes,” she snaps, a red flush of embarrassment spreading from the centre of her cheeks. “We have an appointment. Is she here?”