Wolf Island (The Demonata 8)

“Where’d you get this?” I ask.

“I found it on the Web,” Timas answers. “You were photographed when committed to an institute for the mentally unbalanced. After your parents were killed?” he adds, as if I might have forgotten.

“No wonder I look like a zombie,” I mutter, running my thumb over the face in the passport, remembering those dark days of madness. I used to think life couldn’t possibly get any worse. How little I knew.

We sit in pairs on the plane, splitting up so as not to attract attention. I’m with Timas. I’d rather have sat with Meera, but James moved quickly to snag the seat next to her. He’s chatting her up. I try keeping an eye on them, but as soon as the engines start, my stomach clenches and I grip the armrests tight, flashing back on my most recent experience in a plane.

“Do you want to know the statistics for global aeronautical accidents for the last decade?” Timas asks as we taxi out to the runway.

“No,” I growl.

“I only ask because you look uneasy. Many airplanes crash every year, but they are usually personal craft. Statistically we are safer in the air than on the ground. I thought familiarity with the facts might help.”

“The last time I was on a plane, demons attacked, slaughtered everyone aboard, and forced it down,” I snarl.

“Oh.” Timas looks thoughtful. “To the best of my knowledge, there are no statistics on demon-related accidents in the air. I must investigate this further when time permits. There are blanks to be filled in.”

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’s 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 airplanes,” 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’s 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 around 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 each other 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.”