Wolf Island (The Demonata 8)

“In this business, you never expect anyone to be helpful.” Antoine smirks, in command of his temper again. “Do I have time to pack a few things?”

“No,” Shark snorts, and marches out of the office. The rest of us follow him up the stairs to where the helicopter is waiting, and off we set for Wolf Island. Aroooooo!

PREY

WE manage to squeeze into the Farrier Harrier, even though it isn’t meant to hold more than twelve. We fly all day, Shark and James taking turns to pilot. We set down a couple of times to refuel, eat, and stretch our legs. Stop at dusk for dinner at an army base, then continue through the night. I catch a few hours of sleep, using a sleeping spell to drop off.

We make our final stop shortly after nine in the morning. Breakfast, a walk, exercise. Then Shark talks us through our plans. We scour maps of the compound, Shark highlighting our route and alternatives in case we run into problems. It’s pretty simple — break in, grab Prae Athim, secure the area around her office and interrogate her there, or else abduct her and make a quick getaway.

Meera doesn’t suggest a polite approach this time. Prae Athim is way out of control. Subtlety won’t work on Wolf Island.

Shark finishes by asking for any last-minute comments or inquiries. Antoine sheepishly raises a hand. “Will you try not to cause unnecessary damage? Some of the equipment is very expensive. If we can recycle it later, we can recoup some of the costs of this debacle.”

Shark glares at Antoine. “If we come through this and I receive an invoice for wreckages, I’ll find you, string you upside down, and make you eat your own brains before I kill you. Understand?”

Antoine flushes. “I was only —”

“Be quiet,” Meera snaps.

Antoine pouts, but shuts up. Shark casts an eye around. “Last chance to back out. Anyone?” Seven of the nine soldiers promptly raise their hands. “You should be in a sitcom,” Shark jeers, then claps his hands together loudly and stands. “Let’s go!”

Back on the helicopter. Within minutes we’re over open wa

ter. No retreating now. We’re in this to the bitter, bloody end.

The island is one of many in the area, all deserted, most uninhabitable. This is one of the largest. A lot of grass, wildflowers, trees. We spot the werewolves as we skim the treetops. Spread across the island in small groups, most relaxing, some eating (I don’t think much of the natural wildlife exists there anymore), a few fighting. Mutated, vicious, hairy monstrosities, all fangs, claws, and muscles. Some howl at us as we pass overhead, though we can’t hear them over the roar of the blades.

The wolf within me tries to force its way to the surface, howling silently in reply to its warped brethren. I’m one of the cursed Gradys. I should have turned into a werewolf. I only survived because I’m a magician. My magic self wrestled with my wolfen side and triumphed. But I’ve never rid myself of the wolf, only driven it down deep inside.

I don’t have any difficulty keeping my wolfish instincts in check, but I’m surprised to find that a part of me doesn’t want to remain in control. I’m excited by the creatures running free beneath us. Life would be much simpler if I abandoned my humanity and ran wild with them, gave myself over to animalistic pleasures, free of the burdens of duty and responsibility.

I’m envious of my twisted relatives, but sad for them too. Because I know their freedom is temporary. If it all goes wrong and Prae Athim turns the tables on us, she’ll use these specimens for her own sick ends. But life won’t be much better for them if we succeed. Antoine Horwitzer will take over, pick the werewolves off one by one, slice them open, and carry out all manner of unpleasant experiments.

I’m so glad Gret and Bill-E aren’t down there. In a weird way I’d rather they were dead than captive on this island. Better to be out of life entirely than struggle through it as a tormented, hopeless, inhuman victim.

The others are studying the werewolves with a mixture of curiosity and loathing. They have no ties to these unfortunate mutants. They view them simply as enemies. If our plan works, we should have no dealings with the werewolves. But if complications set in, the soliders might find themselves up against the killer beasts, and in that case they’ll have to be ruthless.

Antoine is the only one not awed by the spectacle. He stole a quick glance at the werewolves when we hit the island’s edge, then closed his eyes, dug rosary beads out of a pocket, and began to pray. I hadn’t pegged him as a religious type, but when I think about it, it makes sense. After all, the Lambs named themselves after a biblical quote.

My stomach clenches and I almost throw up. It’s the werewolf, fighting to free itself. I stop staring at Antoine and focus on driving the wolf back inside. It retreats reluctantly and I feel sorry for it. If I could let it loose for a while, somewhere it couldn’t cause damage, I would, just to give it a taste of freedom.

The compound walls come into sight. I was expecting a fence, but there isn’t one, only a long wall of high, thick, metal panels. Lots of werewolves are gathered by the wall, hurling themselves at it, clawing its smooth grey surface, howling at those inside, the stench of human flesh thick in their nostrils. (The stench is also thick in mine. My lips tremble and I am careful not to drool.)

As we approach the wall I catch my first glimpse of the compound. It’s built on the extended tip of the island, surrounded on three sides by cliffs and water. The werewolves have only one route of attack. Even if they could swim (Antoine told us they can’t), they’d struggle to climb the sheer cliffs, despite their claws.

The compound’s nothing special. A series of grey, drab buildings with flat aluminium roofs. There are lots of grooves in the ground, which Timas points out, speaking through the microphone on his headset.

“They use the grooves to slot the walls into place,” he explains. “An ingenious system. Just lay the grooves, then slide the panels around and click them together. Makes it easy to shuffle the rooms and alter the layout.”

“Those walls can’t be sturdy,” Shark grunts.

“They are,” Timas insists. “Designed to withstand anything nature can throw at them. The architects couldn’t take chances, not with hundreds of werewolves lying in wait on the other side.”

There’s a landing pad inside the main wall, to the left. A single helicopter stands idle. There are several motorboats stored under tarpaulins at either side of the crag, rope ladders stacked beside them. In the event of an evacuation, that’s how the staff would leave, lowering the boats and climbing down into them.

Guards spill out of the nearest building as we touch down, cocking rifles and pistols. One roars through a megaphone, commanding us to come out unarmed.

“This is it!” Shark yells, brandishing his handguns. “Don’t kill if you can help it, but don’t show too much mercy either. These guys knew what they were signing up for. They’ve already murdered seventeen people. They’ll rip us to shreds if we give them the chance.”