Wolf Island (The Demonata 8)

Before I can ask what he means, he turns and pushes ahead, leading us to an exit, then down a set of stairs to the next level and the most horrific revelation yet.

A cavernous room, even larger than the holding area above. Hundreds of cages, many obscured by panels that have been set between them, dividing the room into semi-private segments. The stink is nauseating. Antoine offers us masks, but nobody takes one. As we progress farther into the room, I feel sorry that I didn’t accept.

Some of the cages look like they’ve never been used, but many show signs of long-term occupancy, caked with ground-in filth. There are old blood and urine stains, scraps of hair everywhere. I spot the occasional fingernail or tooth. There are people at work in several cages, trying to clean them out. It’s a job I wouldn’t accept for the highest of wages.

“This smells almost as bad as that world of guts we visited,” Shark mutters to Meera. She looks at him blankly. “Oh right. You weren’t there. It was Sharmila.”

“Nice to know you can’t tell the difference between me and an Indian woman twice my age,” Meera snaps. Shark winces — he’s made the sort of error a woman never forgets or forgives.

“This is another holding pen,” Antoine says. “But it’s more than just a place to hold specimens. It’s where we breed our own varieties, to increase our stock.”

For a moment I don’t catch his meaning. Then I stop dead. “You’ve been breeding werewolves?” I roar.

“The reproductive organs alter during transformation,” Antoine explains, “but most specimens remain fertile. We always knew it was possible for them to breed, but we didn’t follow up on that for many years. It’s a delicate process. The pair have to be united at precisely the right moment, otherwise they

rip each other apart. We tried artificial insemination, but the mothers refused to accept the young, killing them as they emerged from the womb. We could sedate and restrain them during the birthing process, of course, but it’s much easier to —”

Losing my head completely, I take a swing at Antoine Horwitzer, intent on squeezing his brains out through his nose and ears, then stomping them into mincemeat.

Shark catches my fist. The suited leader of the Lambs ducks and recoils from me with a startled cry, while Shark restrains my trembling hand, staring at me coldly.

“Let go,” I cry, angry tears trickling from my eyes.

“This isn’t the time,” he says quietly.

“I don’t care. It’s barbaric. I’m going to —”

“Kill him?” Shark hisses. “What will that achieve? He’s just a pretty face in a suit. They’d replace him in an instant.”

“But —”

“Remember our mission. Think about what’s at stake. This guy’s an ant. We can come after him later — and the rest of his foul kind. Right now we have bigger fish to fry. Don’t lose track of the rabbit, Grubbs.”

I struggle to break free. Then my brain kicks in and I relax. Shark releases me, but watches warily in case I make another break for Antoine, who’s squinting at me nervously.

“You know your problem?” I snap at Shark. “You use too many metaphors. Ants, fish, and rabbits, all in the same breath. That’s an abuse of the language.”

Shark smiles. “I never was much good at school. Too busy reading about guns.” He steps away, clearing the area between me and Antoine.

“Why?” I snarl. “Did you breed them to sell to circuses? To test your products on? Just to prove that you could?”

“We did it to experiment and learn,” Antoine says. “The intake of regular specimens wasn’t sufficient. We needed more. Also, by studying their growth from birth, we were able to find out more about them. We hoped the young might differ physically from their parents, that we could use their genes to develop a cure. There were many reasons, all of them honest and pure.”

“No,” I tell him. “Nothing about this is honest or pure. It’s warped. If there’s a hell, you’ve won yourself a one-way pass, you and all the rest of your bloody Lambs.”

Antoine stifles a mocking yawn. I almost go for him again. Meera intervenes before things get out of hand.

“You didn’t need to show us these pens,” she says. “So I thank you for your open hospitality. It’s hard for us to take in, but you knew we’d have difficulties. I imagine you struggled to adjust to the moral grey areas yourself at first.”

“Absolutely.” Antoine beams. “We’re not monsters. We do these things to make the world a better place. I wasn’t sure about the breeding program to begin with. I still harbor doubts. But we’ve learned so much, and the promise of learning more is tantalizing. Do we have the right to play God? Maybe not. But are we justified in trying to help people, to do all in our power to repay the faith of those who invest money and hope in our cause? With all my heart, I believe so.”

Antoine smiles at me, trying to get me back on board. I don’t return the gesture, but I don’t glower at him either. Shark’s right — this isn’t the time to get into an argument. Antoine Horwitzer is our only link to Prae Athim. We have to keep him sweet or he might shut us out completely.

“Where are they?” I ask, nodding at the empty cages. “You said they vanished. What did you mean?”

Antoine nods, happy to be moving on to a less sensitive subject. “Prae was head of this unit for twenty-six years. She’s been general director of the Lambs for nineteen of those. She worked on a number of private projects during her time in charge, commandeering staff and funds to conduct various experiments. She had a free reign for the past decade and a half.

“Under her guidance, the breeding program was accelerated. Bred specimens develop much faster than those that were once human — a newborn becomes an adult in three or four years, with an expected lifespan of ten to twelve years. We’d always bred in small numbers, but Prae increased the birth rate. Some people wondered why, but nobody challenged her. Prae was an exemplary director. We were sure she had good reasons for implementing the changes.