Wolf Island (The Demonata 8)

“You’re a bloody wonder,” I chuckle, then grab hold of the ladder. “Patch him up,” I tell Meera and Timas. “I’ll sort out extra boats for the werewolves.”

“Werewolves?” Shark squints.

“We’re taking some with us. I’m their leader now.”

“I can’t wait to hear about it,” Shark says drily. “Just keep them well the hell… away from me.”

“You’re getting yellow in your old age,” I grin, then shimmy up the ladder.

The last thing I hear, as I’m climbing out of earshot, is Shark asking Timas and Meera, “So, who’s good with a needle and thread?”

TOODLE-PIPS

I KEEP humming a tune to myself, one Dervish used to sing when he’d had a bit too much wine. “Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing.” But in my head I change it to, “Speed, bonny wolf.”

I don’t like boats. Too slow. We could have taken the helicopter that was on the island when we arrived — we’d have found the missing parts if we’d searched — but we couldn’t have squeezed in all my werewolf buddies. Besides, I don’t think Shark is in any state to play pilot. Timas and Meera patched up the worst of his wounds, but he looks dozy and keeps drifting in and out of consciousness, slumping over, then snapping awake when a wave hits the side of the boat.

Shark’s with me and thirteen werewolves. He’s covered in blood and smells like the juiciest steak in the world. I need to stay beside him to keep the werewolves in line or they’d fall on him and finish the job their brethren started.

Timas and Meera are in separate boats, a dozen werewolves to each. Meera’s big-time edgy. Keeps checking over her shoulder to make sure the creatures aren’t sneaking up. Timas, on the other hand, looks as content as any seafaring captain. He sings jaunty songs to his hairy, bemused passengers, and calls for them to join in the choruses. Apart from a few coincidental howls, he’s not having much luck with that. I don’t think there’s going to be a choir of werewolves anytime soon.

“I don’t like the way they’re looking… at me,” Shark mutters, a minute or so after regaining consciousness from his latest blackout. “Like I’m lunch.”

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nbsp; “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “They’ve already had lunch. Dinner too. You’ll be fine until dessert.”

“Funny guy,” Shark pants, then passes out again.

I check that Shark’s OK, then focus on Timas in the boat ahead of me. He said he knows where he’s going, that he’s read lots of books about navigation. A while ago I might have been worried, but I trust the oddball now. If we were adrift in a snowstorm in Alaska, I’d follow Timas Brauss before I followed an Eskimo.

Timas guides us safely to dry land, and though we bump about a lot while docking, we come through unscathed. Unloading the werewolves, Timas looks pleased with himself, as he has every right to. An ambulance is waiting. We buckle Shark onto a gurney and roll him into the back of the vehicle. His eyelids flutter open as we’re settling him in place. He looks around, scowls, and tries to get up.

“Easy,” I say, pushing him down and tightening the straps around his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he barks. “I’m coming with you to… help Dervish.”

“You’re in no condition to fight,” I chuckle.

“I don’t care. I’m coming whether you… like it or not.”

“I thought you said you were going to retire when we got off Wolf Island,” Meera reminds him.

“I said I was going to think about it,” he growls.

“Well, think some more on the way to the hospital,” she snaps, and slams the door shut. His curses turn the air blue until the driver switches the siren on and hits the accelerator.

“I’m glad I won’t be there when they finish operating on him,” I note.

“Me too,” Meera says, smiling at me. “How do you feel?”

“Hungry,” I reply, then wink at her alarmed expression.

“You really believe you can control them?” Meera asks as we herd the werewolves into the waiting trucks, which will take us to the nearest airport and a specially chartered plane.

“Child’s play,” I smirk.

Timas is waiting for us at the trucks. He says nothing as I usher in the werewolves, standing by in case I need him. When the last door has been locked, he clears his throat. “I should keep watch over Shark. He’ll want to return to action as soon as he’s fit — probably before — and he’s going to need help. I can do more for him than you.”