Wolf Island (The Demonata 8)

She releases me and I draw back to my full height. Part of me wants to plead with her to come with me. We can pick up Dervish and Bec, then fly to a deserted island like the one we just left. An apocalypse is coming. It would be easier to sit it out, enjoy what time we have left and face the end with a resigned laugh.

But I’m Grubbs Grady. Magician. Werewolf. Kah-Gash. I don’t do retreat.

“Give my love to Dervish,” Meera sniffs, then leaves me to make my own way to the plane. The last I see of her, she’s climbing into the front of an army Jeep, talking on her cell, looking lovelier than ever as she prepares to go to war.

With a self-mocking smile, I offer up a quick prayer to whatever gods might be listening. “If reincarnation is real, and I die soon, let me come back as Timas Brauss’s lips!”

Then I head off in search of my half-dead uncle, hoping he doesn’t croak before I have a chance to bid him goodbye.

THIS IS THE END, BEAUTIFUL FRIEND

DERVISH refused to be admitted to a hospital. If demons attack him and Bec again, he doesn’t want to be in a public building, where innocents might catch the crossfire. So the team set in place by the Disciples swiftly established a temporary medical base in a derelict building in a rundown part of the city where he, Bec, and the other survivor were taken.

Antoine Horwitzer’s soldiers are waiting for me when I arrive. They line the corridor, heavily armed, exchanging dark glances with several troops in different uniforms who are working for the Disciples. The air bristles with tension when I walk in. The commanding officer of the Lambs’ group steps forward and runs a cold eye over me.

“Where’s Horwitzer?” he growls.

“Dead,” I say bluntly.

“You killed him?” the officer snarls.

“No.” I whistle, and the werewolves lurch into view. “They did.”

The officer’s face blanches. His men raise their weapon

s defensively. The other soldiers raise theirs too, even more alarmed than the Lambs.

“You have a choice,” I say calmly. “Fight and die, or lower your arms and walk away. Horwitzer’s reign is over. The Lambs are back under the thumb of Prae Athim. Surrender now and we’ll call it even.”

The officer licks his lips. “I’d want safe passage for my men,” he mutters. “And I’ll have to confirm it with —”

“No time for confirmations,” I bark. “Drop your weapons and run, or stand, fight, and die.”

The officer studies the slavering werewolves and comes to the smart conclusion. He lowers his gun and gives the order for his men to follow suit. I growl at the beasts behind me and they part, affording the humans safe passage. Once they’ve filed out of the building, I bring my werewolves in, line them up in the corridor, and ask to be escorted to Dervish’s room. The soldiers are uneasy — I can smell their fear — but they do as I request. One takes me, while the rest remain, eyeing the werewolves anxiously.

I find Dervish relaxing on a bed in a large room, clothed in a T-shirt and jeans, no shoes or socks, hooked up to a drip and monitors, staring reflectively at the ceiling. Bec’s in a chair nearby, head lowered, snoozing. She’s also hooked up to a drip. In a bed farther over, another man, swathed in bandages, is sitting up and entertaining a gaggle of wide-eyed nurses. A couple of fingers on his left hand have been cut or bitten off, reminding me of Shark.

“— but I wasn’t afraid of a few stinking zombies,” the man — it must be Kirilli Kovacs — is saying dismissively. “I laid into them with magic and fried them where they stood. If there hadn’t been so many, I’d have waltzed through unscathed, but there were thousands. They overwhelmed me, and the others too. It looked as if we were doomed but I didn’t panic. I gathered Dervish and the girls and plowed a way through.”

“You saved their lives,” a nurse gasps.

“Pretty much,” the man says with a falsely modest smile.

I clear my throat. Dervish looks over and beams at me. Bec’s head bobs up and she studies my twisted body with a frown. Kirilli Kovacs scowls at me for interrupting, casts a sheepish glance at Dervish, then lowers his voice and continues his story.

“Sorry I didn’t bring any chocolates,” I tell Dervish, walking over to the bed and taking my uncle’s hands. He squeezes tight. I squeeze back gently, not wanting to hurt him. He squints as he studies me.

“There’s something different about you,” he says.

“I’ve started styling my hair differently,” I laugh.

“Oh. I thought it was that you were three feet taller, a hell of a lot broader, look like a werewolf, and are naked except for that bit of cloth around your waist. But you’re right — it’s the hair.”

“There’s something strange about yours too,” I murmur, staring at the six punk-like, purple-tipped, silver spikes that have appeared on his head since I last saw him. “The tips are a nice touch. Very anarchic.”

We grin at each other. Dervish looks like death and I guess I don’t look much better. We must make some pair.

“How’s the heart?” I ask, letting go and taking a step back.