Chapter Seventeen: Alpha and Omega
Paddington had opened the door to the station’s bathroom and found himself face-to-face with a naked man. Before he could cry out, the man clamped duct tape over his mouth, then knocked the gun from his hand and twisted his hand up behind his back. Liquid heat coursed along his arm and chest and Paddington went wherever he was pushed, which was out past the panicking Team and into the boot of a car.
Eventually the car shuddered to a halt and footsteps circled around to the boot. Paddington managed a brief look at the stars before two figures blocked his view and dragged him into a house. He couldn’t see the number and didn’t recognise the street. He could smell the sea, not that that meant much on an island.
When one of his three captors moved to open the house’s front door, Paddington made a dash for freedom. It didn’t work. His kidnappers weren’t as strong or well-trained as the Team, but each of them was bigger and a better brawler than him.
In the house’s light, Paddington recognised the men. They’d surrounded him yesterday, fired questions at him, and run off. The only one missing from the group was Dominic.
He was brought down a sturdy stairwell into a concrete basement, where his jacket was removed and he was handcuffed to a wooden chair. One of his captors tore the tape off his mouth.
“Ah, detective,” said a smooth voice. Its owner stood atop the stairs, silhouetted against the light. “You should have left well enough alone.”
“Yes, you’re very creepy,” Paddington said. “Now step out of the shadows and reveal your master plan.”
The bulky figure descended the stairs with agonising slowness. Paddington used the time to look around him. Three men in bathrobes waited at the sides of the room; the ringleader and his three goons coming down the stairs were also in robes, which seemed an odd choice for a uniform.
Finally their leader stepped into the harsh pool of light. It was Conall, Chief Constable of the Archi Police. Two of his followers slipped off their robes. For a moment they stood naked, tensing on the spot as if ready to burst onto a sporting field. Was unsettling him was part of their plan? Then they started changing. Thick white and grey fur spread across their shoulders, down their chests, and onto their faces, which lengthened inelegantly.
They dropped onto the concrete to the cracking and snapping of bones. Muscles shifted to accommodate a new structure. Tails sprouted.
In seconds, Conall was flanked by two grey wolves.
Which meant that the five remaining humans were, in all likelihood, five werewolves who could change form at will. And Paddington was tied to a chair.
“But it’s not my plan,” Conall continued. “We all belong to the great mystery of the Three-God.”
“I have problems with mysteries,” Paddington said. “Your coming to the station tonight, for example. You weren’t after me; I’d been alone – and unconscious – all afternoon. So why the hours of waiting?”
“For the thrill of the hunt.” Conall sat on the chair opposite him, a consummate politician: Paddington could read nothing from him. Was he lying? Was he enjoying this? How did he manage to look frightening in a yellow bathrobe?
“Why show Mitchell what to look for?” Paddington asked. “He was after one werewolf; now he’ll be after your whole pack. Besides, one good shot and you’d have lost a member… I’m not worth that risk.”
What else was at the station? Of course! The Book of Three. McGregor might have left it there. That was worth risking the pack. Paddington was probably a bonus.
“So,” Paddington said, “you have what you came for. What now?”
“Now we solve some mysteries,” Conall said. “Starting with how you became a wolf.”
Paddington glanced down at himself. “I’m not.” The two furry animals sitting beside Conall were wolves, though. Paddington kept his eyes off them, both because their existence was unsettling and because he didn’t want them attacking him for looking at them the wrong way.
“A werewolf,” Conall said, “if you’d prefer that vulgar term.”
“Well, it’s accurate,” Paddington said, preparing to speak at length. Every moment he talked was a moment they weren’t torturing him. “Were-wolf, man-wolf. Especially accurate in this case, since the ‘were’ means ‘man’ – not ‘human’ but ‘male’… which we all are.” Actually, that was suspicious. Not a single female. Maybe they were upstairs, tending to the pups and baking bone-shaped cookies.
Also suspicious was that each of these men – even Conall – was known for his temper. They were all aggressive, public-disturbance types, the first to stand up for a friend by swinging a chair.
Conall smiled; something predatory leaked into his human face. “True. Lisa Tanner is not, but she was an accident. Whereas you… you must have stolen her blood to become what you are. Did you want to know what it feels like?” He smiled again, a greasy smile to match his hair. “Will, show him what it feels like.”
One of the wolves leapt his front paws onto Paddington’s lap. Surprising weight pressed down on his legs. The wolf’s eyes were orange and his muzzle was long enough that if Will decided to bite him in the face, Paddington doubted he could avoid it. Not that he wouldn’t try like hell.
“The Three-God,” Paddington said, tearing his eyes from the wolf to Conall. “Are you a believer?”
“I have read all of their Holy Texts.”
“And the original? The Book of Three?”
“No copies still exist.” Conall’s tone indicated all other opinions were blasphemy. Which meant they hadn’t taken the Book from the station… Interesting.
“But there were three once,” Paddington said. The wolf on his lap flared his nostrils. Paddington tried to ignore him. “All slightly different. I don’t know about the other two, but Adonis had one of them.”
“‘Had’ one?” Conall asked.
Paddington had to give him credit for picking up on the tense. “So you are a half-decent policeman?” Paddington asked. “Interesting reading, but I’m sure it’s no different to the public version.”
Conall hesitated, maybe weighing whether to reveal his ignorance and weakness, but since hesitating had already done that, he asked, “What did it say?”
“That if the Brown triplets will destroy the world.”
“In those words?”
“You know these ancient prophecies, all vague and archaic; I think the term was ‘bring her to rebirth’.”
Conall smiled and spoke to the basement in general. “The Day of Rebirth, when the Races return to their original glory!”
Paddington felt a chill as the tide of the conversation turned and splashed him in the privates. “Ah. You’re in favour of this?”
“We have waited generations.”
“But you don’t know what’s going to happen!” Paddington said. “You might be surpassed, redundant.” Paddington searched for smaller words. “Yesterday’s news. Useless.”
Curious and worried glances increased around Paddington, but Conall had no part in them. He locked eyes with Paddington and shook his head. “This needn’t be murder, detective, but if you try to manipulate my pack again, it will be. Understood?”
The wolf on his lap shifted his weight and panted happily. Paddington nodded.
“Now, your girlfriend,” Conall said. “We cannot allow a female wolf. They’re uncontrollable.”
“The change can be averted.”
“‘Averted’ is not foolproof.” Conall crouched beside Paddington. “For millennia, wolves have been carefully chosen for their lineage and their proven loyalty. Accidents happen, of course. When they do, the offending wolf is encouraged to be more careful and we discuss what should be done with the pup. Most are welcomed into the pack.”
Paddington was sweating, both from the wolf’s body heat and the fear of what would happen when Conall stopped talking. Surely if they were about to welcome him to the club, he wouldn’t be tied to a chair.
Still, he’d read about werewolv
es that were the protectors of villages. Hopefully there was truth in those stories. This pack certainly wasn’t bloodthirsty.
That didn’t mean they wouldn’t kill him; they just wouldn’t enjoy it.
“However,” Conall said, “now we have two strays, and one of them is unable to control her change.”
“That’s not her fault.”
“Nevertheless, one mistake while out shopping and there’ll be organised hunts. We cannot accept risks. Those we cannot trust, we cannot allow.”
“I won’t help you find her,” Paddington said. Let them try anything; he wouldn’t tell them.
“We know where she is,” Conall said.
Chills tingled along Paddington’s sweat patches like lightning. They were going to kill Lisa. They were going to kill Lisa and he was tied to a chair. Paddington rocked against the restraints, but the handcuffs held him tight. The wolf on his lap climbed down and waited for him to finish thrashing. When he did, Conall continued.
“Usually, the punishment for deliberately siring another wolf without permission is death.”
“You hurt her and I’ll—”
“We’re not talking about Lisa! We’re talking about you.” Conall smoothed his beard with one hand and sat back on his chair. “You sired yourself. But since you didn’t know our rules, it hardly seems fair to punish you as sire.”
Paddington sagged forward. What was all this talk for? Why did it take so long to reach the point? Why couldn’t he just go back to a few weeks ago? A few days? “So… what, then?”
“The pup,” Conall said, “is either destroyed or accepted into the pack. Your ancestors are fine Archi stock, James. There’s no reason you couldn’t join us.”
Paddington looked up from the concrete to glare at Conall. “And all I have to do is let you kill Lisa?”
Conall raised a bushy eyebrow. “You say that like you could stop us.”
“I have a problem sitting around while people commit murder.”
“You have a lot of problems, but right now sitting isn’t one of them.” Conall reached forward and shook the arm of Paddington’s chair. The handcuffs rattled against it.
Paddington had had enough of talking and waiting: if they were going to kill him, he’d give them a damn good reason. Maybe it would even make a difference. Not to him, not to Lisa, but to the next person.
“How many people do you suppose have died this week because of you?” he asked.
The smile on Conall’s lips died and left a bitter taste. “What?”
“By not investigating Norman Winslow’s disappearance like you were supposed to and not killing the zombies when there was only a handful of them. There’s so much blood in the streets you could drown in it!”
“I had orders,” Conall snapped, before he could stop himself.
“There it is!” Paddington said, gathering steam. “The mighty wolves are thugs for hire, sniffer dogs and attack dogs and patrol dogs, obeying. Do you wear a collar under that uniform?”
Conall punched him. Paddington’s head snapped back with the impact and his mouth dropped open, spilling blood down the front of his shirt. His tongue investigated his bottom lip and found where his top canine had pierced it. The irony was not lost on him.
“Lone wolves don’t last long in the wild,” Conall said grimly.
“Neither do pets,” Paddington replied.
“Curt, keep him alive.” Conall walked away. “The Brothers can determine whether he sees the glory of the new world.”
Conall stalked up the stairs. The two wolves followed, then the humans. Somewhere nearby, a tap dripped onto concrete. It reached a count of ten before Paddington felt hot breath on his neck, then cold steel.
“You’re boned now,” Curt whispered.
Paddington concentrated on the figure lurking at the top of the stairs and tried very hard not to say something that would get him stabbed.