Читать книгу Shadow Of The Wolf - Rebecca Flanders - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

At first, Amy thought it was a joke. What else could she think? A man in a wolf costume—wolf, for heaven’s sake—grabbing her on the street and affecting a kidnapping in the middle of a Mardi Gras parade. It had to be one of her colleagues with a warped sense of humor. That was why, after the initial shock, she didn’t struggle as much as she should have or make enough of a fuss to attract the attention of anyone in the rollicking parade crowd.

“All right, very funny,” she said, and, with a little more alarm. “Hey! Do you have to be so rough? Who are you, anyway?”

His stride grew so forceful that she trembled. He jerked her up sharply. When he picked her up bodily and began to force his way through the crowd, Amy started to grow frightened. “Put me down!” she demanded and kicked out wildly. The arm that had been around her shoulders moved up to encircle her neck, instead, cutting off her breath, and a cruel, black-gloved hand pressed over her mouth. He was so strong that even with these maneuvers he did not lessen the grip that kept her crushed against his chest. If anything, his hold grew even stronger.

Amy knew then it was no joke.

She couldn’t breathe. Those leather-encased iron fingers dug into her face, leaving bruise marks on either side of her mouth. His arm was heavy across her throat, twisting her head back at a painful angle, crushing her windpipe. She fought back panic, then tried not to waste her energy and her precious breath with futile struggles. He was killing her. Black spots danced in front of her eyes and the sound of traffic and Mardi Gras music grew fainter, gradually replaced by a high, thin whining in her ears.

She had spent enough hours in police stations and courtrooms to know the most important thing she could do right now was try to stay alert, to identify her assailant if she could, to pay attention to where he was taking her, to diligently remain aware of any opportunity for escape, no matter how small, that might present itself. But all of what she’d known and should have done fled her head. All she could think of was breathing, of how desperately she needed air, of how terrified she was that she would never be able to draw a deep breath again and of what a horrible, slow way this would be to die.

She must have blacked out for a moment or two because the next thing she knew, they were no longer in the street. She was aware of the creak of door hinges and going into a dank, musty-smelling room and abruptly she could breathe again; he released her and she tumbled, or was tossed, onto a torn, soiled mattress in a corner of the room.

For a moment, she huddled there, gagging and coughing as she struggled for breath and fought back the star-bursts of dark and light that exploded before her eyes. When she finally was able to drag a few deep breaths into her aching lungs, her vision began to clear. She was aware of a small, brick-lined room furnished with wooden crates and crumpled newspaper and illuminated with candles, a dozen or more of them supported in bottles and on bits of broken saucers. The place had the feel, and smell, of a cave, but she suspected it was part of one of the old warehouses that were scattered here and there throughout the Vieux Carre. She tried to remember which way they had turned, how many turns they had taken, making an effort to visualize where he might have taken her, but she couldn’t concentrate. She was trembling, and she couldn’t stop coughing.

“Well now.”

His shadow fell over her, causing Amy to gasp and choke on her own breath. She pressed a hand against her throat, trying to ease the ache that turned to fire every time she coughed.

He said, “A rather poor beginning to what I had hoped would be a long and satisfying relationship for both of us, I’m afraid. I apologize.”

His voice, so smooth and articulate, startled her. She had expected the coarse, angry roar of an uneducated street thug, not the cultured accents of a gentleman. The monstrous costume in which he was dressed only made the discrepancy more bizarre.

The mask was one of those latex affairs that was far too realistic; covered with gray and black hair, the eyes were glittering yellow, the snout drawn back in a snarl to reveal sharp, discolored teeth. Below the mask, he wore black—black turtleneck, black tights, black gloves and boots, even a black cape. For a moment, while her eyes adjusted to the flickering candlelight, it almost looked as though the wolf head were floating above her in midair, and had she had the breath she would have screamed.

“Here. Drink this.”

She noticed that he held a water glass half-full of some clear liquid. She merely stared at it.

“It’s quite safe, I assure you,” he said. “I wouldn’t drink the water here, but I chose the wine myself. And the glass is clean.”

Hesitantly, still gasping and choking back coughs, she took the glass from him. She had to hold it in both hands to keep from spilling it. She brought it to her face, just close enough to smell the contents, but she didn’t drink. He told the truth: it was wine, at least partially. She did not want to take a chance on what else might be in the glass.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said impatiently. “It’s not poisoned. I never poison my victims. It spoils the taste of their flesh.”

Amy didn’t move, or breathe or even think. She huddled like a rabbit trapped in the glare of headlights, clutching the glass and staring at him, and she knew the purest terror she had ever known in her life.

And then he laughed. “What a foolish little human you are, after all!” he exclaimed. “I had hoped for more courage from you…or perhaps simply more intelligence.” He shrugged elaborately and turned away. “Drink or don’t, whatever suits you. I was merely trying to be hospitable.”

Amy’s fingers tightened on the glass. “Who—who are you?” Her voice was hoarse and breathless, barely above a whisper. It hurt to make even that effort.

“You know the answer to that, chérie,” he replied gently. Was there a hint of a smile in his voice? “You gave me my name, after all.”

Amy wanted very badly to drink from the glass. She managed to hold it steady against her chest, no drops sloshing out. “Me?” she whispered. Firmly, determinedly, she put more effort into her voice, making it audible. “What are you talking about? I don’t know you.”

“Ah, but you do, chérie. You’ve followed my career from the beginning.” He seemed amused as he added, “Well, almost from the beginning, anyway. And you were the first—I’m quite certain because I made a note of it—to call me by my rightful appellation. The Werewolf Killer. How did you know, I wonder? Will you tell?”

Amy thought, No. A nightmare. And then she thought, A joke. A very bad practical joke that had gotten out of hand. Or a deranged fan, would-be copycat who let himself get carried away by the Mardi Gras spirit…Yes, that had to be it. Because otherwise, she was being held captive by a man who had already killed fifteen people, and no one knew where she was. A man who stalked and slashed, who tore out the throats of his victims and left them like so much discarded rubbish by the side of the road…a madman who had held the city under a spell of terror for ten months, just as he now held her.

She looked around the dismal, dank-smelling little room. What were those stains on the floor? And the spatters on the wall, were they simply a trick of candlelight? Was this where he brought his victims, then, before he killed them? And she didn’t really have to try very hard, did she, to smell the terror in this room like a lingering miasma, to hear the pleas for mercy that lingered in the ether like ghosts…

Sternly, she stopped herself. She was talking herself into hysteria.

She looked at the glass in her hand. She looked at the wolf-thing standing over her, arms crossed, grotesque head slightly tilted as though in speculation or amusement. She thought, Better to die of poison… She took a sip of the wine.

“Well now,” he said with obvious approval. “I’m glad you’ve decided to be civil.”

“It’s very good,” she said. Keep him talking, she thought. Keep your wits about you and keep him talking and you have a chance—small, but a chance—to get out of this alive.

“A simple Pinot,” he replied. “Unpretentious but amusing, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know much about wine.”

“Oh, that can’t be true, chérie. A woman of your background and education? Don’t be modest. In fact, I chose the wine because I knew you would appreciate it. Subtle but elegant. Understated but genuine. Like you.”

Amy thought, Oh, God. She said, “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

He seemed pleased. “My pleasure.”

She searched, in the flickering candlelight, for the door. There was only one, and he stood between it and her.

“Is this your place? Do you live here?” she asked.

Again he laughed. The sound, though muffled by the mask, was not particularly sinister. It was the laugh of a child—or a madman.

“Hardly,” he said. “No one could live in a place like this, not even those poor miserable creatures I send to their eternal rest. How could you think that?”

It was becoming easier to swallow. She took another sip of wine. “Why did you bring me here?”

“To talk. I’ve wanted to meet you for some time now, and after tonight’s newscast, it seemed…appropriate.”

“You—watch my broadcast?”

“But of course. Doesn’t everyone? And why should it surprise you to learn that I, your protégé, in a manner of speaking, am one of your biggest fans?”

Amy felt ill, a cold heavy dread weighing down her stomach, filling up her throat. She said, “Why do you say that? You’re not my protégé, I told you, I don’t even know you.”

“Alas, I am wounded.”

With a sudden swooping motion, he bent down and took her chin in his fingers, grasping hard. Amy shrank back, too frightened to even cry out. Wine sloshed on her blouse.

“You know me, chérie,” he said quietly. His breath was hot on her cheek, and oddly pleasant-smelling. Like fresh grass. His eyes, yellow glass eyes in a hairy-covered mask, were dead and glittering, horrifying. How did he see behind those eyes?

“You were the first to know me,” he said, still soft, still low. His fingers were like talons, gripping her chin, bruising the bone. “That’s why I have chosen you.”

“Chosen me,” she whispered, and she had never before imagined she possessed the courage it took to look into those flat yellow eyes and not shrink away. “For what?”

The seconds ticked off before his reply. Life or death, torture or pleasure; she imagined him weighing the options.

And then he said, “Well now, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

Abruptly, he released her and moved away. She felt the throbbing imprint of his fingers on either side of her chin and she thought irreverently that she would have to wear extra makeup for the show tomorrow to hide the marks. Then she wanted to laugh. Tomorrow, makeup, the show…she, whose chances of surviving the hour were growing increasingly slim, obviously had much bigger worries.

And with nothing to lose, she lifted her chin, tilting her head back a little to look him in the eye, and said, “You expect me to believe you are the so-called Werewolf Killer?”

“Since that is who I am, yes. I should say so. You have an opinion to the contrary?”

Amy glanced around, not too obviously, she hoped, for something she could use as a weapon. There was nothing. If she broke the glass in her hand, he would be on her before she could get to her feet and would probably use the broken glass to cut her throat. In other circumstances, she might throw the wine in his face and try to dash for the door while he was blinded, but the mask would protect his eyes. The room was small and empty and left her with few options.

She said, “You could be anyone behind that mask.”

“Ah, but couldn’t we all?”

He seemed to be enjoying himself. And why shouldn’t he? He held all the power.

Amy struggled to keep her gaze steady, not to show her fear. She said, “You might at least let me see your face.”

He chuckled. “I think not. Having done that, I would have to kill you, and I’m sure you don’t want that.”

Her heart caught a little on hope. “Isn’t that what you plan to do, anyway? Kill me?”

Again the head tilted to the side, assuming a posture of thoughtfulness. “Why, no, actually. I hadn’t planned to kill you, not right away, anyway. I have plans for you first.”

He came to her and dropped to one knee beside her on the mattress. The yellow eyes glittered in the candlelight, the bared teeth menaced. But none of that was as terrifying as his posture, so close to her: intimate, powerful, in control.

Amy stiffened and choked down a scream as he lifted his gloved hand to her face, and stroked it tenderly.

Ky knew that St. Clare was probably aware he was being followed. He was a powerful werewolf with resources at his command Ky could not even begin to guess. At the very least, he might be leading Ky on a wild-goose chase; more likely, into a trap. But not for one moment did Ky consider abandoning pursuit.

A powerful werewolf. The words echoed in his head with a measure of disbelief. In fact, when Ky looked back over the events of the past half hour, he was almost inclined to believe he had imagined all of it. And yet, hadn’t he always known this day would come? Hadn’t he spent his life waiting for it?

Still, in his wildest reckonings, he had not pictured anything like this.

He wasn’t exactly sure what he intended to accomplish by following St. Clare. He might spot his car, get a license-plate number, find out what hotel he was staying at or what flight he was taking home…find out where home was for him and who lived there with him and for how long and how many of them there were and who they were and how they lived and a thousand, thousand other things…

He knew of course that little, if any of this, was a possibility. He would find out only what St. Clare allowed him to find out. But how could he not try?

The old man walked for half a block, then got into a car with a driver. Ky had not anticipated this, which only went to show how rattled he was by events in general; even his normal investigative instincts had deserted him. He had assumed that, since there was no car waiting outside the building, St. Clare had come on foot, but of course a person who was planning on breaking and entering would hardly park his car in plain sight.

Ky hesitated, then decided it would be more efficient to follow for a while on foot while the trail was still fresh, then go back for his car when he had a better idea in which direction St. Clare was headed. He did not, after all, seek another confrontation with St. Clare tonight, so time was not a consideration. He simply wanted to know where the old man was going.

There were a thousand, a hundred thousand sensory clues crowding up the well-worn streets of this ancient city, yet the scent of the werewolf was unmistakable, and Ky followed it effortlessly. Even encased as he was in two tons of metal and disguised by exhaust fumes and fresh rain puddles and the succulent outpourings of open-air restaurants as the car made its way in an unhurried fashion through the Vieux Carre, Sebastian St. Clare left a signature upon the night that was as easy to read as a map.

And then it wasn’t.

Ky followed the trail the car left for three blocks—long enough to realize he was being led in a circle, or a square, actually, that would take him right back to Rampart Street. At first he was irritated, and mildly disappointed because he had expected something more inventive from St. Clare. But then he understood.

St. Clare’s driver had taken the circuitous route not necessarily to confuse Ky but to avoid crossing Canal Street, which was closed for a parade. The parade, now fully in progress and blocking out both visual and aural clues with its color and raucousness for a good quarter mile in either direction, had swallowed up the last scent of the werewolf.

His quarry was gone.

Amy said steadily, “What, exactly, are your plans for me?”

She should have been terrified. She was, in fact, on some visceral level almost too intense to be recognized, frightened out of her wits. And yet she could deal with it, she could sit here on the soiled mattress and gaze into that nightmarish monster face and let him fondle her, without breaking into hysterical, mindless screams, because of him. Because there was something about him—his touch, his voice, his manner—that didn’t seem monstrous at all.

He said, drawing a gloved index finger down her cheek from the edge of her eye to the curve of her jaw, “Perhaps I shall just keep you as a pet.”

“That might be difficult. I’ll be missed. And, as you might know, I have a few influential friends.”

He chuckled softly. “Ah, yes. Your friends. Perhaps then, I should think of some other, more amusing, use for you.”

The threat was implicit, the meaning unmistakable. Had Amy been able to see his face, there was no doubt in her mind that he would have been undressing her with his eyes.

She said, “Is that intended to frighten me?”

“Does it?”

“No.”

“I’m not certain whether I’m insulted or flattered.”

“The Werewolf Killer never sexually assaults his victims,” Amy said. “If you were to rape me, you’d only prove to me that you’re not who you claim to be.”

He laughed. “A rather twisted piece of logic, but oddly compelling. And you’re right. I haven’t the least interest in ‘assaulting’ you, as you put it.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

He sat back, regarding her with an attitude of what Amy could only imagine to be amused speculation.

Then he said, “I am going to use you, my dear, to bring my story to the world.”

Amy lifted the wine glass and took another sip. The wine, the conversation, the urbane manners of the gentleman sitting across from her…it could have been lunch at Arnaud’s, cocktails poolside, a casual interview in the lounge of the Ritz Carlton. She concentrated on forgetting that she was not in any of those places.

She said, “I thought that was what I was doing.”

“Indeed.” He inclined his head. “And you’re doing a superlative job. But you only know half the truth. I would like you to know all about me.”

Because the reporter in her wouldn’t die, Amy said, “I’d like that, too.”

He was silent for a time. Amy could feel his eyes on her, the eyes behind the yellow eyes and she wished desperately to see his face…not just for identification purposes, but to see his face, to know the man behind the mask.

“Yes,” he murmured after a time, as though having reached a conclusion in thought, “I think you may be ready to know the truth. Not the whole world, perhaps, but you…yes. And I would like it if at least one person knew.”

Amy said, softly, so as not to break the spell of gentle sadness that seemed to have come over him, “Knew what? What is the truth?”

He looked at her, and though of course she could not see through the mask, she imagined that he smiled. “The truth,” he replied, “is that I am a werewolf.”

Ky stood on the corner, impatiently trying to see over the heads and around the shoulders of jostling parade watchers, reflexively falling back on the ordinary human senses of sight and sound when his extraordinary ones failed him. There was, of course, no sign of the werewolf, nor of the car in which he had been driven away. There were twelve-foot-high floats and belly dancers and acrobats in the street, there were children riding shoulders and men lifting beer mugs on the sidewalk; it was enough to confuse anyone.

The car had obviously passed this way before the parade reached the corner, but in which direction it had gone was anyone’s guess. Whatever residual trace of the werewolf scent that remained was masked completely by the chaos that surrounded him now.

“Damn!” Ky said, and turned to push his way back through the crowd. To be this close, the chance of a lifetime, and to lose him in a Mardi Gras parade…

But St. Clare wasn’t entirely lost. Ky had his money, which meant St. Clare would be in touch. No one just walked off and left fifty thousand dollars without following up on the contract. And he had a name, which he had absolutely no reason to believe was a false one. No, St. Clare was too arrogant, too sublimely confident in his own invincibility, to try something as banal as concealing his identity from a private investigator. Finding St. Clare again would not be the problem. Getting to him would.

“Damn,” Ky muttered again, and broke through the crowd, turning the corner that led to his apartment.

That was when he caught the scent.

“I see,” Amy said.

Her tone wasn’t convincing, even to herself, and she wasn’t surprised that he was angered by it.

“Don’t humor me!” he snapped and got to his feet. “You forget your place, human! I have the power, do you understand that? I am in charge here, and I will not be patronized!”

His fury, though not entirely unexpected, was nonetheless terrifying, like a quick harsh storm that broke tree limbs and blew shingles off roofs and then, as abruptly as it began it was over. The roar of his voice actually hurt her ears and she even imagined—surely she imagined—a gust of wind created by the force of his rage. He seemed to grow larger, more menacing, and when he loomed over her in that horrible mask, she could believe he was anything….

“Is this how you use your power then?” she cried. “Frightening helpless women? Kidnapping them and holding them captive and then terrifying them with threats? Does that make you feel strong? Does that make you feel like a man?”

She couldn’t believe the words were coming out of her mouth. The minute they were spoken, she wanted to drag them back in. She was antagonizing a madman, taunting a killer who was already enraged. She expected him to strike her, to pull his gun or his knife and finish doing what he had obviously brought her here for. She prepared herself for the worst.

And then he said, quite matter-of-factly, “Now you do insult me. I should kill you for that, but I won’t. As I said, I have other plans for you. And…” Again he cocked his head at her, and she imagined a smile. “I admire your pluck. Not that I will put up with a great deal of it, but I did choose you for your spirit, among other things. I can hardly blame you for being true to your nature…any more than your kind can blame me for being true to mine.”

Amy felt like a condemned felon upon receiving that phone call from the governor; like that rabbit trapped in the glare of headlights when the car suddenly swerved to miss it. She had been given a reprieve when she had had no reason to expect one and every muscle in her body went weak with relief.

“Your nature?” she managed to say. Her throat felt gummy. She wanted another sip of wine but didn’t trust her hands to hold the glass steady if she tried. “And what would that be?”

There was pity and impatience in his tone. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. I had forgotten how slow even the brightest human can be. I do the planet a favor by thinning your herd.”

He sat beside her again, and she held herself very still, refusing to tremble. He moved closer.

“I am,” he said, “a werewolf. My nature is to hunt, to kill, to run with the night and to follow the moon. You think you’re very clever for discerning a connection between me and a dozen or so dead vagrants, and I suppose you are, by human standards. But listen to me, chérie. You’ve only found what I wanted you to find. You only know what I wanted you to know. There have been hundreds, do you understand that? Hundreds.”

Amy felt ill. She liked to think she had been born with reporter’s instincts, an innate sense of who was telling the truth and who was lying, when she was being given a genuine lead and when she was being led down the garden path. Those instincts were telling her now that she was looking into the masked face of a madman and a killer, and that every word he spoke was the truth as he knew it. Hundreds. He had killed hundreds.

She said, “Why are you telling me this?”

And he replied, “I already answered that. I like your style. I saw you on the news this evening with that piece of horse fodder Devereaux—something will have to be done about him, I’m afraid—and I saw how you stood up for me with such calm nobility of character and it was then it occurred to me—you are a woman of deep convictions and genuine involvement. You, and only you, can be trusted to bring my story to the world.”

Still she kept her voice calm, her gaze steady. She thought she was beginning to understand him. That did not make her less afraid of him, but she thought she knew enough to deal with him, or at least to prolong her life until she could think of something to do, some way to escape or to convince him to let her go.

“That presupposes, of course, that I believe your story. That you are who—and what—” she added to pacify him, “you say you are.”

He bent a gaze upon her that was long and filled with silent menace. “You try my patience,” he said at last.

He got slowly to his feet. “Very well, chérie.” His voice was soft, calculating, and even more frightening than a shout. “I shall give you what you want. I’ll show you proof. And you may yet be sorry you asked.”

His lifted his hand to the mask.

Ky’s heart was thundering in his chest and a fine sweat appeared on his upper lip, and he couldn’t explain why. He stood still, focusing his senses, but he couldn’t make his heart stop pounding. The scent. Strong now, on a southerly breeze, now fainter on still air. The same, only…not. St. Clare…and not.

For the first time in his life, Ky knew what it was to doubt his own senses, to know confusion instead of clarity, to be at the same disadvantage as any one else who walked the street. He had never found a scent he didn’t know before. He had never encountered a sensory clue he couldn’t visualize. And yet this…It left him baffled and unsure.

He had never smelled a werewolf before today, and yet he had known the scent immediately for what it was. This, it was the same, it was like St. Clare, only it was…diseased, yes, or in trouble or…

No, he couldn’t define it, and a sharp pain pierced his head with the effort. It was distinct yet muted, familiar yet—wrong. Frightening.

And even though all his instincts shrieked a warning, even though he knew it was the stupidest thing he had ever done in his life, Ky turned down the empty alley, crossed a narrow street and moved into the darkness, following the scent.

Amy held her breath, watching as his hand moved beneath the neck of the hideous wolf head. She thought he was going to take off the mask. Dread and anticipation warred inside her for what she might see.

But he didn’t remove the mask. With a quick snap of his wrist, he jerked a thin gold chain free from his neck and tossed it to her. Instinctively, Amy lifted her hand to catch it.

“Ask the police whether anything was missing from the body of the August victim. Sherry Wilson. Yes, you see, I remember their names, when you are good enough to identify them for me.”

The jewelry was warm in Amy’s hand, and it made her feel strange to hold it knowing that only seconds ago it had been against his skin. Suspended from the chain was a small heart-shaped locket. On a compulsion she immediately regretted, Amy pushed the catch with her thumbnail and the locket opened. Inside was the blurry picture of a blond-haired little girl of about three. Amy felt ill.

“There might even be traces of blood left yet,” he commented matter-of-factly, “that they can identify as hers. Of course, they might also pick up traces of my DNA, which should prove to be very interesting when they try to analyze it.”

Amy dragged her eyes away from the locket and upward to him. She was quite sure he was smiling behind the mask.

“Why won’t you let me see your face?” she demanded hoarsely. “What’s really behind that mask?”

“Perhaps simply another mask.” And then suddenly he stiffened. His casual, controlled manner was gone and in its place the alert defensive posture of a startled animal. He spun toward the narrow door, and then back to her. “What have you done?” he shouted at her. “Who have you brought here?”

He threw back his head suddenly, almost as though sniffing the air, and turned again, sharply, toward the door. “How can this be?”

Amy didn’t hesitate another minute. The moment he looked away from her, she threw the glass of wine against the opposite wall. When he whirled toward the sound, she plunged past him toward the door. She didn’t weigh her chances; she didn’t consider her options; she didn’t think about it even once. She simply ran, and the unexpectedness of her action, combined with his distraction, gave her the advantage she needed to get almost to the door before he caught her.

She screamed as his hand snatched her hair with such force that her head snapped back. He flung her back with such strength that her feet actually left the ground. She screamed again as she bounced against the mattress. But he was no longer interested in her. He spun back toward the door even as it burst open and then the oddest thing happened.

It was dark outside, and the candlelight in the room provided only the dimmest illumination so Amy could see little of her rescuer’s face, only a figure, tall and lithe and crouched in the attack/defense position. He wore jeans and a T-shirt. His straight black hair swept over his collar; his face was in shadows. Amy’s captor was directly in front of him, less than three feet; Amy expected him to lunge for the door, to attack the man or to push past him and disappear into the night. But he did not move.

It lasted ten seconds, perhaps a little more, and it seemed like centuries. Amy counted every exploding beat of her heart, every half-choked, stammering breath. She wanted to scream; she wanted to run. But the strange paralysis that had afflicted the two men had her in its spell, as well. They stood there, staring at each other, poised on the brink of conflict or the edge of murder, yet startled, studying each other with a kind of mutual horror.

Later she would decide that was exactly what it was. Mutual horror.

And that was when Amy was witness to something she could not explain and would never forget. There was a sound, a low rumbling sound that seemed to come from the throat of one of the men. A growl, only louder and more fierce than a growl, deadlier and more controlled. And with the growl, something began to happen, and afterward Amy would never be able to describe it with words or even recreate it in her mind; it was more of an experience than an observation.

The man in the werewolf mask seemed to change somehow; she could see little in the dim light and with his body disguised as it was by the long cloak and the mask, but it was as though he were shrinking into himself and at the same time expanding, growing larger and more menacing. The air around him seemed charged and actually appeared to quiver, and there was a hot, electric smell like static electricity filling the room. It prickled on her skin and caught in her chest and filled her with a visceral terror…and wonder.

And suddenly everything exploded. The man in the werewolf mask gave a great roar and leapt into the air, flying—yes, flying—toward the man in the doorway with an acrobatic strength that was supernatural. The roar echoed in Amy’s ears, hurting them. She screamed and covered her ears, pressing herself back against the wall as the werewolf monster struck out at the man in the doorway. The man went down and Amy screamed again, propelling herself off the mattress and toward the door.

When she got there, her rescuer lay crumpled against the doorframe, his throat covered with blood. The werewolf was gone.