asked: what is the lycanthrope, in the eye of God?
He thought he might know the answer to that now, after the sight of the mass grave at Falkenhausen, after the death of Mouse and the memory of an Iron Cross being plucked from his broken fingers. After his time in this land of torment and hatred, he thought he knew; and if not, the answer would do for now.
The lycanthrope was God’s avenger.
There was so much work to be done. Michael knew Chesna had courage-and plenty of it-but her chances of getting on and off Skarpa Island without him were slim. He had to be sharp and strong to face what was ahead for them.
But he was weaker than he’d thought. The change had sapped his strength, and he lay with his head on his paws under the clear starlight. He slept, and dreamed of a wolf who dreamed he was a man who dreamed he was a wolf who dreamed.
The sun was coming up when he awakened. The land was green and lovely, but it hid a black heart. He got up off his belly and started back the way he’d come, following his own scent. He neared the house and was about to change to human form again when he heard, above the song of the dawn birds, the faint noise of radio static. He tracked it, and about fifty yards from the house found a shack covered with camouflage netting. An antenna was mounted on the roof. Michael crouched in the brush and listened as the radio static ended. There were three musical tones, followed one after the other. Then Chesna’s voice, speaking German: “I read you. Go ahead.”
A man’s voice, transmitted from a great distance, answered. “The concert is set. Beethoven, as planned. Your tickets must be purchased as soon as possible. Out.” Then the crackle of dead air.
“That’s it,” Chesna said, to someone in the shack. A moment later Bauman emerged and climbed a stepladder to the roof, where he removed the antenna. Chesna came out, dark circles beneath her eyes indicating a troubled sleep, and began to stride through the forest toward the house. Michael silently kept pace with her, keeping to the green shadows. He sniffed her fragrance, and he remembered their first kiss in the lobby of the Reichkronen. He was feeling stronger now; all of him was feeling stronger. A few more days of rest, and a few more nights of hunting the meat and blood he needed, and-
He took another step, and that was when the quail hidden in the brush shrieked and leaped out from beneath his paw.
Chesna whirled toward the sound. Her hand was already gripping the Luger and drawing it from her holster. She saw him; he watched her eyes widen with the shock as she took aim and squeezed the trigger.
The gun spoke, and a chunk of bark flew from the tree next to Michael’s head. She fired a second time, but the black wolf was no longer there. Michael had turned and plunged into the dense foliage, the bullet whining over his back. “Fritz! Fritz!” Chesna shouted for Bauman as Michael winnowed through the underbrush and ran. “A wolf!” he heard her say as Bauman came running up. “It was right there, looking at me! God, I’ve never seen one so close!”
“A wolf?” Bauman’s voice was incredulous. “There are no wolves around here!”
Michael circled through the woods back in the direction of the house. His heart was pounding; the two bullets had missed him by fractions of inches. He lay in the brush and changed as quickly as he could, his bones aching as they rejointed and his fangs sliding into his jaws with wet clicking sounds. The gunshots would have already roused everyone in the house. He stood up, newly fleshed, slipped in through his window, and closed it behind him. He heard other voices outside, calling to ask what had happened. Then he got into bed, pulled the sheet up to his throat, and was lying there when Chesna entered minutes later.
“I thought you’d be awake,” she said. She was still a little nervous, and he could smell the gunsmoke on her skin. “You heard the shots?”
“Yes. What’s going on?” He sat up, pretending alarm.
“I almost got chewed up by a wolf. Out there, damned close to the house. The thing was staring at me, and it had…” Her voice trailed off.
“It had what?” Michael prompted.
“It had black hair and green eyes,” she said, in a quiet voice.
“I thought all wolves were gray.”
“No.” She stared into his face, as if truly seeing him for the first time. “They’re not.”
“I heard two shots. Did you hit him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Of course, it could’ve been a bitch.”
“Well, thank God it didn’t get you.” He smelled breakfast cooking: sausages and pancakes. Her intense stare was making him jittery. “If it was as hungry as I am, you’re very lucky it didn’t take a bite out of you.”
“I guess I am.” What am I thinking? Chesna asked herself. That this man has black hair and green eyes, and so did the wolf? And what of that? I must be losing my mind, to even think such a thing! “Fritz… says there are no wolves in this area.”
“Ask him if he’d like to go for a walk in the woods tonight, and find out.” He smiled tightly. “I know I wouldn’t.”
Chesna realized she was standing with her back against the wall. What had been wheeling through her mind was utterly ridiculous, she knew, but still… no, no! That was crazy! Such things were the stuff of medieval fireside tales, when the winter wind blew cold and howled in the night. This was the modern world! “I’d like to know your name,” she said at last. “Lazaris calls you Gallatinov.”
“I was born Mikhail Gallatinov. I changed my name to Michael Gallatin when I became a British citizen.”
“Michael,” Chesna repeated, trying out the sound of it. “I just received a radio message. The invasion is still set for June fifth, barring bad weather in the Channel. Our mission stands: we’re to find Iron Fist and destroy it.”
“I’ll be ready.”
His color looked better this morning, as if he’d gotten some exercise. Or perhaps a vigorous dream? she wondered. “I believe you will be,” she said. “Lazaris is doing better, too. We had a long talk yesterday. He knows a lot about airplanes. If we have engine trouble on the way, he might be useful.”
“I’d like to see him. Can I have some clothes?”
“I’ll ask Dr. Stronberg if you’re up to getting out of bed.”
Michael grunted. “Tell him I want some of those pancakes, too.”
She sniffed the air, and found their scent. “You must have a very good sense of smell.”
“Yes, I do.”
Chesna was silent. Again, those thoughts-insane thoughts-crept through her mind. She brushed them aside. “The cook’s making oatmeal for you and Lazaris. You’re not ready for heavy food yet.”
“I could’ve starved on gruel in Falkenhausen, if that’s what you and the good doctor want.”
“It’s not. Dr. Stronberg just wants your system to recuperate.” She walked to the door, then paused there. She stared into his green eyes and felt the hairs stir at the back of her neck. They were the eyes of the wolf, she thought. No, of course that was absolutely impossible! “I’ll check on you later,” she said, and went out.
A frown settled over Michael’s features. The bullets had been a close call. He had been almost able to read Chesna’s thoughts; of course she wouldn’t come to the correct conclusion, but he’d have to watch his step around her from now on. He scratched his rough beard and then looked at his hands. There was dark German earth under his fingernails.
Michael’s breakfast-watery oatmeal-was delivered in a few minutes. Stronberg entered a little later and pronounced his fever all but gone. The doctor railed, however, about the broken stitches. Michael said he was up to doing some mild calisthenics, so he ought to be allowed clothes to walk around in. Stronberg at first flatly refused, then said he’d think about it. Before an hour passed, a gray-green jumpsuit, underwear, socks, and canvas shoes were brought to Michael’s room by the same woman who prepared the meals. An added encouragement was a bowl of water, a cake of shaving soap, and a straight razor, with which Michael removed his stubble.
Freshly shaved and dressed, Michael left his room and roamed through the house. He found Lazaris in a room down the corridor, the Russian slick-bald but still heavily bearded, his proud prow of a nose made even more huge because of his gleaming dome. Lazaris was still pallid and somewhat less than energetic, but there were faint spots of color in his cheeks and his dark brown eyes had a glint in them. Lazaris said he was being treated very well, but his request for a bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes had been refused. “Hey, Gallatinov!” he said as Michael started to leave. “I’m glad I didn’t know you were such an important spy! It might have made me a little nervous!”
