then took an apple and crunched into it. Camille, Gaby and Mouse followed him like three shadows. “I got the information,” he said as his teeth whittled the apple down to its core; it also served to clean his teeth and get out the last of the crusted blood. “But it wasn’t enough.” He looked at Camille, his green eyes shining in the lamp glow. “I promised Mouse I’d take him to Berlin. I have my own reasons for going there as well. Will you help us?”
“The girl said she saw you surrounded by Nazis,” Camille told him. “If the cyanide pill didn’t work, how did you get away from them?” Her eyes had narrowed: it was impossible that this man was standing here. Impossible!
He stared at her, unblinking. “I was faster than they were.”
She started to speak again, but she wasn’t sure what to say. Where were the clothes he’d left here in? She looked at his stolen trousers and shirt. “I needed a change,” he said, in a calm and soothing voice. “The Germans were after me. I took clothes hanging on a line.”
“I don’t…” She glanced at his shoeless feet. He finished the apple, tossed the stripped core into a trash basket, and reached for another. “I don’t understand.”
Gaby just watched him, her senses still wrecked. Mouse said, “Hey! We heard it on the radio! They said a dog got loose in the Opera House and raised hell! We saw it, too! Right up on our car! Didn’t we?” he prodded Gaby.
“Yes,” she answered. “We did.”
“The information I got tonight,” Michael said to Camille, “has to be followed up. It’s vital we get to Berlin as soon as we can. You can help us get there, by arranging the route.”
“This… is such short notice. I’m not sure I can-”
“You can,” he said. “We’ll need new clothes. Identity cards if you can get them. And it’ll have to be arranged for Echo to meet me in Berlin.”
“I don’t have the authority to-”
“I’m giving you the authority. Mouse and I are going to Berlin, as soon as possible. Check with whoever you want to. Do whatever has to be done. But get us there. Understood?” He smiled slightly, showing his teeth.
His smile chilled her. “Yes,” she said. “Understood.”
“Wait. What about me?” Gaby finally shook off her shock. She came forward and touched Michael’s shoulder to make sure he was real. He was; her hand gripped his arm. “I’m going to Berlin with you.”
He looked into her beautiful eyes, and his smile softened. “No,” he said gently. “You’re going west, back where you know your job and you do a damned fine one.” She started to protest, but Michael put a finger to her lips. “You’ve done your best for me. But you wouldn’t survive east of Paris, and I can’t be your guardian.” He realized the nail of the finger pressed against Gaby’s mouth had blood crusted under it; he took it quickly away. “The only reason I’m taking him with me is because I made a bargain.”
“Yes, you sure did!” Mouse piped up.
“And I’ll honor it. But I work best alone. Do you see?” he asked Gaby.
Of course she didn’t. Not yet. But she would see, in the fullness of time; when this war was over, and she was an older woman with children and her own vineyard where German tank treads once tore the earth, she’d see. And be glad that Michael Gallatin had given her a future.
“When can we leave?” Michael turned his attention to Camille, whose brain was already working feverishly on the possible routes from Paris to the diseased heart of the Reich.
“A week. That’s the soonest I can get you out.”
“Four days,” he told her, and he waited until she sighed and nodded.
Home! Mouse thought, giddy with excitement. I’m going home!
Damnedest mess I’ve ever been in in my life, Camille thought. Gaby was split; she yearned for the man who stood before her-returned miraculously from death-but she loved her country more. Michael had two thoughts. One was of Berlin, and the other was a phrase, a key to a mystery: Iron Fist.
In the bedroom, as the candles burned low, Gaby lay on the goosedown mattress. Michael leaned over her, and kissed her lips. They sealed to each other with moist heat for a moment-and then Michael chose the cot, and lay down to ponder the future.
Gaby reached for his hand, and he took hers.
The night went on, and dawn broke with crimson fire.
SIX – Berserker
1
My hand! Mikhail thought, panicked, as he sat up on his bed of hay. What’s wrong with my hand?
In the gloom of the white palace’s depths, he could feel his right hand throb and burn, as if liquid fire ran through the veins instead of blood. The pain that had awakened him grew, running up his arm to his shoulder. His fingers were twisting, contorting, and Mikhail clenched his teeth to hold back a scream. He gripped his wrist as his fingers spasmed open and clenched closed; he heard little frail popping sounds, and each one drove a new dagger of agony into him. His face began to sweat. He dared not cry out, for the others would mock him. In another few torturous seconds his hand became gnarled and deformed, a freakish dark thing on the end of his white, pulsing wrist. He ached to shriek, but all his throat would allow was a whimper. Bands of black hair rose from his flesh, and they entwined around Mikhail’s wrist and forearm like sleek ribbons. His fingers were retreating into their sockets, with crunching noises as the knuckles changed shape. Mikhail gasped, near fainting; his hand was covered with black hair, and where his fingers had been there were curved talons and soft, pink pads. The tide of black hair flowed up his forearm, lapped over his elbow, and Mikhail knew that in another instant he must get up and run screaming for Renati.
But the instant passed, and he didn’t move. The black hair rippled, began to draw back into flesh with raw, needling pain, and his fingers cracked again and lengthened. The curved talons drew into his skin, leaving the remains of human fingernails. The hand resurfaced, moon pale, and his fingers hung like strange pieces of meat. The pain ebbed, then went away. All of it had lasted perhaps fifteen seconds.
Mikhail drew a breath, and almost sobbed.
“The change,” Wiktor said, sitting on his haunches about seven feet to the boy’s left. “It’s coming on you.” Two large hares, oozing blood, lay on the stones beside him.
Mikhail jumped, startled. Wiktor’s voice instantly awakened Nikita, Franco, and Alekza, who’d been curled up nearby. Pauli, her wits still sluggish from Belyi’s death, stirred on her hay pallet and opened her eyes. Behind Wiktor stood Renati, who had been watching faithfully for him for three days, ever since he’d gone on the track of whatever had killed Pauli’s brother. Wiktor stood up, regal in his snow-crusted robes, the weathered lines and cracks in his bearded face glistening with melted snow. The fire had burned very low, and was chewing on the last of the pine knots. “While you sleep,” he told them, “death is in the forest.”
Wiktor circled them, his breath ghosting in the chilly air. The hares’ blood was already growing frost. “A berserker,” he said.
“A what?” Franco stood up, reluctantly parting from Alekza’s pregnant warmth.
“A berserker,” Wiktor repeated. “A wolf that kills for the love of killing. That’s what slaughtered Belyi.” He glanced at Pauli with his amber eyes; she was still drugged with sorrow, and quite useless. “A wolf who kills for the love of killing,” he said. “I found his tracks, about two miles north of here. He’s a big bastard, weighs maybe a hundred and eighty pounds. He was going north at a steady pace, so I followed him.” Wiktor knelt down by the feeble fire and waned his hands. His face was washed with flickering crimson. “He’s a smart one. Somehow he picked up my scent, and I was careful to keep the wind in my face, too. He wasn’t about to let me find his den; he led through a swamp-and I almost fell through a place where he’d cracked the ice to go out from under me.” He smiled faintly, watching the fire. “If I hadn’t smelled his piss on the ice, I’d be dead by now. I know he’s a red one; I found some of his hair snagged on thorns. That’s as close as I got.” He rubbed his hands together, massaging the bruised knuckles, and stood up. “His hunting ground’s getting thin. He wants ours. He knows he’ll have to kill us to get it.” He swept his gaze around the circle of his pack. “From now on, no one goes out alone. Not even for a handful of snow. We’ll hunt in pairs, and we’ll make damned certain we stay in sight of each other. Understood?” He waited until Nikita, Renati, Franco, and Alekza had nodded. Pauli was still dazed, her long brown hair full of bits of hay. Wiktor looked at Mikhail. “Understood?” he repeated.
