Wolf Island

us. Bathe in their blood. Grow fat on their flesh. Sharpen our fangs on their bones.

My wolfen troops put Shark’s dirty dozen to shame. I smile wryly when I think about the ex-soldier. He would have appreciated the final push, the slaughter and blood-drenched victory. He’d have understood why I had to kill Horwitzer. Antoine was a worm who had to be squashed. Meera thinks I’m a monster for ordering his death, but Shark would have done the same. So would Beranabus and Dervish.

A year ago… hell, even a few hours ago, I wouldn’t have. I was a child, with a naive sense of honour. Not anymore. We’re fighting a war. The survival of the human race is at stake. Winning is all that matters. If we have to become kill-crazed beasts to defeat the demons, so be it.

We don’t have the luxury of guilt. Those of us who protect the world must place ourselves outside the morals of those we fight for.

When the last sated member of my pack crawls past, dragging a half-chewed leg, I give Prae and Timas the signal. They throw the relevant switches and the panels of the wall rumble back into place, sealing us off from the open spaces of Wolf Island. As the panels clang shut, my heart aches slightly. I want to be outside with the jubilant werewolves, running free. But I have obligations. My place lies away from this island.

“Come on,” I growl at Meera and Timas. “Let’s lower the boats and get the hell out of here.”

“If you need help sorting out the Lambs, give me a call,” Meera tells Prae. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Thank you.” Prae smiles weakly. “I think I’ll be able to handle matters myself, but I’ll bear your offer in mind. Good luck with whatever you’re heading off to do. I suspect our problems are minor compared to yours. I hope—”

“Wait!” I snap, stopping near the edge of the cliff. A few of the boats were torn to pieces by the werewolves while we were waiting for Timas to open the doors of the compound, but most are intact and secured in place. One, however, has been lowered, and a rope ladder dangles next to where it stood. Creeping forward, I glance over the edge and spot a figure below, bobbing about in a boat. It’s a man. He’s lying on his back, as if soaking up the sun.

“No way!” I roar.

“Who is it?” Meera shouts, but I don’t stop to answer. Grabbing hold of the rope ladder, I throw myself from rung to rung. I’m dimly aware of Timas and Meera scrabbling after me, but most of my thoughts are focused on the man in the boat.

As I draw close to the last few rungs, I turn to study the figure. A dark mood descends. I’m convinced I was mistaken, that I only saw what I wanted to see. Or if it’s really him, that he’s dead. But when he half-raises a hand to salute weakly, I know that he’s real and alive.

“Shark!” I yell, jumping into the boat and grinning with open joy.

“You look… weird,” Shark wheezes, running a dubious eye over me.

“How?” I gasp. “The cave… the werewolves…”

“What?” the ex-soldier scowls as Meera and Timas climb into the boat and stare at him like he’s a ghost. “You don’t think I can… take care of a few werewolves… by myself?”

“But…” Meera shakes her head, smiling slowly.

“I’d have been in trouble if… you hadn’t swept the rest of the pack away,” Shark mutters, sitting up, leaning forward and wincing. “But when I came out of the cave and found… the island deserted, it was simple to hobble over here and… lower a boat. I wanted to come and see what… was happening inside the compound, but that would’ve… been pushing my luck. Besides, I thought you might need to make… a quick getaway.”

Shark’s bleeding all over. His left ear has been bitten off. I can only barely see his right eye— it’s a miracle he didn’t lose it, as most of the flesh around it has been clawed away. He’s missing the tops of all four fingers on his left hand, and the thumb and half his index finger on the right. As he leans further forward, I see a jagged hole in his lower back. Timas sees it too and bends over for a closer look.

“Some of your entrails are poking through,” Timas says, reaching out to prod them back into place.

“Leave my guts alone,” Shark growls, slapping the taller man’s hand.

“You’re a bloody wonder,” I chuckle, then grab hold of the ladder. “Patch him up,” I tell Meera and Timas. “I’ll sort out extra boats for the werewolves.”

“Werewolves!” Shark squints.

“We’re taking some with us. I’m their leader now.”

“I can’t wait to hear about it,” Shark says dryly. “Just keep them well the hell… away from me.”

“You’re getting yellow in your old age,” I grin, then shimmy up the ladder.

The last thing I hear, as I’m climbing out of earshot, is Shark asking Timas and Meera, “So, who’s good with a needle and thread?”

TOODLE-PIPS

I keep humming a tune to myself, one Dervish used to sing when he’d had a bit too much wine. “Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing.” But in my head I change it to, “Speed, bonny wolf.”

I don’t like boats. Too slow. We could have taken the helicopter that was on the island when we arrived— we’d have found the missing parts if we’d searched—but we couldn’t have squeezed in all my werewolf buddies. Besides, I don’t think Shark is in any fit state to play pilot. Timas and Meera patched up the worst of his wounds, but he looks dozy and keeps drifting in and out of consciousness, slumping over, then snapping awake when a wave hits the side of the boat.

Shark’s with me and thirteen werewolves. He’s covered in blood and smells like the juiciest steak in the world. I need to stay beside him to keep the werewolves in line or they’d fall on him and finish the job their brethren started.

Timas and Meera are in separate boats, a dozen werewolves to each. Meera’s big-time edgy. Keeps checking over her shoulder to make sure the creatures aren’t sneaking up. Timas, on the other hand, looks as content as any seafaring captain. He sings jaunty songs to his hairy, bemused passengers, and calls for them to join in the choruses. Apart from a few coincidental howls, he’s not having much luck with that. I don’t think there’s going to be a choir of werewolves any time soon.

“I don’t like the way they’re looking… at me,” Shark mutters, a minute or so after regaining consciousness from his latest blackout. “Like I’m lunch.”

“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “They’ve already had lunch. Dinner too. You’ll be fine until supper.”

“Funny guy,” Shark pants, then passes out again.

I check that Shark’s OK, then focus on Timas in the boat ahead of me. He said he knows where he’s going, that he’s read lots of books about navigation. A while ago I might have been worried, but I trust the oddball now. If we were adrift in a snow storm in Alaska, I’d follow Timas Brauss before I followed an Eskimo.

Timas guides us safely to dry land, and though we bump about a lot while docking, we come through unscathed. Unloading the werewolves, Timas looks pleased with himself, as he has every right to. An ambulance is waiting. We buckle Shark on to a trolley and roll him into the back of the vehicle. His eyelids flutter open as we’re settling him in place. He looks around, scowls and tries to get up.

“Easy,” I say, pushing him down and tightening the straps around his chest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he barks. “I’m coming with you to… help Dervish.”

“You’re in no condition to fight,” I chuckle.

“I don’t care. I’m coming whether you… like it or not.”

“I thought you said you were going to retire when we got off Wolf Island,” Meera reminds him.

“I said I was going to think about it,” he growls.

“Well, think some more on the way to the hospital,” she snaps and slams the door shut. His curses turn the air blue until the driver switches the siren on and hits the accelerator.

“I’m glad I won’t be there when they finish operating on him,” I note.

“Me too,” Meera says, smiling at me. “How do you feel?”

“Hungry,” I reply, then wink at her alarmed expression.

“You really believe you can control them?” Meera asks as we herd the werewolves into the waiting trucks, which will take us to the nearest airport and a specially chartered plane.