Behind them came the torches and the stakes and the final death.
Had they not placed their faith so strongly in the cross, they would have had him. Only the blacksmith had presence of mind enough to swing as he broke through their circle and made for the door.
His leg twisted and white fire shot through his entire body. The sound of his own blood loud in his ears, he clutched desperately at a tree, fighting to stay upright. He couldn't go on. He couldn't stop.
It hurts. Oh, God, how it hurts.
The dogs were closer.
He couldn't die like this, not after barely a hundred years; hunted down like a beast in the night. His ribs pressed tight around his straining heart, as though they already felt the final pressure of the stake.
The dogs were almost on him. The night had narrowed to their baying and the pain.
He didn't see the cliff.
He missed the rocks at the water's edge by little more than the width of a prayer, then the world turned over and around and he almost drowned before he managed to claw his way back to the air. Unable to fight the current, he gave himself over to it. Fortunately, it was spring and the river ran deep - most of its teeth were safely submerged under three or four feet of water. Most. Not all.
Just before dawn, Henry dragged himself up onto the shore and wedged his battered body as deep as it would go into a narrow stone cleft. It was damp and cold, but the sun would not reach so far and, for the moment, he was safe.
It had never meant more.
"No, sir. Never any trouble from Mr. Fitzroy." Greg squared his shoulders and looked the police officer in the eye. "He's a good tenant."
"No wild parties?" Celluci asked. "Complaints from the neighbors?"
"No sir. Not at all. Mr. Fitzroy is a very quiet gentleman."
"He has no company at all?"
"Oh, he has company, sir." The old security guard's ears burned. "There's a young woman... "
"Tall, short blonde hair, glasses? Early thirties?"
Greg winced a little at the tone. "Yes, sir."
"We know her. Go on."
"Well, there's a boy, late teens. He's kind of scruffy, tough like. Not the kind you'd expect Mr. Fitzroy to have over."
The boy's presence wasn't much of a surprise. It only added another piece to the puzzle, bringing it a step close to completion. "Is that all?"
"All the company, sir, but... "
Celluci pounced on the hesitation. "But what?"
"Well, it's just you never see Mr. Fitzroy in the daytime sir. And when you ask him questions about his past... "
Yes, I've a few questions myself about his past. In fact, Fitzroy had turned out to be more questions than answers. Celluci didn't like that in a man and he liked it even less now that he was beginning to see how he could fill in the blanks.
If Henry Fitzroy thought he could hide what he was, he was due for a nasty surprise.
The old man was asleep; Mark could hear him snoring through the wall that separated their bedrooms.
"The sleep of the just," he murmured, linking his hands behind his head and staring at a watermark on the ceiling. Although he'd agreed to help in his uncle's holy war - And that's one elderly gentleman who's a few pickles short of a barrel. - nothing had actually been said about what this entailed. Whether or not the werewolves were creatures of the devil was a moot point as far as he was concerned - more importantly, they were creatures apparently outside the law.
He was a businessman; there had to be a way he could make a profit out of that.
If he could capture one of them, he knew a number of people who would be more than willing to purchase such a curiosity. Unfortunately, that idea came with an obvious problem. The creature could just refuse to change - and they appeared to have complete control over the process - ruining any credibility he might have. And in sales, credibility was everything.
"All right, if I can't make a buck out of them live... "
He smiled.
Werewolves.
Wolves.
Dead wolves meant pelts. Take the head as well and there'd be a dandy rug.
People were always willing to pay for the unique and the unusual.
Chapter Nine
"Has anybody seen Daniel this morning?"
Jennifer glanced up from the burr she was working out of her sister's fur. "He headed up the lane about an hour ago. Said he was going to wait for the mail."