High Moor 2: Moonstruck (34 page)

“Hey, any chance of some breakfast? Or a pot to piss in?”

There was no response, but then, Steven hadn’t been expecting one. Letting your prisoner be alone with their thoughts until their nerves started to get the better of them was standard interrogation procedure. Now that he was awake, they’d be along in their own time, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

He angled his head down and saw the criss−cross pattern of sutures on his chest. Connie Hamilton had really done a job on him. He marvelled that they’d managed to find enough to sew together. He’d heal himself, of course, eventually. Assuming that his captors didn’t cut him apart and put him under a microscope before then.

There it was. The first sliver of doubt creeping unbidden into his mind. He chided himself for allowing the circumstances to dictate his emotions. If they wanted him dead, then they wouldn’t have bothered sewing him up. Which meant they wanted something else.

He settled back down on the bed and closed his eyes. The effect of the drugs was not unpleasant, and if he was going to have to wait a while, he might as well enjoy the trip.

He could have been lying there for five minutes or five hours when the door to the cell opened. Time had lost all meaning within the comfortable warm haze of the opiates. He didn’t bother to open his eyes. Two men had entered the room. One of them smelled of harsh soap and gun oil. He didn’t need an enhanced sense of smell to pick out the other man. The stink of his expensive aftershave burned Steven’s nostrils, almost obscuring the distinctive smell of his Italian leather shoes.

“Mr Wilkinson? Are you awake?”

Steven didn’t open his eyes. “Yes. Did you bring my breakfast? I like my coffee black and my bacon well done.”

“Erm…I’m afraid I…could we get Mr Wilkinson some breakfast? Well, you heard the man. Black coffee and bacon.”

“Well−done bacon. I don’t like the fat unless it’s crispy.”

“Yes, erm…well−done. Now, how are you feeling, Steven? I can call you Steven?”

Steven opened his eyes and stared at the man. He wore an expensive, tailor−made suit with a blue tie. His face seemed too smooth, like a wax figurine that had just begun to melt. Nervous, greedy eyes flickered across Steven’s face, never once meeting his gaze. A few droplets of sweat broke out on the man’s forehead. Steven gave the man his best, insincere smile. “I’m about as well as can be expected for a man tied to a hospital bed, being pumped full of drugs. How about you? Having a nice day?”

The man seemed to relax a little. “Yes, Steven, I’m having a very nice day. Tell me, do you know who I am?”

“Of course. I’ve seen your shiny fucking forehead plastered over every bus and billboard for months. What I’m not entirely sure about, though, is what the leader of the opposition is doing here, making idle chit−chat.”

The man’s face broke into a grin. “Well, I was hoping that we could have a little talk. I’d like you to tell me everything you know about werewolves.”

***

18th December 2008
.
Ashton Court Estate, Bristol. 14.27.

Daniel adjusted his binoculars, bringing the tree into sharp focus. He smiled and removed a battered notebook from his pocket, hastily making some notes before bringing the binoculars up once more. The waxwing flew from the tree, landing on a hawthorn bush to feast on its red berries. There had been flocks of waxwings during the autumn, when he was a boy in Germany. He’d loved to watch the birds, trying to count the numbers in a flock as they swirled in the sky outside his bedroom window. He didn’t often think of his human life. How he’d been before the night he’d become infected by a rampaging moonstruck, two weeks after his sixteenth birthday. Yet over the past few days he found himself thinking back to that other Daniel Braun. The sickly, nervous but intelligent, child. What would he have become if he’d not been turned? What kind of a life might he have lived?

A light cough came from behind him, and a woman’s voice said, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“No, it’s just a pleasant way to pass some time in beautiful surroundings. Plus it looks less suspicious than a man sitting alone in some woodlands. Especially now. How are you, Marie? I admit, I was surprised to get your call.”

He turned to face her. She was dressed in a Lycra crop−top and baggy tracksuit bottoms. Tendrils of steam rose from her body in the freezing December air, and she wiped sweat from her forehead. “Thank you for coming, Daniel. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Gregorz. He was like a father to me as well.”

“Gregorz talked too much. If he’d just torn Connie’s throat out as soon as we found her, or let me do it, then he’d still be alive.”

Marie took his hand. “He did what he thought was right. He had a good heart. That was why we loved him.”

Daniel nodded through the thinning woods, towards the sprawling city beyond. “It’s getting bad out there. I was hoping that Connie’s message might have been passed off as a hoax, but no such luck. The media are in a frenzy and the public are demanding action. Did you hear that they’d installed infra−red scanners at the airports and docks already?”

“I know. Fuck knows how they knew to do that. Why haven’t you gotten out of the country? I was surprised to find you still here.”

“And go where? It’s the same all over the planet, sheep panicking because they’ve found a wolf in their midst. The Pack is in disarray. Krystof and Lukas are making a play for power, but the non−moonborn are still loyal to Michael. All the while, the Russian authorities are raiding Mafia properties armed with flamethrowers and silver bullets, looking for werewolves. It’s all falling apart, Marie. Connie fucked us.”

“Listen, I came to you because I need your help. They’ve got Michael. He’s under guard, but I know where they’re keeping him.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “And what, you and I are going to charge in there, guns blazing and get him back?”

“Not just you and I.”

Daniel let out a bitter laugh. “Oh yes, I forgot about Simpson. Where is your little moonstruck friend?”

“Keeping his head down. He’s still pretty messed up from the fight, and then there’s the whole ‘world’s most wanted’ thing. He’ll be ready when we need him.”

“Marie, you have lost your mind. I’m sorry about Michael, but there is no way that you can get to your brother, even with me and the moonstruck. Get out of the country while you still can and take Simpson with you.”

Marie shook her head. Her mouth curled into a smile and, for a moment, her eyes flashed green. “Oh ye of little faith. Trust me, I have a plan.”

To Be Concluded

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Again, I find myself at the end of a novel and grateful for all of the wonderful friends who have helped me create this book.

My editor, Simon Marshall−Jones, for doing a brilliant job with the manuscript and getting it back to me in record time.

Stu Smith from Graviton Creations, for really raising the bar on the cover this time around, for putting up with my insistence that the tail
still
wasn’t right and for a drunken facebook discussion on how to best hide hairy werewolf bollocks.

Ashley Corr, for letting me use his brilliant photograph of Finchale Abbey as a basis for the cover.

My beta readers, Neil John Buchanan and Vix Kirkpatrick, for pointing out the things I’d missed and where I needed to improve the story. Your input has been absolutely invaluable.

And thanks to everyone in my critique group on Zoetrope, especially Scott Gamboe, Rick Taubold, and Lynn Gerry. Your comments and support have been stellar as usual.

Special thanks goes to my girlfriend, Donna, for putting up with me disappearing for hours on end to work on this novel.

And finally, the biggest thank you of all goes to all of my readers, especially those who mailed me to tell me that they enjoyed High Moor, or left reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. Without you, there would have been no point. I hope you enjoyed Moonstruck as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Also from Horrific Tales Publishing

When John Simpson hears of a bizarre animal attack in his old home town of High Moor, it stirs memories of a long forgotten horror. John knows the truth. A werewolf stalks the town once more, and on the night of the next full moon, the killing will begin again. He should know. He survived a werewolf attack in 1986, during the worst year of his life.

It’s 1986 and the town is gripped in terror after the mutilated corpse of a young boy is found in the woods. When Sergeant Steven Wilkinson begins an investigation, with the help of a specialist hunter, he soon realises that this is no ordinary animal attack. Werewolves are real, and the trail of bodies is just beginning, with young John and his friends smack in the middle of it.

Twenty years later, John returns to High Moor. The latest attack involved one of his childhood enemies, but there’s more going on than meets the eye. The consequences of his past actions, the reappearance of an old flame and a dying man who will either save or damn him are the least of his problems. The night of the full moon is approaching and time is running out.

But how can he hope to stop a werewolf, when every full moon he transforms into a bloodthirsty monster himself?

"Graeme Reynolds has written a real-deal werewolf story. In these dull days of nice, friendly lycanthropes, it is refreshing to see some brutality and animal instincts in what is a very fine British horror novel. Reynolds draws vivid pictures with words. His descriptions of High Moor the town is excellent, portraying an area in decay, one that suffered during the 1980s, and has yet to recover into the 21st century. The transformation scenes, where humans become wolves, are brilliantly done, and you can feel every crack of bone, every tear of flesh. High Moor is a worthy addition to the werewolf canon.
- Thomas Emson, Author of Maneater, Prey, Skarlet, Krimson, Zombie Britannica"

Ripe for a film or TV adaptation and left open for a sequel, High Moor is an excellent example of great British writing that deserves to be read.
- Starburst Magazine. 9/10