Return of the Wolf Man (2 page)

No—it was a trick!

His throat was parched and his teeth ached. He had not killed. He was not sated. He roared and his mind returned to him. The bats vanished and the red haze became white moonlight and the Wolf Man was once more looking at the monster he had been pursuing since his transformation in the castle laboratory.

The vampire exposed his teeth and hissed. Most of the werewolf’s victims never saw him, let alone fled. But this creature, this awful, tenacious vampire—he was different. Count Dracula’s strength, his senses, and his reflexes were nearly equal to his own. The vampire seemed to be afraid but there was none of the naked panic that overcame humans. Count Dracula wasn’t like that fat little man the werewolf had tried to attack just minutes before. When the full moon had risen above the laboratory window, the Wolf Man had been looking down at captive game: a small, chubby man strapped to a gurney. It would have been a pleasure to feed on him, to watch the fear drain from him along with his lifeblood. Then Count Dracula arrived and everything changed. The Wolf Man and the vampire fought; as they overturned metal worktables and electronic consoles, glass vials shattered on the floor and released sickening fumes and clouds of green and yellow smoke.

Count Dracula!

The Wolf Man shook his head furiously as he heard the name in his head. Pieces of human memory came to him, like shards of dream. They told the Wolf Man that he had come here to destroy the vampire, though he couldn’t remember why. Not that it was important. The vampire was a rival, another creature of the night. That was reason enough to want to destroy him. Even London, where they’d been until recently, had not been large enough to accommodate two ravenous predators.

The werewolf rose slowly. His tawny, bristle-like fur bunched tightly beneath his white trousers and black button-down shirt. Count Dracula continued to stare at his adversary with baleful eyes. But the swirling haze and the bats were gone. Red saliva trickled down the vampire’s bared fangs. The werewolf showed his own teeth. They were yellow near the pale pink gums, white near the crowns. The vampire hissed again and began backing toward the small, alabaster balcony. Frustrated by this long chase, and angered by the vampire’s attempt to attack his mind, the Wolf Man roared and lunged.

The vampire turned to his left, grabbed the ceramic vase from its stand, and flung it at his adversary. The werewolf ducked easily and the vase shattered behind him. With a cry of rage and desperation, Count Dracula spun and ran onto the balcony. He was outside in two long strides.

The Wolf Man hunched low and bolted forward. There was nowhere for the vampire to go. The thick spittle that had collected in the corners of his black-lipped mouth spilled over his chin as he anticipated the kill.

Count Dracula reached the balustrade and stopped running. He faced the sea; the waves crashed loudly over fifty feet below. The vampire raised his arms and spread his cape. The wind filled the cloak, the fabric flapping slowly. Borne by the sea breeze, the smell of blood filled the room behind him. Moonlight glinted off the vampire’s dark, slick hair. It shone on the shiny folds of his cape, on the large ring he wore on his left hand, on his naked fangs. Beneath him, all along the dark, moss-covered northern face of the castle, the denizens of the dark froze—but only for a moment. The moths and spiders quickly turned wings and legs elsewhere. Rats sunk low and crept quietly into drainage ditches, seeking sanctuary under the granite walls. Owls fell silent beneath wide and frightened eyes. The night was no longer theirs.

The Wolf Man reached the balcony doors and he also stopped, though not out of deference to the Prince of Darkness. There had been a change in the vampire, something subtle. The werewolf’s large, sensitive ears cocked forward. He listened as the vampire’s normally rapid heart began drumming even faster. Faster, yet softer.
Smaller.
The werewolf dimly remembered other times when the creature’s heartbeat had changed. First his heartbeat and then the rest of the vampire, transforming into a mist or a wolf or—

A bat. If he changed into a bat Dracula could lose himself in the night, return to his coffin.

The Wolf Man howled from deep inside as the vampire’s change came faster. His cape began to shrink and tighten. The cloak lost its luster as the satin became leather. The vampire’s legs withered and rose and dangled in the air beneath his compacting torso. His shoes and socks became spurlike calcars on each foot and his toes stretched into small, sharp claws. The hair on his head shortened into bristly fur and the head itself grew smaller and darker. Count Dracula’s ears sharpened and his nostrils flared into wicked gashes. His fingers lengthened into delicate ribs along the top of his cape. And then, save for the flapping of its great wings, the large gray bat rose silently above the balcony.

Oblivious to his surroundings, aware of nothing but his prey, the Wolf Man raced onto the balcony. His mouth was pulled wide in a cry of rage, saliva flying from the sides as he ran. As the vampire took flight, the werewolf planted his shaggy left foot on the top of the balustrade. He hurled himself after the creature. The bat veered to the right and the werewolf’s right hand shot out. He snatched the vampire around the torso and pulled it to his breast. The winged creature squealed as the two beasts hung in the air for a moment, suspended by the bat’s frantic flapping.

In that instant, as they hung in the warm night wind, the Wolf Man knew he’d lost this fight. He could clearly see both bat-wings: neither of them bore the sign of the red pentagram, the symbol that always glowed bloody and clear on the right hand of his next victim. Count Dracula would survive this encounter.

Unless—

Unless he could hold on to the vampire until sunrise. A fragment of human memory told the Wolf Man that it wasn’t necessary for the vampire to die beneath his rending claws. If he could prevent Count Dracula from returning to his coffin, the vampire would perish under the gentle caress of morning.

The bat’s strength ebbed and his wings slowed and suddenly the two figures were plummeting through the night. The creatures were still locked together, the vampire biting and scratching at his captor as they somersaulted slowly toward the dark, churning ocean. As they fell, the werewolf didn’t know whether the roar in his ears was the howling of the wind or his own ferocious cry.

They hit the choppy water hard and threw up a towering funnel of sea. The white-capped geyser cascaded around them, the sound deafening, the cold spray chilling. Tossed and pulled by the powerful currents, the mortal enemies fell deeper into the sea. Though he was winded from the landing, the werewolf fought to hold his struggling quarry. He was guided by instinct rather than reason, the awareness that he must not let Count Dracula go. Shafts of moonlight penetrated the blackness as the Wolf Man held tightly to his violently thrashing prey. The swirling sands and salt water stung his eyes and rocks jutting from the shoal punched his back and sides. His lungs ached for breath. But the Wolf Man would not release his prey. The animal heart in him did not understand surrender.

Then, through the murky waters, the werewolf saw the green-rusted remains of an ancient anchor. Fighting the ruthless undertow, the Wolf Man twisted in an attempt to thrust the bat onto a pointed fluke. But as the werewolf turned, the vampire’s beating wings and slashing teeth quickly gave way to powerful arms and mighty fangs. Count Dracula once again assumed human form and with an explosion of strength he broke free. He arched away like a giant manta, leaving a trail of seaweed and silt in his wake. And then the vampire was gone, swallowed by the gloomy waters.

Aching for air, the Wolf Man shot to the surface. Wave-tossed against a mossy outcropping of rock, he clawed to the rounded top and clung there as the ocean beat around him. The sound and smell of the vampire was already gone. The details of the conflict also faded quickly. There was a trace of human despair, of human frustration in the Wolf Man’s intense eyes. But it passed quickly. Exhausted and weak, what the werewolf felt most intensely right now was the need to feed.

He dug his toes into the rock and brought his legs up under him. Crouching, he leaned forward on his claws. He sniffed the air. Almost immediately he was distracted by other smells, smells that beckoned and tempted him. He looked along the shore of the island, toward the cove. The water broke high and loud on the rocks, obscuring his view. But he didn’t need to see. He smelled a woman and a man there as well as something else. Something uninviting. The odor of dead flesh. He had smelled it earlier this evening in the laboratory, where the vampire had kept his giant—the monster constructed long ago, made of bodies torn from the grave or plucked from the gallows. Following his nose, the werewolf was able to pick out the pale green giant beyond the breakers. The creature was standing on the end of a dock, throwing crates and barrels at a rowboat. The Wolf Man dimly remembered fighting the monster once, also in water. In a flood at a different castle.

Almost at once there was another smell. It was coming from behind the giant; the tart odor of petrol. Waves splashed around the Wolf Man, covering him with spray as he watched the man creep behind the giant. He spilled the petrol on the wharf, struck a match, touched the flame to a rag, and dropped it on the dock. With a roar, the fire shot along the dock, eagerly consuming the old wood. The monster turned and waved his long, stiff arms at the blaze. His pale-green flesh glowed orange as the flames swept toward him. With nowhere else to go the monster finally moved forward, into the blaze, either hoping to get through it or finally embracing death . . . a yearning the Wolf Man knew well. The smell of the giant’s dead flesh burning was flat and uninteresting, yet also gratifying. The Wolf Man vaguely recalled having come here because of this creature too, though he couldn’t remember why.

The werewolf snarled. Thinking was difficult and annoyed him. It was better to want or need and simply act on his desires. And right now his only want and need was to feed.

The werewolf turned his attention to the calm waters ahead and to the men in a rowboat. He recognized the fat man from the laboratory and his lanky friend, the man who had led him to this island from the mainland. Even hundreds of yards away the werewolf could sense the men’s pervasive fear. He liked that. Desperation caused the blood to rush through prey and permeate the flesh. It not only added a sense of power to the hunt, it made the meat easier to tear.

The werewolf needed only one kill to satisfy his blood-lust. He decided he would kill the fat one. His fear was greater than any the Wolf Man had ever sensed. His heart would be beating much faster. His flesh would be the more succulent.

Just then the two men jumped from their rowboat and began swimming away. The Wolf Man growled. Though he was angry to lose the fat man, he didn’t like hunting in water. It was difficult to move when his fur became wet and heavy. The sea also forced him to stay close to his quarry because the water washed away their scent. He didn’t have the opportunity to stalk and surprise them. And the werewolf was already tired from his struggle with Count Dracula. He didn’t want to fight the currents, the waves, the wind.

Reluctantly, the werewolf turned his ears and bloodstained eyes toward the man and woman he’d seen at the dock. The man had joined the woman now and they were walking away from the fire. His arm was around her protectively and they were heading slowly toward the castle. Though they were involved in themselves and unaware of their surroundings, the Wolf Man knew he’d have to be careful. The man might be preoccupied with the woman, but he’d been clever enough to rescue her from Count Dracula and to destroy the Monster.

Sliding back into the water, the arm-weary werewolf allowed the waves to carry him back to shore. Upon reaching the rocky beach, he shook himself off. Crouching behind a boulder, he sniffed to make certain he was alone. There were no other humans on the island. Count Dracula, his eternal nemesis, was also gone. And he could no longer smell the rancid presence of the giant. The dock had collapsed into the sea; hissing clouds of gray smoke rolled over the water, obscuring whatever sight and smell remained of the creature.

The Wolf Man bent low and bared his teeth. Alone with his prey, he watched as they neared the castle. The stone edifice sat on a high, rocky hill, the silhouette imposing against the moon-bathed sky. The dark outline of its thick towers and monolithic walls reminded the werewolf of other castles, other times. The images were indistinct, incomplete, confusing. The only thing that was the same after all these years was the unconquerable need that drove him forward, that compelled him to kill with violent swiftness.

Arms cocked, elbows locked into his sides, the werewolf crouched low. His claws raking the damp earth, he remained downwind of the couple as he ran toward the jagged, sloping cliff.

II

For tall, lean Professor Charles Bradstreet Stevens III, it had been infatuation at first sight.

The young, dark-eyed Professor Stevens had only met insurance investigator Joan Raymond that evening, when she’d come to Mornay Castle with shipping clerks Chick Young and Wilbur Grey. The young neurosurgeon was immediately taken with her beauty. Her shoulder-length blond hair and dazzling hazel eyes. A sly, disarming smile and cherry-red lips. She looked especially exotic in the Gypsy wardrobe she still had on, the costume she’d worn to the masquerade ball on the Florida mainland. Technically, Joan had been Wilbur’s date. But the chubby young Don Juan was also escorting Dr. Mornay to the party so it was Stevens who sat with Miss Raymond on the boat to the town of LaMirada. Stevens also danced with her. That was when she had confided in him that she was an insurance investigator looking into the activities of Young and Grey. The two didn’t seem bright enough to pull off anything complex or shady, but that wasn’t his concern. Stevens was just glad the lady was there. He’d been attracted by her beauty, then smitten by her sharp wit, grace, and intelligence. Now he was also drawn to her strength. She had survived an encounter with the strange and charismatic Count Dracula.