Emily Shadowhunter 2 - a Vampire, Shapeshifter, Werewolf novel.: Book 2: WOLF MAN Read online

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Author’s note

  Emily Shadowhunter

  Book 2: WOLFMAN

  Anglo American Press

  London – Paris – New York

  Cover Design – ANP Design

  Cover Model – Emily Garner

  As always – For my wife, Polly and my son Axel

  You chase the shadows from my soul

  With special thanks to Emily Garner – Muse, friend, model, singer, actress.

  When you came in the air went out

  And every shadow filled up with doubt

  I don't know who you think you are

  But before the night is through

  I wanna do bad things with you

  Jace Everett 2005 (True Blood)

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  Chapter 1

  The patch on the back of his leather jacket was so faded that you could only make out the writing in full sunlight.

  “Protectors M.C.”

  He stood at the bar, drinking. The barman had left the bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him. It was simply too much effort to keep filling the man’s shot glass every twenty seconds. So instead he concentrated on polishing his beer glasses with a cloth that seemed to be made up of grease and cotton in equal measures, and he left the man to serve himself.

  There were only another eight of them in the room, all with the same patch. And they were the sort of men that fill space. Not only by the dint of their physical size, which was impressive, but also because of their presence. One of them could fill a room. Nine of them would have made the super bowl seem crowded.

  These were men with presence.

  But, although the barman had never seen them before and despite the fact that a room full of nine long haired, leather clad, visibly scarred, well-hard bikers should have filled him with trepidation – he felt at ease. He could sense that these were men that would react to violence but they would never be the root cause.

  So he provided the drinks and polished the crockery and didn’t mention the fact that smoking indoors was illegal. And anyway, he was thankful for their custom. His pub was situated on an old main road that used to boast traffic and a steady cliental but, since the council had built a bypass, the pub had suddenly found itself in the back of beyond with barely enough traffic to sustain it.

  Then he heard the sound of more motorbikes pulling up outside the pub. Big machines with solid throaty engines. Harleys.

  The men in the bar went from sitting in a relaxed fashion to standing and alert in one flowing movement.

  The sound of the bikes stuttered to a halt as the engines were turned off and, seconds later, another group of men walked into the pub. They were cast from the same mold as the Protectors MC. Large, raw boned but incongruously graceful. Long hair, beards, leather, denim. The patches on their backs read, “Bad Moon MC”.

  And for the first time the barman noticed that everyone in the room had the same color eyes. He wondered why he hadn’t seen that before. It was so obvious. So undeniably strange.

  Pale yellow. With flecks of gold.

  Perhaps they were all wearing contact lenses, he thought. Some sort of biker thing. But he knew that these were not the type of men that bothered with cosmetic enhancements. So, instead of dwelling on it he simply polished harder.

  One of the newcomers walked up to the man at the bar. The tension was almost visible.

  He held out his hand. ‘Lucas Cain?’ He asked.

  The man nodded, took the proffered hand. Shook once.

  ‘Well met,’ continued the newcomer. ‘I be Jack Wishbone. Alpha of Bad Moon.’

  ‘So you heard the call?’ Asked Lucas.

  ‘I did,’ admitted Jack. ‘We all did.’

  Lucas put his empty glass down. ‘Well then,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  As one, the men trooped out of the pub. They didn’t look back. Nor did they bid farewell to the barman.

  But when he looked down he saw that, next to the half empty bottle of whisky, the biker had left a pile of notes. A small fortune. Enough to pay for a hundred bottles, let alone the half that he had consumed. He flicked through the notes, baffled at the bizarre display of generosity.

  Outside the rumble of engines shook the ground as the combined crew set off.

  And the barman, who had fought in both the Falklands and Iraq before he hung up his spurs, couldn’t shake the powerful impression that the group of men that he had just seen were going to war.

  A war from which they did not all expect to come back from.

  Chapter 2

  Nathan had handpicked twenty Enforcers, twelve men and eight women, and commanded them to attend him in the main ballroom. Although they were all masters and were not used to obeying a mere Aspirant, they were all present. For to ignore a Caporegime was tantamount to ignoring the master of all masters. And to do that was to invite the true death.

  So they came. But they did with an attitude that verged on revolt, so lacking in respect were they.

  The ex-Shadowhunter stood in the center of the ballroom. His feet astride, arms behind his back. A military-style at ease position. He was dressed in black leather. Calf high boots, leather pants and a snug fitting, sleeveless, leather singlet. His arms and shoulders were so defined that he looked like a model on an anatomy chart.

  His conversion to Nosferatu, combined with his existing Shadowhunter physiology had created a being that encompassed all of the attributes of both. Any trace of excess fat and flesh had been burned from him, leaving a network of visible veins and muscle striations. Like cords of rope lashed together over a steel framework. He had retained the Shadowhunter muscle density, strength and speed and had supplemented it with the uncanny additions of the undead. So now he was already twice as powerful as the average Aspirant. But he could feel that he was still enhancing. And if the improvements continued at the same rate, then it was totally possible that in a few more weeks, he would be an entire order of magnitude faster, stronger and quicker than any other Nosferatu. That is to say, almost three times their equal.

  He was indeed a perfect example of synergistic creation. The sum of the total being mor
e than the sum of the parts.

  Nathan was fast becoming an apex-predator amongst other apex-predators.

  He let his eyes roam over the twenty brethren standing in front of him. According to Lord Byron these were the best of the best. The strongest, fastest and most ambitious Enforcers. But to his eyes they seemed weak. Arrogant beyond their abilities. Puffed up popinjays used to easy battles against terrified humans or lesser vampires.

  That was about to change.

  He said nothing. Simply stood and watched. Waiting to see how the dynamic in the room flowed. Who would speak first? Who would assume leadership and who would wait and judge the situation?

  Finally an elder by the name of Junot Carn walked up to him. His self confidence was so strong that it formed a palpable aura around him. An almost visible glow. Hundreds of years of self-belief, assurance and leadership.

  ‘So,’ he asked. ‘What’s this all about, young Aspirant?’ He questioned, the sneer in his voice as obvious as his overweening confidence.

  Nathan smiled. Or, to put it more truthfully, he pulled back his lips to reveal his teeth. ‘I have decided to put together an elite section of Enforcers,’ he said. ‘Normally this would involve collecting together the very best of the best. Top warriors that would compete for a place amongst the upper echelons of an elite force.’

  Junot and others around him smiled at the inferation that they were at the acme of their positions.

  ‘However,’ continued the ex-Shadowhunter. ‘Instead I was forced to simply take the least worst of those available. A group of twenty, lazy, complacent assassins that have never seen real action, nor fought a real enemy before. A collective of centuries of smugness, self-satisfaction and conceit. For there are no best amongst you.’

  Junot stepped forward. ‘You go too far, young Aspirant. I protest. You are a mere child. Weeks old. How dare you address us with such a lack of respect?’

  Nathan moved so fast that it was as if he had been instantly translocated from where he was standing to appear behind the dissenting Master. He grabbed the vampire by his neck, twisted and then with a small shrug of his shoulders, tore his head off.

  Then he stood, holding the dismembered head above him. Letting the blood drip down onto his chest and back. Coating himself in the life-fluids of the dead Master.

  ‘I am Caporegime,’ he said. His voice barely a whisper. ‘I am Nosferatu. I am Shadowhunter. My voice is the voice of the master of all masters. I am your leader.’

  As one the gathered brethren took a knee and bowed their heads in acquiescence to their new master.

  ‘When I am finished with you, you will be known as the most elite of us all. You will be the very pinnacle of the Nosferatu. And you shall be known as, the Bloodwraiths.’

  Then Nathan walked amongst them, laying his hands on them. Touching their faces. A parent with his beloved children. And he thought to himself that never again would the brethren be beaten by a human girl-child or a gang of street thugs. He would train his Bloodwraiths. He would ensure that nothing mortal could stand against them. They would be the ultimate hunters. The acme of all that was Nosferatu.

  And they would answer only, and directly, to him.

  They would be Nathan Tremblay’s Bloodwraiths.

  Chapter 3

  A thin film of early morning mist clothed the ground like a shifting shroud as the light breeze shepherded it around, piling it against rocks and tree stumps. The sunlight, pale and watery, peeked through the foliage at a low angle, picking out the vivid greens and silvers of the leaves and the still present spheres of dew that clung to the tips of the blades of grass.

  Pigeons cooed in the trees, calling for their mates while, far in the background, the sound of a lone dog barking, echoed through the forest.

  And above it all rang the sound of steel clashing against steel.

  Em and Bastian moved back and forth across the dew-wet grass, parrying and thrusting, their katanas flashing like silver pike in a stream. Their movements were so fast and continuous that it seemed as if two industrial cooling fans were having a duel. Sweat ran freely down their arms and shoulders and the right side of Bastian’s face was slick with blood from a cut above his eye. But still they continued, working as hard as they had ever done so in their lives before.

  Bastian was using all of his one hundred years of experience to penetrate Emily’s guard. Rolling his wrist as he struck, feinting left and then striking right, moving backwards whilst lunging at the same time. But Em consistently parried his attacks and struck back with her ripostes.

  In the background, Tag was doing chin-ups from a low hanging tree branch. Counting them off as he did so, every one coupled with a hissing expulsion of air as he raised his three hundred pound body upwards again and again. He had been training himself even harder, if that were possible, than Em and Bastian over the last few days.

  When Em asked him why, he had confided in her that he felt totally inadequate all of the time. He had gone from being a big man, feared on the streets and king of his domain, to a big man who had been beaten up by a young girl and a little Frenchman. So he figured that if he pushed himself to his limits and trained real hard, then at least he could ensure that he would never be beaten by a normal human being. I’ll be the king of the normals, he had said.

  Em slipped as she moved sideways and Bastian jumped at the opportunity to strike, leaning forward and overextending himself as he did.

  But Em had been faking it and, as the Jamaican moved past his point of balance she kicked him in the knee, dropping him to the ground as she did. Bastian rolled over but before he could rise, Em had her blade at his throat.

  ‘Gotcha,’ she grinned.

  Bastian smiled back. ‘You gotten good, girl,’ he admitted. ‘Real good.’

  Emily held her hand out and helped the wiry combatant to his feet. ‘I’ve got a lot to catch up with,’ she said.

  Bastian shook his head. ‘No,’ he argued. ‘You already caught up. You have a gift,’ he continued. ‘I knew it when we first met. So did Ambrose. In one day of training back at the Foundation you gained more skill than any other Shadowhunter would have gained in a year. Not sure what it is but whatever – it’s freaky.’

  ‘What?’ Asked Em. ‘You saying that I’m a freak?’

  Bastian laughed. ‘In the nicest possible way,’ he admitted. ‘A superfreak.’

  Emily punched him on the shoulder. ‘Freak yourself,’ she giggled.

  Their laughter was cut short as William walked out of the front door and stood on the grass in front of them.

  He was naked but for his boxers. The low level morning sun reflected off his broad chest, the shadows bringing the massive slabs of corded muscle into sharp relief.

  Em noticed that, over the past two days, his hair had grown at an unnatural rate and already it hung past his shoulders. His usual clean shaven look had given way to rough stubble and his eyes had changed completely. Instead of their normal pale, ice-blue they were now a deep midnight-blue. Almost black. Shot through with tiny flecks of silver. Inhuman and cold. Uncanny.

  And he had about him an aura of command. An overt feeling of impending danger. Of barely restrained violence.

  She had spoken to Sylvian about it and the Frenchman had merely shrugged and said. ‘He is pack. He is no longer William-Human. He is William-Wolf. Pack leader and warrior. He is Omega.’

  When she had tried to communicate with William he had listened politely and then simply ignored her questions. Not even deigning to answer.

  So, in typical Emily fashion, she had stuck her tongue out at him, called him a self-absorbed ass and stormed off to train instead.

  Now he stood almost naked and alone. His head held high. Shoulders back. Waiting.

  Bastian glanced at Em, a question in his eyes. She shrugged, not sure what William was doing.

  They felt the sound more than heard it. A subtle vibration under their feet. Like the beginnings of an earth tremor. A subtle forerunner of a coming disas
ter. An underground vibration that quickly transformed into the deep throated roar of over twenty throbbing Harley Davidson motorcycles.

  A minute later the convoy rode into the gates and down the driveway. They pulled up in a long line in front of William. Stopping with military precision. Turning off their engines as they did so.

  The Pack had arrived.

  Stands were kicked down. They dismounted, took three steps forward and took a knee.

  Silently they waited.

  Anticipation.

  Then William started to change. His chest swelled. His face started to protrude as his jaw lengthened and his canines extended. Hair sprouted from his skin. His boxers shredded.

  And he morphed gracefully into a full Wolf. Standing higher than an SUV. Bigger than a horse.

  More deadly than any living animal since the saber tooth tiger.

  The bikers stood and stripped off. Dropping their clothes where they stood. Then they too began to change.

  But with them it was not a thing of grace and power. When they changed Emily could see that it was under massive physical duress.

  You could actually hear them transforming. The breaking and reforming of bones. The tearing of skin. Their howls of both pain and excitement.

  Em covered her ears but she could not tear her eyes off the spectacle. It was both enthralling and terrifying at the same time.

  As she watched she noticed that at least six or seven of the bikers were girls. Something that was not immediately apparent while they were still dressed in leather and had helmets on.

  And then, with a final shiver of agony - they were Pack.

  William wolf threw his head back and howled.

  The rest of the pack joined in.

  The sound was deafening. Terrible. Primeval. The windows shook and the very earth itself trembled at the ancient call of the wild.

  And then they ran. Disappearing into the forest.

  Gone.

  Chapter 4