When he came to, the first thing he felt was the weight of his own body pulling on his wrists. Beneath him, there was no floor he could touch. Forcing his breathing to remain steady, he tested the air for scents. Rust, garbage, decay… and one lone werewolf scent: Andy. That was when he opened his eyes.
He was in a room with walls covered in semi-rusted iron panels and a concrete floor. His wrists were bound by a chain hanging from a ceiling more than ten feet high. His ankles were shackled as well. Turning his head, he saw Andy, suspended like a side of beef in a cold-storage room, less than two meters away.
He tried to turn his head without swinging the rest of his body — every movement sent sharp pain through his wrists and joints. How long had they been here? The room was bare, about four by three meters. There were no windows, only a metal door on his right wall with a small hatch.
A faint metallic jingle made him turn.
"Andy!" he whispered.
The werewolf blinked several times, trying to bring his friend into focus.
"Where the hell are we?"
"I'm guessing one of Nereus' hideouts."
"So we'll be meeting him, then?" Andy shifted slightly, trying to ease his aching muscles.
"Most likely, he'll grant us the honor of a visit."
The snap of the hatch made them both look over. Two eyes peered through the gap before it slammed shut again. Heavy footsteps echoed away.
"I think you'll get your wish," Michael said, bracing for a visit that would be anything but cordial.
The lock on the door clicked open. Three werewolves stepped inside. All of them were heavily built. The one in front was dressed in black and bore four scars running across his left cheek. The two behind him wore camouflage.
The scarred man walked up until he was face-to-face with Michael. A smile full of satisfaction and smugness curved his lips.
"Who would've thought a trap for vampires would bring me a wolf? And not just any wolf — the pack leader's brother. But I haven't introduced myself. I'm Nereus. I imagine you already know who I am."
Michael glared at him. "The killer who murdered my mother and other members of my pack."
"Mhhmmm… the pup shows his teeth." Nereus' grin made it clear he was enjoying himself. "I wouldn't call myself a murderer, though. I'm a fighter for werewolf liberation. And as you know, in every war there are casualties."
"You're going to get us all killed!"
"Oh no." Nereus smiled wider. "On the contrary. I'll finally make us free to be what we truly are — predators." His lips curled back, revealing his sharp, white teeth. "From what you've said, I take it you have no intention of joining my pack."
"Never! Kill me instead!"
"I'm afraid your end won't be that quick… or painless. I want to know where your brother is hiding."
"You'll get nothing from us!"
"I have plenty of patience and plenty of time — and men who specialize in breaking the will of werewolves." He gestured to one of the men behind him, who left the room. "At first, I thought I might use you as a bargaining chip with your brother. But now I don't need to deal with him. I'm far stronger. I've decimated your pitiful army while mine keeps growing. If you told me now where to find your brother, you'd spare the other werewolves death and suffering. I have no intention of harming civilians."
"You won't win!" Michael growled.
"We'll see. Or at least, I will. I doubt you'll get the chance."
The returning werewolf was preceded by the rattling of the metal cart he was pushing, laden with various tools — many with sharp blades, others far more disturbing — that clinked cheerfully as they rolled.
"Get the information we need out of these wolves." Without another word, Nereus left, closing the heavy metal door behind him.
---
When they returned, Ty and Lucian described what they had found in St. Peter's cemetery. Christopher and the others listened in silence.
"We have to find Nereus' hideout. We're running out of time!"
"I've identified five possible targets." Markus swiveled his chair toward the keyboard. A few seconds later, the same satellite image of Oldgrove's outskirts appeared on all three screens.
"Northern outskirts — three targets." Three red circles appeared on the screen, marking the buildings. "Western outskirts," he continued, switching the image. "One." Another circle popped up. "And southern outskirts — one more. They're all former industrial sites: a brewery, a wool mill, two warehouses, and a railway carriage factory. They all changed ownership in the last year and a half, and no building permits have been filed. Which means none of them have undergone any redevelopment. Whoever bought them has left them exactly as they were — in ruins. One of these places could be what we're looking for."
Christopher nodded. "Good. We'll split into two teams. Lucian, you're with me — we'll check the northern sites. Raeg, Leon, Ty — you take the other two."
The five werewolves headed toward the armory to gear up.
Alex stood and hurried after Christopher. "I'm coming with you."
He shook his head. "You'd just get in the way."
"I don't think I was in the way ten days ago," she shot back, her voice hard. "I've already killed for you."
"That's not a reason to risk your life again. Or ours."
"You're five against who knows how many bloodthirsty werewolves."
"And you think you can make a difference?"
Alex pressed her lips together, quickening her pace to keep up with the pack leader. "No. But I've spent my whole life fighting to forget my past. Now I have a reason to fight for my future."
Christopher stopped, his eyes meeting hers. Michael had told him how Alex had fought in the battle against Nereus' werewolves. An extra pair of blades could only help.
Finally, he nodded. "Follow me to the armory."
---
"Now we're going to have some fun," said one of Nereus's two henchmen. He stepped up to the cart, picked up a pair of brass knuckles, and slid them onto his hands slowly—right in front of Michael's face. Then, without warning, he drove a right hook straight into him.
Michael's head snapped back, bounced off the muscles of his bound arms, and dropped forward again. When he lifted it, he felt hot blood running down his cheek. The werewolf in front of him was grinning.
The second blow slammed into his stomach, the third into his side, the fourth caught him in the face again, and his nose began to gush blood. After that, he stopped counting. Soon the pain was so intense that he could no longer tell where the hits were landing.
When the werewolf finally lowered his arms, sweat dripped from his forehead down the bloodied face of his victim. "Well?" he panted. "Ready to cooperate?"
Michael raised his head and fixed his one half-open eye on his tormentor. If he'd been free, he would have gone straight for the jugular without hesitation. He bared his teeth in defiance. "Never, you filthy traitor dog!"
The next punch came from the side of his swollen right eye, snapping his head to one side. Blood spurted from his cheekbone. Michael spat the blood from his mouth onto the floor and glared up at the wolf before him.
"Orrell will change your mind."
Michael heard the sound of metal, and then his narrow field of vision was filled by the shaved head of what had to be Orrell. The werewolf bared his teeth, then raised a long, smooth-bladed knife. Michael saw him crouch down and felt the cold steel slide between his flesh and shirt before the fabric was split apart, leaving his chest exposed.
The blade traced a slow path over the bruised skin of his abdomen, stopping at his left ribs. Orrell's hand pressed against his chest as the knife began to pierce the flesh, sliding along a rib from sternum to side. A scream tore from Michael's throat before he clenched his jaws so hard he thought they might shatter.
"Stop, you bastard!" Andy's voice shouted somewhere behind him.
But the blade kept moving, cutting less than a centimeter deep—a slow, deliberate torture. Michael tried to struggle, but the chains locked his wrists and ankles in place. When the knife reached the end of its path, the muscles in his body—stretched to the breaking point—suddenly released, and he sucked in a breath. But Orrell didn't give him a moment to recover. He set the point of the blade against the other side of Michael's ribs.
---
The shock of cold water dragged him back to consciousness. He didn't know when he had blacked out—only the searing pain that never let him rest. Liquid was running down his torso, soaking his trousers. It could have been the water they'd thrown on him, or it could have been his own blood. He had no time to figure it out—because Orrell began again.
---
When he regained consciousness, he had no idea how much time had passed. His tormentors were gone—which, in a way, was good news. Orrell had worked on him for a long time, and there wasn't a single inch of his body, from the waist up, that didn't ache. Still, they hadn't managed to force a single piece of information out of him. He would never betray his brother or the pack.
He turned to look for Andy and saw his friend's head hanging limply against his chest. His face was swollen and battered, and the blood covering his torso suggested he had endured the same treatment. But, like Michael, he knew Andy hadn't talked. Michael trusted him completely. They had met at university some fifty years earlier, and since then had travelled and fought side by side. He would never betray the pack.
He thought of Christopher. He would make a good pack leader. He had lost much in the past weeks, but he would recover, find a mate, and be happy. Michael regretted the thought of causing him the added grief of his death. Then Alex's face came to his mind, her stubborn expression vivid. He would never see her again. He had no illusions about surviving much longer—in fact, at that point, he almost hoped it would all be over soon.
He should have told her he loved her. Only now did he truly realise how deep and real his feelings for her were. The only comfort was knowing she was strong and would manage just fine. He hoped she would never learn what had happened to him, and that his brother could keep her safe until this senseless war was over.
The lock clicked, and an involuntary shiver ran through him. Orrell stepped inside, a small blowtorch in his hand and a grin plastered across his face.