He felt like his skull was about to crack open from being repeatedly struck by something. His mouth was dry, and his body was weak, probably a side effect of some drug—just like all his previous foolish attempts, which explained his nausea and various other physical discomforts. Undoubtedly, Mycroft would appear later to scold him for his stupidity, but he would also hand him a glass of water afterward, and perhaps some other medication to help him sleep—whatever it was.
He frowned—what was it? He needed to figure it out to avoid repeating the same mistake. He didn't want to go through this again; once was enough—he didn't even have the strength to lift his paw, uh… no, his hand, to touch it.
What a terrible night! he thought. He was far more resistant to drugs than most, but even so, the effects of this drug were impressively strong. And where was that mint flavor coming from?
Mint?!
He realized, shuddered, and the onrushing thoughts made him gag. Chase, hunt, silent darts. Damn it! Whatever they used, the drug was potent enough to take down a grown elephant. —They knew perfectly well they couldn't give an adult werewolf any chance.
He had no chance.
Everything was pre-arranged — what a nasty thought.
He regained his human form, but the drug injection had disrupted his senses. His normally precise perception of time was malfunctioning; he was somewhat agitated, unsure how long he'd been unconscious — hours? A day? Or even longer? The only thing he was certain of was that this wasn't Devonshire; if he'd been unconscious long enough, he might have already left England.
But he wasn't alone.
"A cup of tea, please." His voice was dry and rough. "Wet, warm, pour it into a cup, add milk, no sugar. If there's no hot water, cold water will do, bottled. Rainwater, mountain spring water, tap water, well water, distilled water, mineral water, whatever you like. And painkillers, morphine-free, double dose is better."
He was too lazy to say polite words like "please" or "thank you," he just pulled the blanket around himself tighter and slowly calmed his breathing—even if he was polite, they wouldn't do as he said. They might give him a cup, or they might give him nothing. Besides, there were other things that bothered him more—like Mycroft, for example. He knew without a doubt how that guy would mock him after he was taken away.
"Captured"—that was the word werewolves hated most. There were always people or organizations that expressed a strong desire to capture werewolves. But only a few people knew of the existence of werewolves and saw them as an omen of doom.
He licked his lips. The air was dry and parched, thick with the smell of hospital disinfectant. He heard the hum of machines, the heartbeats of a dozen or more people, the pungent chemical odor mixed with the lingering scent of mint, making his stomach churn again—after this, mint would definitely be on his list of things he hated.
His neck itched; some kind of metal had been implanted in his skin. He scratched it, and as his brain processed the pattern his fingers traced, a surge of intense anger welled up inside him! He roared silently!
A brand! They had marked him! Like an animal!
"If I were you, I wouldn't do this,"
a sharp, efficient voice came from the speaker—doing nothing to his throbbing brain.
"If you were me, this conversation wouldn't happen," he retorted.
He tensed, trying to push the discomfort into a corner unseen by others; his pride wouldn't allow him to expose his weakness, so he armed himself from head to toe. He was naked under the blanket; it would have been surprising if anything had been left untouched. He covered himself with the blanket, feigning indifference—he was a werewolf, and being naked meant nothing to him—he needed to focus on the unknown before him.
He glanced around to confirm his suspicions; he was in a cage—a cutting-edge, expensive medical facility equipped with surveillance systems—but it was still just a cage. He grinned
, clenched his teeth, and desperately suppressed the instinctive urge to roar within him. He had only recently transformed, and the lingering wolfish instincts within him were still strong, making him easily provoked by his current understanding. He saw a man standing a few meters behind a glass screen, about five feet ten inches tall, with brown hair, appearing excited, and looking much younger than his actual age.
"Incredible!" the scientist's voice came through the loudspeaker: "Male werewolf sample, transformed from wolf form to human form in 23 hours and 18 minutes. Bipedalism, excellent communication skills, strong self-awareness, six feet tall, blue eyes, hair color matching the wolf form's fur."
Twenty-three hours had passed? After that thing shot him?
He approached the glass wall and pushed it open. He saw his face reflected on the wall, displaying a strange expression somewhere between a smile and a threat.
"Very good," he said softly, unfolding his reasoning at a slow pace. "But I'm afraid I'm only partially correct. From another perspective, you, a male human, between thirty-six and thirty-nine years old, single, spent some time in London after adulthood, presumably to complete your studies, but you actually grew up in the Midlands, most likely near Coventry. Your eyesight is excellent, but you prefer to communicate behind your glasses, suggesting you are a timid, cowardly, and easily hurt person. Aside from a female family member—presumably your mother—with whom you have a good relationship, you have no other close friends."
He paused. He gave the man a forced smile. "I should have asked your name, but I have absolutely no interest in that. Now that the introductions are over, I'll repeat my requests: tea, water, or any non-alcoholic, non-carbonated liquid. Then, I need proper clothes, including shoes, edible human food containing a good piece of red meat, and a reasonable explanation of why you think keeping werewolves in cages is a wise move, in Old English, Modern English, or any dialect."
They brought water and handed him the clothes and a serving of sour cream beef through a small window in the glass door. The water was in two 1.5-liter containers, and they'd removed the logos from the bottles—as if he couldn't taste Evian—and he quickly gulped one down.
The clothes were rubbish compared to what he was wearing—two pairs of white underwear, a gray shirt and pants—ha, what a sweet color!—and a pair of socks; they didn't give him shoes.
The sour cream beef was bland—he'd had better. The beef was overcooked to his liking, but they didn't take the opportunity to add any other "seasoning." He picked up the plastic spoon provided and ate quietly, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his eyes scanning his surroundings beyond the plate.
He noticed five cameras at different angles, all difficult to reach; the glass walls were bulletproof; and the walkie-talkie and megaphone were firmly embedded in the ceiling, hard to reach. The cage seemed impenetrable.
He knew he was going to be used for experiments—but it would be incredibly boring. He just wanted to know how long it would take his "swarm" to find him, and what they would do once they did.
They gave him a full-body checkup, sticking needles in and out of him, attaching instruments to certain areas—areas he vehemently disliked being touched. He protested, but no one paid him any attention. They only told him to "stand up," "lie down," and "reach out."
Whenever he got annoyed, he would start talking to them, acting out their lives, watching them cower in fear. These people weren't all English speakers; although he heard mostly English, he could also discern German, Russian, and French mixed in. He didn't need to bother telling them that he actually knew a lot, a great deal, far more than they imagined.
The heads of these people hadn't shown themselves yet, but they were definitely watching him from somewhere. At least two security personnel were monitoring him 24/7 within his sight, and every door was equipped with an alarm, requiring a password for entry and exit.
He was certain this lab wasn't in England.
Escape, he realized, wasn't going to be that simple.
They had marked him, on the skin below his hairline on the back of his neck, like they would any animal or pet. And that mark, he thought, was more than just a simple electronic tracker. It was a monitor, constantly recording his heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, and, of course, his hormones.
He was itchy from it, whether physically or psychologically, he couldn't tell, but he could feel it clearly, as if some uninvited guest had suddenly appeared on him. He tried to dig it out, digging his fingers deep into the junction of the mark and his skin, but to no avail. One part of him tried to ignore it, while another urged, screaming, to get it away quickly. He forced himself to calm down; throughout his life, he had struggled against the wolfish instincts within him, trying to sever them from his self-control. Unlike others, he never succumbed to his instincts; he controlled the wolf, not the other way around!
However, this didn't mean those people had the right to treat him this way. He was never an ordinary animal!
The next day, he believed that his only
remaining...