Mellizo Wolves Page 9

  Reeves’s blackened soul, now sharing Dr. Lazar’s body, laughed out loud at his host’s confusion. His evilness and stronger personality now reined. But appearance-wise, and for all practical purposes, he was Dr. Lazar. He looked like him, shared his talents, credentials. He knew his secrets and where the bodies were buried.

  The synergistic and more violent Dr. Lazar smiled. Damon would be equally surprised to learn that, in spite of his deadly attack on the former Reeves, his dissatisfied half-brother, death hadn’t been his final destination.

  Lazar scanned the room. The bottle of whisky on the counter told him his host was a drinking man, like himself. He poured a shot to celebrate his return to the land of the living. The slim, wide-shouldered body the Devil provided suited him just fine. Smirking, Dr. Lazar surveyed all the labeled vials about him. This was the perfect setup. He’d taken over the life and mind of man destined to be very rich—and who had direct access to Damon and his family. Now he could have it all, revenge, status, and money. Lazar looked out the lab window at the full moon.

  As his body began to jerk, he realized he was still affected by the Lamont curse. He rubbed the bristly stubble on his face, ran to the lab bathroom, and looked into the mirror. Intense feral eyes stared back at him. He ran his hand through his thickening hair. Soon, he would think like a wolf—attack like a wolf. And his new position had unexpected benefits. He could run tests on his own cursed blood. He had to extract some now while in the throes of morphing. He grabbed an empty vial, tied off his arm, and withdrew two full containers. He marked them with a big X and placed them into the refrigerator.

  He curled his lip and snarled. Quickly, he drank an ounce of the nearly perfected moon-poppy serum, enough to maintain control of his thinking and keep his savage bloodlust under control. He removed his lab clothes and shoved them into a drawer. He scanned his host’s database of brain cells until he had a fix on their shared enemy. Madam Nola—the busybody who’d burned his body and scattered his ashes when he was wolf Reeves—was causing trouble again.

  In the midst of his moon-heat, he eased out of the laboratory into the night as his body strengthened and grew hairier. He felt physically powerful yet he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was merely a hostage controlled by devilish whims. He buoyed his confidence by reminding himself he was not just a werewolf intent on mindless killing. He had an agenda.

  He became one with the shadows. In the far distance, a train whistled, making the silence of the night more ominous and magnifying his driving urge. He ran on. Lusting for blood, he slipped through the shadows and bushes toward the darkened street with the gingerbread house. No lights were on in the dwelling, but there were lights illuminating several neighboring houses. His nostrils flared as he filtered the aromas floating through the biting air. Following the medium’s cloying scent, he circled to the back of the property, leapt, and crashed through the bedroom window. The psychic-dwarf began to scream, and her Cockatoo flew at him screeching and trying to peck at his head. He batted at it with a huge clawed paw and knocked it across the room into the mirrored closet doors. Returning his attention to his victim, he ripped out her throat. It was so easy. She was such a tiny thing. Before he left, he ate her stunned Cockatoo, leaving a scattering of feathers on the dining room floor. He felt alive, energized, and ready to take on his half-brother and the whole damn world.

  Damon felt bad vibes as he and his family drove through the darkened streets toward Madam Nola’s house. Traffic was light at four in the morning. It was an ungodly hour to head for Lake Arrowhead, but Madam Nola insisted they get an early start. He glanced into the back seat. The girls had fallen asleep again. Teenagers could sack out at the drop of a hat. Damon turned the car radio to low, hoping to find some music to soothe Angela who was sitting as rigid as a board. Instead, he got the news.

  “Spiritualist’s throat torn out,” the newscaster said. “The attack happened after she retired for the night. Neighbors heard screams around eleven and called the police. It appears to be the work of a werewolf. Police are also mystified by the medium’s missing crystal ball.”

  Angela gasped and her eyes filled with tears. “How horrible! Poor Madam Nola. Oh my God, and what about—”

  Damon knew why Angela cut herself off. She didn’t want the girls to hear that there would be no ritual to lift the curse from them onto him. They were trapped. Damon said a silent prayer that Lazar and his team would discovered a cure. And fast. They’d been working on it for more than eighteen years. Lazar said they were close. Let him be right.

  That afternoon, Lazar headed for the same bar where he’d found Dudley and the alcoholic. He hired a crew of four men to capture more wolves. He had two special wolves in mind. He found men so eager for work they didn’t ask questions. He told them the hunt had to be tonight. “Round up every wolf,” he told them. “They must be alive. There’s an extra bonus if you capture the midnight black and snow white lupines.”

  As the moon rose in the darkening sky, agonizing pain radiated through Victoria’s slender body. It was as though she were trapped in a tornado, violently rotating and spiraling out of control. She pressed a pillow to her mouth to mute her howl. Sweat trickled down her back. The muscles throughout her body began to throb, followed by more pain. She howled again into the pillow, and then raked her fingers through a wild, thickening onyx mane. Swirling thick fog enveloped her brain, its snaking tendrils squeezing away much of her rational thought.

  Beside her, Valerie was writhing, apparently going through the same hell. Her almond-shaped eyes glittered with savage intensity.

  Victoria looked down at her own changing hands. Staring aghast at the long claws, partially painted with black polish, that now jutted from her fingertips made her want to laugh as though she were high on ecstasy.

  Then excruciating pain shot through her again, killing any desire to laugh. Her eyes pooled with tears as the attacks of pain came in waves, each surge sharper than the last. She convulsed and writhed upon floor. Mom had warned about the pain…but based upon Valerie’s agonized expression, both of them would probably agree it was worse than either had imagined.

  Victoria’s pain eased slightly. Her lengthening incisors, now as sharp as ivory tusks, grazed her lip and drew a drop of salty blood. She thirsted for more. Oh God, she was burning up. With sharp teeth and claws, she ripped the clothing from her body and left it in shreds at her feet. Valerie had done the same. She was still burning up and the room was hot, airless. She struggled to reach the terrace doors and threw them open.

  Feral instincts overpowered her sanity as her body continued to change shape.

  Holy cow…she was becoming a black, hairy beast. Amazed and terrified at her building strength as the agonizing metamorphosis geared through its stages to completion, she barked an order to her morphed sister, now a snow white wolf.

  When Valerie didn’t take her seriously, Victoria went into a controlling routine and snapped into the air near her sister’s head. Valerie growled back. Victoria raised the hackles around her neck and shoulders, trying to give the impression of increased size and dominant power. Her sister copied her and then splayed her ears sideways, like outstretched bat wings, to indicate increasing defiance. Not to be beat by her seconds-younger twin, Victoria issued a low, throaty growl.

  With ears erect, they evaluated each other. But the call of the moon was stronger than their game of establishing superiority. In unison, they gestured with their heads toward the open terrace doors. Then backing up, they charged forward and leapt with arching grace over the wrought iron railing. The moment their front paws hit the grass-covered ground, they headed for the hills and the caves beyond, thirsting for freedom, lusting for the unknown, and desperate to answer the compelling lure tugging at their feral souls.

  Victoria led the way through the soft, muted colors of the night. Even within the radiance of moonbeams, she believed that slipping through the dark shadows and tangled bushes provided sufficient cover. Night sounds of crickets
and hissing snakes perked her ears erect. Not yet fully unaware of the depth of the risk they’d taken, she sniffed the air and caught the scent of sweaty men—the scent of trouble. Her animal eyes picked out shapes of humans. Then she heard male shouts. They’d been spotted. She suddenly realized with their coats, glossy in the moonlight, they were moving targets—especially her snow white sister.

  Instinct and the knowledge that scientists were capturing wolves for ungodly studies alerted her to escape the area. Wanting to remain silent, she gestured with her muzzle to her sister to follow her. But when she went left, Valerie went right. She had a moment of indecision, wondering if she should circle back and follow her. Then it was too late. She’d lost sight of her more vulnerable, easy-to-see, white-coated sister. She prayed her sister would find a cave to hole up in.

  One of the hunters aimed at Valerie. Before he could get a good bead on her, a gigantic black wolf knocked him down. The shot went wild but had come close enough to stir the air by her ear. She ran like the wind and escaped the men, but now the majestic black wolf was on her tail. He let out a low, fierce growl and kept nipping at her hind legs, forcing her to run faster and faster. With growls and nips, he forced her into a circle of boulders and cornered her. She stood upright on her hind quarters and returned his fierce look. His raised hackles around the neck and shoulders revealed that he was at least twice her size. Although trembling like a frightened mouse, she issued a low, throaty growl, splayed her ears sideways, and prayed her show of increased defiance would discourage him.

  He stood tall, and deadly still. He tried to intimidate her with his prolonged humanlike stare. She lifted her head higher. His deeper growl gained intensity. He snarled, showing the fiercest incisors she’d ever seen. Then with more nips and snarls, he forced her muzzle down.

  Her heart pounded, terrified at his intentions. He seemed to be a healthy wolf, no foaming at the mouth. Her dad had told her when wolves acted aggressively like this they were either in heat, suffering from an illness, such as rabies, or had been mistreated. None of those possibilities made her feel any safer.

  From Victoria’s hiding place among the granite boulders, she watched the four wolf hunters tramp through the brush and heard them talking about catching wolves for Dr. Lazar. Determined not to be their catch of the day, she whirled around and sprinted for home, hoping her sister had done the same. They shouldn’t have left the house.

  The moonlit darkness was alive with danger. Victoria smelled the scent of the sweaty hunters getting closer. She angled into the shadow of a tree. Above her, she heard a whoosh and then a cage dropped over her. As it hit the ground, the floor locked into place, almost catching her feet. She growled.

  Almost instantly, her bronzed and shirtless captor appeared from the deeper shadows. He stared through the bars at her with a gotcha glint in his eyes. Then he turned and walked away, probably to brag to the others about his catch.

  With her sharp hearing, she heard something thud softly into the dry grass. She extended her right front leg through the bars and clawed at what she recognized at once was a cell phone. She drew it closer until she could tumble it into the cage. Of course, it would be useless to her. Even if she lucked out and caught a signal in this hilly area, which wasn’t likely, she didn’t know how to use the phone in her wolf state. Even if she managed to tap out 911, the police were looking for the werewolf who tore out Madam Nola’s throat and would want her as much as the evil scientist who’d hired this muscle-bound pretty-boy and his three ugly cohorts to catch her. And she wouldn’t dare call Mom and Dad. They’d restrict her for all eternity for leaving home without permission.

  With sharp teeth and claws, she chewed and scratched at the steel bars. Her heart pounded and she had an urge to pace, but the area was too confined. She clawed at the solid lock without success. The trap was inescapable. What would her sexy, lemon-blonde sister do if she were in this mess? Use her wiles, of course. Okay, if her only chance to escape was to seduce her broad-shouldered captor, that’s exactly what she would do. But first, she had to morph back to her human state.

  She spied a cluster of moon poppies just outside the cage. She’d read on the Internet during her research on werewolves that devouring the moon poppy, which bloomed only in the night, could possibly ward off or prevent the dreaded transformation for the night. She’d also read that consuming moon poppies in the right quantity while in the werewolf state could possibly end the affliction forever. In any event, she believed the poppies had temporary powers to reverse lycanthropy symptoms. She jammed the moon poppies into her mouth and chewed quickly. They tasted like raw spinach drizzled with poppy oil.

  She crossed her fingers, deciding to combine the promising temporary cure with another tidbit she’d gotten off the Internet. It was a reversing mind-over-matter skill she and Valerie had practiced in their room. She concentrated and processed each step in reverse. She curled her lips and counted backwards as agonizing pain radiated through her body. With all of her strength, she fought the pain and the pull of the full moon. Then all hell broke loose inside her. It was as though she were trapped in an anticyclone with its high pressure center with winds rotating and spiraling in the opposite direction. Chilled and terrified, she let out a long howl. Her eyes pooled with tears as the attacks of pain came in waves, each surge sharper than the last. She curled into a fetal position, convulsing and writhing upon the cage floor while she fought to hold back sobs.

  With her newly enhanced wolf-sharp hearing, she heard a twig snap in the distance and then the crackle of the nearer underbrush. Her captor was coming back and she wasn’t completely morphed. Her already pounding heart speeded. If he found her in this vulnerable condition, she’d be lost.

  She prayed for God’s help, his mercy. Then, slowly, like magic, the throbbing muscles throughout her body began to relax and the pain lessened. She raked her fingers through her wild, onyx mane. The swirling fog lifted from her mind and her brain strained to gather its humanness. When her feral instincts eased, she wanted to laugh like crazy.

  Then in the luminance of the orange moon, she saw him striding through the brush, his bare chest glistening like sun-kissed steel. The ceiling of the cage was too low to stand, so she affected a sitting pose. Nude, womanly, and trembling behind the bars, she watched her captor reenter the secluded bushy area. He drew what she hoped was only a stun gun—Lazar wouldn’t pay for dead wolves. She still had a chance.

  “Wait!”

  He froze, looking confused.

  She slid her tongue over her lips, hoping her slowly shrinking incisors didn’t protrude. “Please, handsome god-of-a-man, give me one last taste of passion before you zap me with that thing.”

  His confused expression darkened to lust. “How the hell did you get in there and what did you do with the wolf?”

  “What wolf? Maybe you smoked a little too much weed. What do you want with a wolf anyway?” She lowered her voice to what she hoped was a sexy purr. “I’m wilder than any untamed beast. I have this feral thing I do that drives men wild. You’ll feel the afterglow for all eternity.”

  He glanced around as if to be sure the others weren’t nearby. Apparently satisfied they would be alone long enough, he opened the cage and said, “Okay, sweetheart, make it hot and fast.”

  She ran her hands through her still thick, wild onyx hair and crawled toward him, slow and slinky, the way she’d seen strippers do in the movies. She surreptitiously closed her right hand over the cell phone, and when she cleared the cage, she drew back and let the phone fly into the bridge of his nose. Then she leaped, knocking him down, and bit into his throat, not deep enough to kill, just enough to knock him out. When he lost consciousness, she raced for home.

  Without slowing her pace, she melted into the shadows and ran, crouched low, through the brush, silent as the night that was pressing down on her. She could scarcely breathe. If she continued in a direct line, the fanned out and approaching hunters would catch her. With a gripping sense of rising pan
ic, she turned toward the highway that snaked down from the pinnacle of Mt. Baldy. Even following the road was taking a tremendous risk.

  She heard the roar of a motorcycle coming around the bend leading from the mountain resort. She dashed into the underbrush, naked as a jaybird and shivering from the cold.

  Like a fury in a flash, he drove right up to the bush where she crouched and stopped. His headlight fell over her like a glowing snare. “Can I help you, miss?”

  Recklessness played in his smile, his glinting eyes, and in his powerful movements.

  She shook her head violently. “Go away.”

  He removed his helmet, attached it to his handlebars, then gestured toward her nudity. “I can’t leave you on this dark, snaking road like that. If someone doesn’t hit you, you’re a rape waiting to happen.”

  She sized him up. Except for the lock of bad boy hair that fell across his forehead, his strong Jag-type features reminded her of a young David Elliot, clean shaven and gorgeous. But the rest of him was definitely a bad boy hard-body and the kind of slightly older, experienced, long-haired guy her dad and Uncle Hugh had warned her to avoid. “You expect me to get on your motorcycle and ride nude like Lady Godiva? That should be an awesome trip for the other motorists.”

  He was already taking off his leather jacket and blue, long-sleeve shirt. His wide shoulders and scrub-board abs were highlighted breathtakingly by moonlight. He started toward her.

  She made a palms-up stop gesture. “Don’t come any closer,” she said, hating the tremor in her voice.

  He broke off a long stick from another bush, hooked the shirt over it, and shoved it toward her. “At least put this on. You look like a giant goose bump.”