Beast of All Page 18

  “Vampire speed?”

  Wick shook his head and moved around the room. “We would’ve at least seen a blur or caught his scent as he passed us.”

  “There’s only one entrance into this room,” John pointed out.

  Or was there? “Olly mentioned tunnels.”

  “Do you know where they are?” Ryan turned to me, eyebrow raised, head tilted with attitude.

  At least he spoke to me. “No, but—”

  …I do…

  I turned and froze. The ghost of a young man stood beside my stag with his hand gently draped across the animal’s back.

  Chapter Thirty

  The sugar king

  “The ghosts you chase you never catch.”

  ~John Malkovich

  Cigar smoke and men’s cologne, with the sweet edge of sugar, drifted from the wavering white and blue image of a young, attractive man. With dark hair combed from a side part and a stylish moustache, the man wore a coat with covered buttons and matching waistcoat. A floppy bow tie matched his dark trousers. He stood casually with one hand holding a cigarette while the other arm remained draped over my fera.

  That makes no sense.

  This house was built in 1900, and good ole Benji didn’t die until 1918, at a much older age than the ghost standing before us.

  Unless…

  Unless this ghost was of an earlier, younger version of the Sugar King, one of him in his prime, instead of middle aged. Maybe his ghost held on to what little vanity remained.

  Wick slowly walked to stand beside me. His hand drifted to the small of my back. The warmth of his touch radiated out and sank in to heat my blood as his rosemary scent curled possessively around me. I smiled down at him. Odd to stand over such a giant man in this form. The height difference didn’t seem to bother him any.

  “Mr. Rogers?” my beast voice rumbled.

  As soon as I spoke, my stag disappeared—no longer interested in this show, or he figured his job was done. The pretty grass-eater probably didn’t want to get his hooves wet with blood. Typical herbivore behaviour.

  …Benjamin…

  The sugary cigar scent grew stronger as the image wavered. Wick’s chest rumbled, and his fingertips pressed harder into my scales, like he wanted to rip me away or hold me back. He did neither, but his hand remained planted on my body, the pressure oddly reassuring.

  I stepped forward and ignored Wick’s vibrating apprehension. “You said you know where the entrance to the tunnels is?”

  …Yes…

  He wavered again and flickered. A brief clip of sound, like the static of a radio, gave the only warning before the ghost vanished. His scent disappeared.

  I froze.

  Rogers reformed a foot away from me. His cigar scent flooded my senses as if he dropped a ghostly stink bomb at my feet.

  …Follow me…

  I jumped to the side. My spine tingled as if a troop of miniature monkeys dug their claws into the tender flesh and climbed to my shoulders. A shudder racked my body, and my fur stood on end, like a giant puffed-up cat. I flicked out my wings before resettling them tight against my back. Luckily, Wick had moved out of the way.

  …Hurry…

  “I’ll follow. Why do we need to hurry?”

  …Not much time…

  “Okay,” I nodded. Who was I to argue with a ghost about ghost stuff?

  …The desk…a button…

  Wick stalked over to the large business desk, more solid than the exterior of present-day houses. He dragged his hand underneath. His body tensed. He looked up.

  Click.

  We all jumped as the back of the fireplace rumbled and the solid barrier slid to the side. The dank smell of an old house spread across the room, along with the dissipating aroma of the Pharaoh.

  …Quickly…

  Instead of walking, the spectre of the Sugar King flickered with a zap of radio static before reappearing in the tunnel behind the fireplace.

  We ducked under the large, ornate mantel and moved into the small landing on the other side. The platform led to a spiraling staircase. Like those found in a castle turret, the old stone steps dropped to unknown depths below, leaving just enough height for me to remain in beast form as long as I stooped. The fireplace door slid shut behind us and darkness engulfed the staircase.

  Good thing for animalistic night vision.

  “Fuck,” Stan grumbled. His clothing rustled.

  The stale smells cloaked us as the unknown waited below. My beast growled as my scales rippled. Not liking this.

  “None of us like this, kitten,” Allan grumbled somewhere behind me, responding to the thought he plucked from my head. Allan might feed off our fear, but as a control freak, the idea of following a ghost into the unknown probably had him hanging out on the edge with the rest of us.

  Benjamin flickered away and reappeared lower down, his ghostly blue-gray form providing a little light in the otherwise dark area.

  Stan clicked on his flashlight and led the way down the stairs.

  “Stan…” Why the heck would a norm lead this brat pack? The rest of us could see fine in the dark. The Weres benefitted from night vision like myself, and Lucus had already generated a little glowball of magic.

  “Fuck off, Andy, I’m not bringing up the rear,” Stan grumbled as we continued to move.

  “Why the hell not?” It would be safer for him back there.

  “The last thing I need in this life is to follow a spotlight on your ass.”

  Clint barked a laugh, and the others had the nerve to chuckle. I chose to take the mature path and let the comment slide. I’d cuff him later when no one watched.

  Since entering Gabriola House, the rooms had been perfectly heated, probably updated decades ago to comply with city regulations, but each time the Sugar King reappeared, farther down the stairwell, the temperature dropped.

  We reached the bottom of the stairs. Stan opened the door at the base and moved into a dark tunnel. With the walls roughly boarded up with old wood, and the flooring unevenly patched with large slabs of stone, the smell of dirt, mould, and dampness surrounded us. The faint aroma of the Pharaoh mingled in the air and teased us like a gentle reminder of our mission.

  Each time Benjamin flashed to a new location with the radio static, his scent disappeared, then come back, full force, to almost knock me on my ass.

  …This way… The whisper of the Sugar King’s voice trickled down the corridor as he reappeared to the left of a fork in the path.

  My skin rippled, and my tail swished like an annoyed cat. Although the ghost of Benjamin Tingley Rogers didn’t appear antagonistic, his presence set my teeth on edge. Each flicker, waver, zap of sound, and the whispering voice ping-ponging down the corridor sent shivers racing through my veins.

  Why would a ghost trouble me so much? I was part divine with beastly skills and supernatural strength, yet fear often defied logic. Besides, you couldn’t kick a ghost if they pissed you off.

  The Sugar King relocated faster and faster until we moved in an all-out run down the dark corridors. Finally, an old rickety door confronted us at the end of the tunnel. The cry of seagulls broke through the silence surrounding us. A soft sea breeze blew through the cracks and water gently lapped at a shore nearby.

  The ghost of the Sugar King stood by the door, his face solemn, his hands folded in front.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He stared unblinking. He didn’t acknowledge my words. Instead, he zapped out of existence.

  A shudder ran up my body. I tensed and waited, but the spectre didn’t reappear.

  Wick slipped his warm hand to the small of my back again, running his fingers along my scales. “That was creepy.”

  “Let’s get out of here.” Stan yanked on the door. It wouldn’t budge.

  Steve walked up and gently placed his hand on Stan’s shoulder.

  The veteran cop shot him a dark glare but after a few seconds, relinquished his position in front of the door.

  S
teve yanked the door open on the first try.

  Stan grumbled.

  We poured out of the dark tunnel, which looked like a large storm drain. It led to a beach. A few yards away stood the infamous bathhouse. I’d recognize this old, landmark building anywhere. I strolled past it countless times every summer. English Bay, then. Olly’s reports on the tunnels had been correct.

  A motorboat sped away in the distance, making its way toward West Point Grey.

  Wick stood beside me and watched the boat. His mouth flattened into a thin line and his muscles bunched as he tensed. “Looks like the Pharaoh got away.”

  “Can you get a boat quickly?”

  He peered up at me. “The rest of the pack is still waiting at the entrance of Gabriola House.”

  Allan sauntered up to us, cell phone in hand. “I’ll have one here in fifteen minutes.”

  “Good.” I crouched low and allowed the new seagull form to flow over me, wiping out the beast form. Now condensed in a vulnerable pest of a bird, I gathered my strength and launched into the air. With my wings spread out wide, I caught the gentle breeze and flapped hard to gain altitude.

  I’ll follow them by air and keep you posted, I told Wick.

  You’re going to have to haul seagull ass to catch up.

  My indignant squawk pierced the night, only to blend in with the rest of the water fowl. As I put distance between me and the shore, Wick’s chuckle floated through my mind and warmed my soul.

  ****

  The powerboat didn’t stop at Jericho beach. It didn’t approach the opposite shore at all. Instead, it veered around the point. I followed from a safe distance above, beating my wings frantically to keep up.

  Maybe I should’ve chosen a different form.

  No. No one would think twice about a seagull in this area. An eagle or hawk, however, might draw attention.

  Still, my energy waned with little progress, and the motorboat grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

  Fuck this. My seagull screeched. I reached inward and wrenched out the familiar peregrine falcon form, the one I’d held in my heart since the tender age of fourteen, and shifted. My body dropped, freefalling toward the dark water below. The streamline form slid through my cells. Harmonious delight danced along my bones. I spread my wings and caught the wind, relishing the feel of flying in the falcon’s form again. Warmth flooded my body despite the cool night air.

  Falcon. I’d missed her.

  Instantly, I picked up speed. With an average horizontal speed somewhere around eighty kilometers per hour, I could push it to over one-hundred if needed. Tonight, I drove my little bird body to the max. I loved every second.

  As one of the fastest birds in existence, it took little time to catch up to the boat, now navigating its way up the Fraser River.

  Where the heck were they going?

  I didn’t dare get closer. They’d spot me, and a hovering peregrine, unlike a seagull, was not normal.

  When the boat slowed near Mission, I shifted back to the seagull form. With night set in, the moon dropping to the horizon, and my high altitude, confidence bolstered my move. I dropped down toward the water, soaring close to the surface. The operator of the boat ahead maneuvered carefully along the river.

  My little bird body pulsed with energy. A dark vessel loomed amongst a graveyard of ships near the shrouded shore of Mission.

  What is this place?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Abandoned and neglected

  “The hasty and the tardy meet at the ferry.”

  ~Arabian Proverb

  The wind funneling down Fraser River caressed my face and hair as I stood in human form on the small motorboat. Thankfully, one of Allan’s minions had included a housecoat with the powerboat package, so the night air couldn’t cut too harshly at my naked skin.

  After determining the location of the Pharaoh, I’d fallen back to rejoin Team Andy. The rest of the pack, Wereleopards, and Vampires travelled in vans toward the Pharaoh’s dark and icky new hideaway.

  Wick stood beside me, the heat emanating from his solid body licked my skin and offered comfort.

  My wolf popped into my head and gave my brain a nudge.

  Wick reached out and slid his arm across my shoulders, pulling me in for a side-hug. “We’ll get him.”

  Did he say that for me or himself?

  “Your brow is furrowed,” he pointed out.

  “I’m not worried about success.”

  “Then what’s bothering you?”

  Every time you get close, you remember how much I’ve hurt you and pull away? That I’ll never fix the divide between us? I sighed. Now was not the time to get into the emotional stuff. After all this ended, I’d sit this Alpha down and dish out my heart on a platter for him. “I can’t decide between ending everything quickly, so there’s no chance for escape, or…not.”

  Wick nodded, but his gaze grew distant until he eventually looked away. He released me, and his arm dropped back to his side.

  Idiot, my wolf growled.

  As our small boat drifted closer to the abandoned BC Ferry, my breath caught. The Queen of Sidney was once a regal vessel responsible for shipping hundreds of passengers to and from the Lower Mainland on a daily basis. I’d been on her many times. Now, her derelict and deteriorated form sat moored off the Fraser River shoreline, striking an apocalyptic pose. Green slime and black sludge dripped down her bow. She must’ve haunted Mission’s waters for years.

  We pulled up to the starboard side of the vessel. A few guards loped along her decks, some with Vampire grace, unaware of our presence, thanks to Lucus’s cloaking spell.

  We need the ladder down, Wick’s smoldering gaze met mine.

  Leave it to me.

  Concentrating inward, I called the form of a small gecko. My blood cooled as my body shrank and compacted. Fabric fell away and hit the floor, the heavy folds of the housecoat pooling around me. My feet stuck to the deck of the motorboat. Movement cast a shadow over my small body. I froze.

  Wick crouched down, large and looming.

  Hide, the essence of the gecko demanded. I gulped and refused to move. Though small, and incredibly vulnerable, I was amongst allies. I wouldn’t feel the crush of a boot tonight.

  At least, not on purpose.

  Give me a boost? I asked Wick.

  He held his hand open, palm up against the boat’s deck. I clambered on. The heat of his hand seared the bottoms of my adhesive toe-pads.

  I could melt right into him.

  Gah! If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear geckoes were invertebrates. Focus!

  My little body shook as the cold air slipped by, too cold for a regular gecko, but tolerable for me. At least for a short while. The wind stung my unblinking eyes. My tongue darted out to lick them.

  Ew! Did I just lick my own eyeballs?

  My gecko essence cackled as Wick lifted me to the ferry.

  I scurried to the edge of his fingertips and reached out to latch onto the side of the ship. I’d never used this form before, but geckoes rocked at climbing vertical things, so it had to be a good choice. The animal essence flowed through my body and took over the command centre for movement. With digital hyperextension, my feet spread out and stuck to the cool surface of the vessel.

  The bottom of gecko toepads had hair-like setae—projections used to increase the surface area of the feet and, therefore, the force of attraction between my body and the surface I climbed on. Of course, my gecko essence didn’t tell me this, my subscription to Random Animal Facts Monthly did.

  With movement I didn’t know possible, I peeled my toes off from the tip inward. Secreted lipids lubricated the setae, and I detached my foot for the next step. With the repeated combination of peeling and adhering, I scurried up the side of the large ship, slow at first, then moving faster as I got the hang of it.

  My little gecko body grew cold from the old metal and biting air. As soon as I reached the first deck, I shifted to human and threw the nearest ladder
down the side. A guard whistled up ahead and rounded the corner.

  Crap! We didn’t want early detection.

  I quickly shifted to a snake and undulated into the shadows for the protection of darkness. When the guard passed my hiding spot, I shifted again, this time to beast form. My ears rang, my vision wavered. Lurching forward, I slipped my arms around the surprised guard—a norm—and snapped his neck before he could utter a sound. My heart beat like a drummer on crack, erratic and crazy.

  Still dizzy from the quick, successive shifts, I grabbed the guard’s clothes and hauled him into the shadows behind a storage compartment.

  The team climbed over the side of the deck and crowded the section. Wick motioned at his packmates, silently commanding them in one direction, while Allan and Clint went another. Stan and Lucus silently nodded at each other and took the stairs to move to the upper levels.

  Looks like we’re going down. Wick winked at me.

  Before we could move toward the staircase, another guard stepped out from the depths below. His eyes widened as his gaze landed on us.

  My muscles tensed.

  Wick froze.

  The guard drew his firearm, and a shot rang out in the silent night.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The big reveal

  “Women cannot complain about men anymore until they start getting better taste in them.”

  ~Bill Maher

  The guard’s blood sprayed across my face, neck and chest as I ripped his throat out with my sharp, beast talons. His body sagged. Before he hit the deck, I spun and ran back to a limp Wick, lying sprawled in a small puddle of blood, about thirty feet away.

  My beast rage had taken over my body, acting so fast, the guard had no chance to shoot another round.

  I slid to Wick’s side, my long ebony arms gently picking Wick up enough to turn him and cradle him in my lap. Without thought, my body changed back into my weak vulnerable human form, no longer having the energy to maintain something as fierce as the beast. Pain lanced through my veins. My throat tightened. Images of holding a dying Tristan flashed through my memory.

  So much blood.