Free Wolf in Shadow-eARC by John Lambshead Page B

hearing was acute, detecting even the low rumble of the cars through the roof of the subway.
    Rhian orientated the wolf on the man with the magic whip. The wolf did not intellectualize. To think was to act. She bounded forward, growling.
    The magician turned to her, grey eyes widening in shock. He started to make a gesture with his free hand but the wolf sprang. She clamped her teeth on the prey’s wrist, biting down hard. Her heavy body spun him around until his arm broke with a satisfying crack. Bones crunched in the wolf’s jaws, and she heard the prey gasp.
    The magician lashed the wolf with his whip of light, scoring the animal’s fur and splashing blood from the hard-packed muscle underneath. The wolf howled in anger, pain only spurring her on. Gathering her rear legs under her body, she pounced again. She crashed into the prey’s chest, knocking him over backwards. The whip lashed the subway ceiling, smashing a light cover in a spray of sparks that cascaded over the combatants like wedding confetti.
    The damaged light strobed, freezing the wolf and the man in a series of stationary images like an old movie played at the wrong speed. Flashes of light freeze-framed shadows on the subway wall like echoes from another universe.
    The wolf chomped down on the prey’s throat. Strange, metallic-tasting blood sprayed into her mouth, matting the fur around her head. The prey struggled, but the wolf tightened her grip remorselessly, shutting off air and tearing flesh. The wolf worried and shook the throat long after the prey stopped moving, long after the last air gurgled from the bloody mess.
    The wolf dropped the corpse and stalked stiffly to where the downed gunman lay on the ground. He shuffled back on his bottom and elbows until stopped by the subway wall, where he ejected the clip from his pistol. Fumbling in his coat pocket, he produced a replacement and rammed it home, pulling back the slide to ready the weapon. The wolf watched with interest, fascinated by the metallic clicks and machine-oil smell.
    The gunman pointed the pistol unwaveringly at the wolf. She ignored the weapon, moving closer to him, growling deep in her belly.
    “Good doggy,” said the man. “Sit!”
    The wolf sniffed at the man’s wounds. They smelled healthy, so he would probably survive. The man held his hand out for her to scent. The wolf considered killing him, but he offered no provocation, sitting submissively like a cub being held to account by an alpha female. The wolf was bored. She licked the man’s hand, tasting him.
    “That’s a good doggy,” he said, running his hand along her muzzle to scratch the fur behind her ear.
    The hand with the gun never wavered in its aim, but the wolf did not seem to understand the threat posed by the weapon. Rhian pushed upwards like a swimmer surfacing from a dive into a dark sea-pool. Changes coursed through her body, and the pain began. She screamed until merciful oblivion descended.

CHAPTER 6
FRIENDS REUNITED

    Major Jameson, retired, had faced death many times in the pursuit of an illustrious career in Her Britannic Majesty’s Guards. The IRA, various African militias, Serb gunmen, Afghan guerrillas and the United States Air Force had made determined attempts to kill him from time to time. During his time in The Commission, supernatural entities had tried to do things to him that made dying positively restful, but he had never been as gut-wrenchingly terrified by a daemon before.
    “For pity’s sake slow down, you blood-crazed lunatic,” he said.
    The car phone rang with an irritating beep-beep. Jameson considered ignoring it but duty won out, forcing him to trip the switch.
    “Jameson, can you hear me?” asked a precise, prissy voice that was immediately identifiable.
    Bloody Randolph! That was all he needed to make the day complete.
    “Yes,” he said.
    “Oh, right . . .” said Randolph.
    “Bloody Hell, watch for that lorry, you mad sucker,” said Jameson.
    “Letting Karla