Chapter Twenty-Two

Sean hadn’t been able to fly and lift a car, but managed to carry six werewolves. The wolves bound themselves together with safety lines and climbing harnesses as they sailed just above the rooftops like a team of horizontal skydivers without parachutes.

The team landed in the front yard of a mansion down the road from Philippe’s lair—though landed was a relative term, because Sean’s exhausted collapse was a short, sudden drop into several feet of crunchy snow.

“You okay?” Angie asked. She touched Sean’s shoulder as he sprawled in the snow, and helped him sit up. A cold sweat added a shiny gleam to his pale skin, and beads were frozen on his brow like raindrops.

“I’ll be fine. I don’t think I could manage the return trip without feeding first.”

“Good thing we packed a snack for you.” Omar stepped to the other side of Sean and helped the vampire to his feet. “Though the blood bags might be frozen by now. You did good. Wait out here and we’ll clear the house.”

Sean nodded, stumbled a few steps toward the front door and leaned against the wall outside the entrance. The pack stripped the necessary clothes and then shifted. Angie’s wolf boiled to the surface, but then the magic settled as the world sharpened around her.

Omar forced the door open and the pack followed him inside. No guns this time—the noise would draw mobs in, and Philippe’s minions might notice an exodus of zombies headed in the same direction. Angie’s wolf was ready for more battle, but her presence wasn’t as overpowering as it had been earlier after she’d been shot. It was sort of miraculous—the wound had healed after Scottie dug the bullet out, and now all that was left was a dull ache as though Angie had pulled a muscle.

“Prairie-style architecture, inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright,” Keith commented when they entered the foyer. The werewolves paused and stared at him, and he shrugged. “What? It’s culture.”

“We’re going to pair off to sweep the building,” Omar ordered. “Keith and Angie, Javier and Gwen, Miguel with me.”

The mansion was eerily silent like a Hollywood haunted house, and Angie tensed at each creak of the floor. When they reached the kitchen they found that the pantry was bare, and assumed that Philippe’s minions had cleaned the place out. Omar declared the house secure, and they brought Sean inside.

They found an old cedar hope chest filled with quilts that were older than Sean to act as a makeshift coffin—odds were good that Sean would smell like mothballs for a while. Angie and Keith hauled the chest to the pantry, because the interior room was windowless and should be safe for the vampire to spend the day in. The rest of the pack left when sunrise approached, leaving Angie to attempt to calm Sean, who paced the length of the pantry.

Sean raked his hands through his hair. “I feel helpless. Impotent. It’s my duty to protect my flock.”

Angie stepped forward and grabbed his hands before he pulled out frustrated handfuls of ginger hair. “You are protecting them. You got us here, and now I’m going to finish what you started. I’m Lizzy’s flock, so we’re sort of family, right?”

“Yes,” he replied, hesitant.

“Then trust me with this.” Angie squeezed his hands. “I like you. I like your flock. It’s a little weird to share Lizzy with you, but we’re making it work.” Somehow Sean and his flock had become part of her life. They accepted each other. It really was a strange new world they lived in.

“I will. I do. I just wish to do more. I’d love to wring Philippe’s neck.” Sean growled and stepped back with a haunted expression. “I know what Lizzy is going through right now. I’ve been through it. Philippe is a monster. He should suffer for what he’s done.”

“Agreed, but it’s more important to make sure Philippe is dead than it is to let everyone have a turn to kick him in the nuts.” Angie smiled dryly, and Sean nodded in reluctant agreement. “You’d better get in before you pass out. If I have to put you in there you’ll wake up with a crick in your neck.”

Sean snorted, amused, but did as ordered. “Good luck,” he said before she closed the lid.

“Thanks. See you on the other side.”

Angie said a prayer for Sean as she laid a hand atop the chest. Then she covered the chest with the quilts, shut it inside the pantry, barricaded the door and hoped that Sean would be safe until nightfall. The odds seemed in his favor.

The plan was to wait until noon when the magic controlling the drones would be at its weakest. Angie wondered if Philippe had thought the same thing when planning the attack on the tower, assuming that Lizzy had drones protecting her lair. Philippe’s minions had a clear, bright day to stage their attack, but when the werewolves left the snow was falling fast and thick.

“Beautiful weather we’re having.” Angie peered out the window at the winter storm.

“Hey boss, do you want to build a snowman?” Keith asked Omar. The pack leader sighed and shook his head, probably praying for patience. “It doesn’t have to be a snowman—”

“Shut up, Keith,” Omar ordered. “Everyone grab a couch or a patch of floor. Get some sleep. We’ll move out at noon.”

“Here? This place has like twelve bedrooms,” Keith said.

Omar quirked a brow. “Oh, sure. Go off by yourself in the creepy abandoned house during the zombie apocalypse. Nothing bad will happen.”

Keith grimaced. “Point taken.”

“Everyone keep close. Visibility is going to be shitty in this, and we don’t know how many mobs are between us and the lair.”

Angie frowned, the expression strange on her werewolf snout. “Storm the castle” was a terrible plan. Six werewolves against an unknown number of mind-controlled National Guard members—a test of who was the supernatural top dog. Lizzy didn’t have much information about the drones other than they were mind-controlled, because she had never made one. Some of the other wolves had mentioned that the drones they fought had moved like zombies, oblivious to wounds that would cripple most people, like they felt no pain. Poor bastards.

“Stick with me,” Keith said to her. “I’ll watch your back if you watch mine.”

Angie nodded. “You got it.”

The silence was almost as bad as the bitter cold. The only sounds were the huffs of their breath and the crunch of snow beneath their feet. Paws? Her feet were furred and clawed. Snow clung to her fur in white clumps, and her breath fogged the air. Fat snowflakes fell fast and furious, stealing the color from their surroundings and stinging Angie’s eyes. The bare winter branches provided no shelter as they wove between the trees.

“I hate winter,” Keith muttered. “I say we move somewhere tropical. With beaches and palm trees.”

“Lizzy thinks the spell originated in Florida. It’s probably worse where it’s warmer,” Angie said.

Keith heaved a sigh, but before he could voice another opinion a hand shot from the snow and grabbed his leg. Keith yelped and stumbled away as the snow drifts around them burst to life. Frostbitten corpses lurched for the werewolves with bony hands and gaping mouths. Angie snarled and batted the arm of the nearest mob, and the limb snapped like an icicle.

“Holy shit.” Angie blinked as the severed arm hit a tree trunk and disappeared into the snow at its base. Undeterred, the corpse kept coming, and Angie aimed for its head.

Black gore stained the snow as the werewolves tore the zombies apart. They stood panting when the fight was over, covered in ick but uninjured.

Omar grinned. “I’m warmed up. How about you?”

“Never better, boss,” Keith said. “Though I think it scared ten years off my life.”

They loped through the forest in long strides like a true wolf pack. The trees gave way to what was likely a well-manicured lawn in the summer but now was a blank canvas in the blinding white-out. A stone wall loomed before them, and they sailed over it like hurdlers at a track meet. Blocky shapes blurred by the storm appeared around them—vehicles, a frozen fountain, the main house. Gunshots pierced the quiet, and the next fight was on.

“Keith, this way,” Angie ordered. She bolted toward the origin of the noise and found a watchtower built of steel pipes.

Angie darted up as easily if she had been climbing the monkey bars outside her elementary school. At the top she found a sniper struggling to find a target in the blizzard. Her wolf howled for the man’s blood as Angie batted his weapon away. She pulled her claws in and punched him in the gut, and then again in the head when he doubled over. That should have been the end of it, but as he lay on his side he drew his knife and jammed it through her foot.

Angie howled in pain. The drone yanked the blade free to attack again, and the tower shuddered as Keith landed beside her. He kicked the drone’s weapon away.

“Grab him and roll him over,” Keith ordered. Mystified, Angie watched as Keith produced a roll of duct tape from his messenger bag and mummified the drone’s forearms behind his back. “Duct tape is always the answer.”

“You are brilliant. I’d kiss you if you weren’t a guy.”

“Story of my life.” Keith stepped to the edge of the platform and yelled “Geronimo!” before leaping off.

“Stay,” Angie ordered the drone before following. Pain jolted through her foot when she landed, but the wound was already healing.

The wolves made quick work of the perimeter guards, because the drones were at a greater disadvantage in the weather. Omar howled for the pack to regroup and they met at the rear servants’ entrance. Angie snorted—figured that Philippe chose a mansion old enough to have a separate entrance for the help.

“Too bad we can’t throw a grenade,” Keith said.

Angie produced a flashbang and a tear gas grenade from her own bag. “This came with the riot gear.”

“Good thinking. I’ll get the door, you throw.” Omar kicked the door open and ducked aside as several bullets zinged by. Angie pulled the pins and tossed her grenades inside. The drones might be impervious to pain, but their eyes and lungs were still vulnerable.

The pack waited for the smoke to clear and then charged the disoriented drones. Javier took a silver bullet to the leg, but promptly dug the bullet out with the aid of a kitchen knife. The defenders neutralized, the werewolves moved on. Unlike the clean lines of the mansion they had taken shelter in earlier, Philippe’s lair was an overwrought Victorian nightmare with gilded woodwork in every nook and cranny. Angie wanted to rake her claws over the floral wallpaper just to piss in Philippe’s Cheerios, but she settled for battering his troops into submission.

“Keisha!” she bellowed when they reached a formal dining room. Angie received two gunshots to the chest in reply, and Keith bounded off to bludgeon the shooter. The world froze around her for a moment, but the wounds didn’t burn—not silver. Thank God.

Angie pushed through the pain and called out for her sister again, and this time she heard a faint reply. Angie took off and busted down doors until she found their missing people in a sitting room. A guardsman was sprawled on the floor surrounded by broken pottery, and Angie blinked.

“Did you take that guy out with a vase?” Angie asked.

“I did,” Trinity said.

Keisha’s jaw dropped. “Angie? Holy shit. You said you were a werewolf but—”

“But it’s different to see it,” Angie finished. She scratched behind one pointed, canine ear. Could werewolves get fleas? Good thing it was winter.

“Thank you.” Keisha threw her arms around Angie and hugged her tight. “Actually the fur is kind of cool. You’re like a furry She-Hulk, covered in blood and zombie bits.”

“I’ll see what I can do about finding some purple spandex. Did you see Lizzy? What happened?”

Keisha frowned. “Philippe threatened to kill us if she didn’t obey, so she obeyed. We haven’t seen her since.”

“Okay. Keith is going to hang out here with you guys while we look for her.” Angie turned to Trinity. “Sean is fine. He’ll be here after sundown. He’s really worried about you and Gavin.”

Trinity sagged with relief. “Thank God. Lizzy said he was dead.”

“She had to, so Philippe wouldn’t be on the lookout for us.”

“Go get Lizzy,” Keisha ordered.

Angie followed Lizzy’s scent and discovered a false door in the boiler room, which led to a steel vault door every inch as intimidating as the one that protected Lizzy’s bedroom. Angie stared at it in disbelief—no handle, no knob, no keyhole or palm pad to unlock the thing. They had no way to get inside.

Omar cursed behind her as Angie lurched forward on leaden legs. She traced her hands over every inch of the door and its frame, searching for a weakness to no avail. Her heart twisted as her mouth dried up.

“Well, that does it then,” Javier said. “We’re fucked.”

“Shut up,” Angie snapped. “Let me think.”

Javier snorted. “We’d need a wrecking ball to bust that sucker open. We need to make a run for it and start evacuating now. We could get the humans to Sean, see how far he can fly us when he wakes up.”

“We’re not evacuating!” Angie pounded a fist against the steel door, but her supernatural strength didn’t even dent it. Despair washed over her as she laid her forehead against the unforgiving metal. They’d come so far, they couldn’t give up now. Lizzy would never give up on her.

Angie straightened. “One of his minions has to know how to open this in case of emergency.”

“A guy that psycho doesn’t inspire loyalty, or trust. Look, I know Lizzy’s important to you, but we can’t help her,” Javier said.

Angie swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. She whirled and grabbed the front of Javier’s shirt, slamming him into the boiler room’s wall. “We’re not abandoning her.”

Javier growled. “If we’re here when Philippe wakes up, he’ll cut through us like paper dolls. You don’t know what it’s like to fight a pissed-off vampire. One vamp can take out an entire pack. We need to retreat.”

“I won’t leave her.”

“Agreed,” Omar said as he entered. “I say we blow the fucker up. One of those army guys has to know something about demolitions, and we know they have a grudge against Philippe.”

Angie nodded slowly. “Yeah…you’re right. Let’s get started.”

After three hours of interviewing the national guardsmen, looting Philippe’s personal armory and setting up the explosives, the werewolves entered the vampire’s inner sanctum. They waved at the lingering clouds of black, acrid smoke and peered into the room. The coffin was far more elaborate than the plain one Lizzy and Sean shared. A gilded fleur de lis was surrounded by intricately carved twists of heavily laden grapevines atop the lid, and the light wood gleamed with polish.

“Needs some bling,” Javier commented. Angie elbowed him in the ribs.

They opened the coffin and Angie’s breath caught in her throat. Two naked bodies were entwined within, collapsed in mid thrust. Lizzy’s hands were shackled above her head by heavy-duty metal manacles attached to the head of the coffin.

Omar seized Philippe by the scruff of his neck and hauled the vampire out of the coffin. Philippe’s pale flesh slapped against the concrete as he lay in an awkward heap, but Angie’s attention was focused on Lizzy. Bruised bite marks covered Lizzy from neck to ankle, as though Philippe had used every available moment of last night to mark Lizzy as his territory.

“Jesus. We have to get her out of there.”

Omar squeezed Angie’s shoulder. “At sundown. She’s safest in there for now. We’ll have to find where this asshole keeps the keys for those cuffs. Obviously he doesn’t have any pockets, and I’m not doing a cavity search.”

Angie nodded and swallowed hard. “We can sift through the bastard’s ashes.”

“Who wants to stake him?” Omar asked.

“How do you stake him?” Javier countered. “It’s not like we’re expert vampire slayers.”

“I’ll do it.” Angie held her hand out, and Javier gave her the stake and mallet he’d brought in his bag. The bulky tools felt light in her clawed hands.

She stared down at Philippe. He seemed harmless now—a normal college-aged kid. It was almost like he’d passed out drunk at a frat party and was about to be hazed with magic markers. Angie growled as she thought of the people who had died at the hands of Philippe’s drones, of Lizzy’s ruined sanctuary and the tortured men they’d found in the manor. The bastard deserved a painful death, but at least he wouldn’t hurt anyone else. Angie placed the stake, lifted the mallet and hammered the stake home. Philippe’s eyes flew open, black and soulless, as a gout of blood erupted from his throat.

“I hope you can feel this,” Angie said. She hammered the stake again, but Philippe remained still. Omar handed her the ax they’d liberated from the garden tool shed, and she frowned at it.

“Off with his head,” Javier said.

“Imagine it’s a guillotine,” Omar suggested. “Vive la révolution.”

Angie smiled grimly. “The king is dead. Long live the queen.”

It was the most disgusting thing Angie had ever done, and the three werewolves left a gory trail as they hauled pieces of Philippe out into the sunlight. They tossed his remains into the snow, and his body burst into flames. Omar and Javier stood beside Angie as they watched him burn.

Javier scratched at the slow-healing bullet wound in his thigh. “I’m so glad this is over.”

“It’s not over,” Angie said. “It’s a new beginning.”