 
Bovicide, Zombie Diaries, and the Legend of the Brothers Brown

By Stephen Bills

Copyright 2011 Stephen Bills

Smashwords Edition

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

# Prologue: The Last Temptation of Betsy the Cow

Hmph! Delores was in Betsy's spot again. Betsy could see the fat cow silhouetted against the farmhouse's light, chewing her cud on the soft grass right beside the fence – in Betsy's spot! And this after Delores had cut in line at the milking shed this morning! Soon it would be time to teach the young cow her place.

The other cows didn't respect the Farmer like Betsy did. They didn't understand that they were only alive because the Farmer willed it. He healed them when they were sick, ensured there was always food, brought them the bull...

The Farmer was their reason for being.

Even in this darkest of nights, with the moon but a sliver, Betsy did not fear for the Farmer kept her safe. So why couldn't she relax? Why this feeling in her udder? The other cows sensed it too. They'd all huddled together by the farmhouse gate, but Betsy had trudged off, angry...

And now she was alone.

Betsy's tail paused mid-flick. Had the grass just moved behind her? She lumbered around, but all was still. Had she heard something? Only the wind? No, because the rustling was behind her again. Betsy lowered her head and stared through her horns, daring anything to challenge her. The grass settled. Probably just a rabbit.

Yes, that was it. The Farmer would allow a rabbit. He wouldn't allow anything dangerous on his hill. Tracking her. Circling her...

Betsy trotted back toward the farmhouse. There was no harm in staying with the herd.

Unless the Farmer was testing her devotion. Maybe she should stay.

A patch of white streaked effortlessly through the fresh spring grass, triggering something ancient and deep in Betsy: an instinct no amount of faith could override. Betsy redoubled her run. The Farmer would forgive her. He'd pat her and speak soothing words and make everything all ri—

Pain speared into her neck, tightening, crushing. The shock triggered new energy, strength enough to run a hundred miles with this scrawny beast hanging on her throat.

If only she wasn't so... cold...

Betsy keeled into the dirt, thumped, rolled, and came to rest. As the pale beast stepped into her view, Betsy prayed to the Farmer that her end would be quick.

# Chapter One: Lisa, Betsy, and the Barbaras

A pair of dark brown eyes stared at the messy desk. Expressive eyebrows roamed up in thought then down in frustration. A thin hand smoothed the barest hint of stubble off the pointed jaw and the mouth closed, hiding crooked white teeth.

Constable James Paddington sat back, winced at his wooden chair's creak – he'd have to fix that – and tried to summon the will to type his reports. Not for the first time, he wished Archi would hurry up and join the twenty-first century. If the duke would let the station have a couple of computers, Paddington could just click "print" three times instead of retyping each report three times: once for his mother, once for the station's records, and once for the duke.

"James!"

Paddington smoothed his already-neat black uniform and crossed the small space to the sergeant's desk by the front doors.

His mother didn't look up. "Animal attack at Richard Brown's," she said.

"Is Richard... sheep?" Paddington guessed.

"That's Thomas," Andrea said. "Richard is cows."

The third Brown brother had got out of farming altogether; caused a bit of a stir at the time. "What's Harold up to nowadays?" Paddington asked.

"He owns the _Bleeding Heck_ pub." Andrea's beady eyes were set on an abacus. She refused to use the calculator Paddington had bought her because it was technically a computer and – like most Archians – she distrusted any technology more sophisticated than the wheel.

"Which you'd know," she continued, "if you had a social life."

"I'm perfectly happy with my life."

"Don't lie, dear." She sounded almost weary. "Lisa Tanner is available."

That was a new twist on an old conversation. "Anything else about the attack?" Paddington asked. "Suspects? Witnesses?"

"You remember Lisa? From school."

"Of course I remember her," he snapped, hoping that would be the end of it.

It wasn't. "You were friends, weren't you?" As always, Andrea's falsely-innocent voice carried the faintest air of hope that Paddington might find a nice girl – or a nice-enough girl, or _any_ girl, really, at this stage – and settle down and be happy.

"I do _not_ want to talk about Lisa," Paddington said. He never wanted to talk about Lisa. Andrea knew that. Why bring her up?

"Maybe she wants to talk to _you_..." Andrea said.

"She doesn't." He was twenty-eight now; this was none of Andrea's business. Why couldn't she let him live his own life? After all, if he didn't want to be happy – and he wasn't saying that he _wasn't_ happy – wasn't that his decision?

"I'm sure she's forgotten about the... incident," Andrea said.

"You weren't there!" Paddington yelled. Why couldn't she drop it? She always had to push and push until he snapped. Well, now he'd snapped.

His mother's eyes were commanding and heartless. "It was fifteen years ago, James," she said. "It's time you got over her."

"A second ago you wanted me to date her! Or... do you want me to get over her _by_ dating her?"

"Well nothing else has worked!" Andrea's voice cracked halfway through the sentence; what had started in anger ended near tears and passed through frustration on the way. Years of arguments had brought her to breaking point. Andrea _never_ showed emotion, or backed down, or admitted defeat. Rumour was she hadn't even cried when Paddington's father had died.

But she was crying now.

What should he do? Comfort her? He'd have to walk around the desk to do that and by the time he reached her the moment would probably have passed...

Andrea sniffed away the tears and muttered, "Off to Richard's then, constable."

They were boss and employee again; familiar footing. Probably for the best, really.

"Yes, ma'am."

Quentin, the only other officer in Archi's northern police station, was engrossed in his paperwork – and clearly not listening to their conversation – so he didn't notice Paddington until Paddington was right beside the desk. In minutes, they were heading west in the police van, toward the farms.

"So... what's happened?" Quentin asked. "At Richard's."

"Animal attack." Paddington stared at the roads past the steering wheel. The stupid, narrow, winding roads. Why couldn't someone plan a road that went straight? Was that so hard?

Beside him, Quentin stared out the window at the touches of fresh green that spring had brought. After a few streets, the new life even made Paddington feel a bit better.

"He should have called a doctor," Quentin said.

Paddington tried to remember what they'd been talking about last. "What?" he asked, when he couldn't.

Quentin had the expression of a monkey attempting a crossword. "If Richard's been attacked, he should call a doctor."

"One of his _animals_ was attacked."

"He should call a vet then."

Why did they have to go through this every time? Why did Paddington have to point and shout for Quentin to notice the blindingly obvious? "Maybe the attack is suspicious _._ "

Quentin brightened. "Lucky we're coming then."

"No, it's not _lucky_! He called us!"

Quentin shrugged a that's-as-may-be and Paddington concentrated on the road again. Should he talk about Lisa? Could he trust Quentin to keep his mouth shut? Probably not, but he didn't have a lot of options. He either talked to Quentin or no one. "Have you seen Lisa since she got back?" Paddington asked.

Quentin shrugged. "A couple of times."

"What's she like?" To Paddington, Lisa was still a metal-toothed ten-year-old, an image that stirred the feelings of joy and fear in his stomach into a confused paste.

Quentin winced. "Bit thin, poor thing. Not much up front, either. And her face ain't exactly roses."

"I thought you were dating Denise now." Paddington could never keep up with Quentin's relationships. Probably because there were so many of them.

"And Rose," Quentin said. "One woman's not enough for Quentin Appleby."

Huh. Paddington rarely ever had one. He was too thin and wordy and intelligent, whereas Quentin's large legs, robust arms, and ability to drain a keg were attractive qualities. Apparently.

"But I meant roses the plant," Quentin said. "So are you going to call Lisa, Jim?"

That was the million-pound question. Paddington received enough rejection and ridicule and hurt without going looking for it. "I don't know," he said.

"You want to be careful talking to a Mainlander like her." Quentin pronounced "Mainlander" like it was a disease he might catch.

"You really don't need to fear technology," Paddington said. Now _he_ sounded weary.

"There's a reason we haven't got all the problems they do," Quentin said, "the rapes and killings and such. Do you want to make Archi like that?"

"But if we didn't trade with the Mainland we wouldn't have cars, or TV, or medicine!"

"Right, b—"

"And you don't think it's paranoid to limit Mainland travel to one boat a year?"

"Keeps the tourists out," Quentin said.

Paddington reached his considerable wit's end. "But think how much better life would be!"

"Talk like that's an insult to everything we've got here."

Paddington wasn't sure Archi offered anything worth the paranoia with which its citizens regarded the rest of the planet.

"On the other hand," Quentin said, "you haven't got much to lose, have you? By asking Lisa out, I mean." Quentin held up his fingers: "Look, one, she'll go out with _you_. Two, you love the Mainland and she _lived_ there. Three... uh..."

Paddington waited, but it seemed Quentin had finished. "Thanks for that uplifting assessment of my love life."

"I'm just saying, you could do worse," Quentin said. "Well no you couldn't, but _you_ can't do better so you might as well do her!"

Paddington laughed. He felt better for having talked to Quentin, but he wasn't sure why. He parked the police van in front of Richard's cottage. The whole island was spread before them: the browns and greens of the duke's forest to the north; the red roofs charred by black chimneys to the south; and the blues and browns of the three rivers flowing to the city gardens in the island's centre.

There was no movement through the farmhouse's grubby windows. They circled the house and found Richard – a weather-beaten man of his early fifties – hunched in his vegetable patch. He tipped a patchy straw hat in greeting. "'Ello Quentin." People usually ignored Paddington.

"Hello Richard," Quentin said.

"Want some carrots?" Richard's voice quavered; his hands moved from task to task, keeping busy rather than actually busy. "I use all me own manure."

Paddington didn't ask for clarification; he didn't want any. "We're here about your cow."

Richard's face was creased with crows' feet, baked by the sun, and wet with tears, but at the mention of his cow his squinted eyes focussed. Once-busy hands wiped slowly on his blue overalls. "This way."

They climbed on Richard's red tractor and chugged across the paddocks to the crime scene. Richard had covered the cow's corpse with a tarpaulin, which he reverently drew back to the neck. Paddington rolled his eyes and flung it off. How bad could it b—

Bile filled his mouth. The cow had been hollowed out. What remained of her was coated with dark red, almost brown, blood. Bones lay exposed; others had been eaten. One eye stared, terrified, into the sky. Paddington wanted to close it.

"I'm sorry, Richard," Quentin said somewhere behind him.

"I nursed Betsy since she was a calf!" the weeping farmer said.

Paddington stared, transfixed, at the carcass. He wanted to solve proper crimes? Well, now he had one. Now he had to be professional. Concentrate on the facts, find out what happened. Ignore how disgusting it was, ignore the maggots, and find the killer. Save the next cow.

Careful not to touch the corpse, Paddington crouched. "Was there anything special about this cow? Financially?"

"Is that all yeh think about? Money?" Richard started toward Paddington, but Quentin brought him away with a soothing hand to the shoulder. Thank the Three-God that Quentin was good with people, because Paddington always found the perfect way to offend them.

"It's okay, Richard," Quentin said.

"Betsy was a good cow," Richard said. "Good temperamenture."

Quentin patted Richard's scrawny shoulder, then said, "Jim, you don't think that's why she was killed, do you?"

Was Quentin referring to something two conversations ago again? "You've lost me," Paddington said.

"Perhaps the other cows ran away but Betsy didn't and that's why it got her?"

Quentin's problem was he was always too busy with people to look at things. Paddington pointed to a short trail of blood beside the corpse. "She ran. She tried, anyway."

Richard bawled. Quentin soothed. Paddington examined.

The crater where Betsy had hit the earth was deep. She'd probably broken a bone or two just in the tumble. And that was before her insides were devoured. Odds were excellent that Betsy had suffered before her demise.

"Did you see anything?" Paddington asked.

Richard wiped his nose on his hand, then wiped his hand on his overalls. His bleary eyes went hard again. "I heard the girls crying out; came out to see what the fuss was and there was this... thing... eatin' her. It ran off when it saw me, but by then Betsy was... was..." Richard collapsed into heaving cries again.

"Can you describe it? This thing?"

"Half her size, maybe," Richard said through sniffs. "Red fur. On the belly. White on the top. And these eyes that stared right into yeh. It was evil."

Paddington wrote that in his notebook. Evil... What else was there to ask? If anyone owned an animal this vicious everyone would know about it, but the animal couldn't be wild or someone would have reported attacks before now. What did that make it, apart from impossible?

"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm you?" Paddington asked.

"No."

"What about Thomas?"

Richard shook his head. "That's just harmless fun."

"Last week you crossed his rainwater and septic tank lines in the name of fun. We'd better have a word with him."

One farm across and ten minutes later, they did. Thomas, the eldest Brown brother by a matter of minutes, was a mirror of Richard: thin, average height, with a craggy face and gnarled hands. They even dressed in the same filthy overalls. Were it not for the backdrop of sheep instead of cows, they might not have moved at all.

"'Ello Quentin," Thomas said.

"Hello Thomas," Quentin said.

"We're here about Betsy, one of your brother's cows," Paddington said.

"Which one's Betsy?" Thomas asked.

What did that matter? One cow was the same as any other, surely.

"The friendly one," Quentin said. "Used to hang around with Barbara."

How would Quentin know that? And... why?

Thomas placed his hands on his hips and thrust his neck forward like a chicken ready for the block. "What's my Barbara doing in his paddock?"

"Not _your_ Barbara, _his_ Barbara," Quentin said. "With the droopy eye."

Quentin's knowledge of Richard's cows was bordering on creepy, so Paddington whispered, "How do you know that?"

"He talks about them down the pub."

"And he names them all?" Paddington asked.

"O' course," Thomas said.

Paddington hesitated, worried that his expectations of the Browns were about to hit bottom. "You name your sheep, don't you?" he asked.

"Aye, they're all called Barbara. Saves time when I want them to come to me."

"Betsy," Paddington said, to get them back on track, "was killed by an animal last night. Do you know anything about that?"

"I'd never hurt one of his ladies," Thomas said. "But if there's some nasty about, I'll keep an eye out, don't you worry."

"Hey, Jim," Quentin said, "we should do that with Richard."

"Good idea," Paddington said. Why hadn't it been his? Surely he hadn't just been out-thought by one of the Browns. That was embarrassing for most of the populace, let alone him.

They returned to Richard's. While Quentin distracted Richard with gossip and tea, Paddington photographed the crime scene and filled plastic bags with samples of hair, blood, and grass.

Back at the station, Paddington developed his photos and Quentin suggested they talk to Harold, the third Brown brother. That was Quentin's second helpful suggestion in one day, which made Paddington suspicious, but it _was_ a good idea so they piled into the police van and headed south.

Harold's pub turned out to be a single smoke-filled room with a U-shaped bar in the centre and all the atmosphere of a dark cupboard. Even before lunchtime, the _Bleeding Heck_ housed half a dozen regulars, most of them roughly keg-shaped. On Archi, both sexes appreciated wide shoulders connected to hips by parentheses.

At the bar, Paddington stared into a face that was the spitting image of Richard's and Thomas's, except that it was dressed in an alcohol-drenched apron instead of dung-drenched overalls.

"Harold, is it?" Paddington asked.

"'Ello Quentin," Harold said, ignoring Paddington. "The usual?"

"Yes please," Quentin said.

"We're on duty, Constable Appleby," Paddington reminded him.

"Just a half then, Harold."

The stink of pipe smoke and sweat hit Paddington anew. He hated these places, where everyone was crammed in together and anyone could come up behind him and trap him in some dull conversation.

Not that people did. They took every opportunity to _avoid_ conversation with him.

Somehow, that was worse.

"Have you heard from your brothers recently?" Paddington asked Harold.

"Not much since I left the farm last year, constable," Harold said, handing Quentin a pint-glass that was less than half empty.

"Does Richard have any enemies?" Paddington asked. Perhaps there'd been a grudge over the farm. Had Harold left on bad terms? Who had received his share of the land?

Harold blinked. "Enemies? Like how?"

Ignorance that strong couldn't be feigned. "Never mind." Paddington glanced around the bar. Quentin had salvaged something from this trip; maybe he could too. "Quentin, does anyone here live near the farms?"

Quentin took a long sip of his beer as he examined the crowd. "Only Lisa Tanner," he said.

"What?" Then Paddington spotted her, sitting in a corner and nursing a shot glass, head bowed. What was she doing here? The _Bleeding Heck_ was too far from her house to be her local...

Ah. Of course. Paddington would have to talk to his mother about acceptable boundaries for her meddling.

Quentin nudged him, eyebrows a-waggling. After taking a moment to calm himself, Paddington walked toward her. Most of the way he stared at his polished shoes. He hadn't planned on ever speaking to Lisa again; wouldn't be speaking to her now if she didn't live near the farms...

And so what if she did? What did it matter if he left one stone unturned? He'd lasted three months without seeing her, knowing that nothing good could come of it, and now he was approaching her of his own free will? After what he'd done...

No. He couldn't think about the Incident or he'd lose his nerve. The thing to do was keep it official, smile through gritted teeth, and get out as quick as possible.

Preferably before she disembowelled him.

Paddington slipped his bobby's helmet under his arm. "Miss Tanner, I'm Constable Paddington." He didn't introduce Quentin because Quentin was still at the bar, chatting to Harold.

Lisa looked up from her drink. Her eyes came from deep in thought, giving Paddington enough time to really see her. Quentin was right: by Archian standards, Lisa was ugly. Her golden hair was silky, not grubby from a day's labours. She had curves, not thick shoulders and thighs that could pull a cart because the horse had had to be shot.

How must he look? Six-foot-one and skinny; longish brown hair messed up from his helmet; crooked teeth; long face, thin nose, terrified brown eyes. Did he look as bad as he thought he did?

Lisa recognised him and her eyes lit with sapphire fire. "Jim!" Her accent was Scottish, which was as bad as wearing an "I hate Archi" badge. No wonder he hadn't heard good things about her.

She was out of the seat and hugging him before Paddington knew what was happening. Once the shock passed, he hugged back, an awkward act with a helmet in one hand.

"Sit down," she said, taking her own advice.

There was, officially, nothing wrong with sitting while interviewing someone, but Paddington needed all the distance he could get to keep this official. Seeing Lisa had brought back all his boyhood happiness and he wanted nothing more than to take her hand and... well, the rest of it had to do with sitting in a tree and spelling words one letter at a time.

"What brings you here?" she asked, with an accent like caramel sunset.

Also, caramel sunset? What was wrong with him?

Paddington placed pen to notepad. It gave him something to look at other than her. Other than her smile. "I understand you live to the west of the city?"

She seemed thrown by the question. "Uh, yeah."

"Did you hear anything last night near the Brown farms?" he asked her.

"No. Why should I?" she asked quickly.

"There was an animal attack. It's nothing to be worried about," he added, since she looked scared, "we're talking to everyone who might have heard anything."

"Not me. Slept soundly all night. So how have you been?"

Now it was his turn to be thrown. "I... Fine."

"You're still here, I see. Still hate it?"

"Hate is a strong word," Paddington said. How many people were listening in on their conversation?

"But you think Archi's stupid?" Lisa asked. "Don't worry, you're right. It is stupid: the Mainlandphobia, the technophobia, the media blackout, all of it. It's like a police state. Uh, no offense."

Paddington realised that he was sitting. When had that happened?

"So the Mainland's not like this?" he asked. Goodness he wanted to hear about the Mainland. Or kiss her. He didn't really mind which.

No, wait. Kiss her. Yes, he'd prefer to kiss her.

But that wouldn't be professional. He _had_ to stay professional or he'd do something he regretted. He'd hurt her. Again.

"God no," she said. "The duke's paranoid. Censoring the TV? Stopping anyone from getting a computer, or even a radio that can receive broadcasts from off Archi? He's like a dictator." She said this all with nervous mirth. Anyone else on Archi would have cried heresy and assembled an angry mob by now; was she testing him? Seeing if he was the same as he had been as a kid?

" _You_ came back," Paddington said. "It can't be all bad."

She shrugged. "It's clean, good sense of community, fascinating plants; I like it."

Paddington nodded. He really should leave right now before he said something he regretted, like whether she was doing anything Friday. "So you didn't hear anything last night?"

For a moment, Lisa looked shocked, then she blinked. "Uh, no. Not a peep."

"Thank you for your time, miss. I'd better go." Paddington rose and turned. There. Safe.

"Please stay," Lisa said. Her voice was so small and pathetic that Paddington stopped. "No one else will talk to me, you see."

Guilt rushed up his spine. He'd driven Lisa off Archi and she'd returned an outcast. Her social exile was his fault. If not for him, she wouldn't be sitting in a dark corner of a pub at ten-thirty on a Monday morning with only five empty spirit glasses for company.

Paddington looked toward the bar. Quentin was well into another – full – pint. No rescue there. Not that Paddington deserved rescuing.

"Of course," he said.

As he sat, Lisa inched over to him and took his hand. Hers was hard, her fingers callused and nails chipped. "So tell me, Jim: why a cop?"

She sounded interested, excited to catch up. Not at all the reaction he'd expected. Where was the yelling? The shouts that he'd ruined her life? That he'd destroyed any chance for happiness?

Did she honestly not hold a grudge? Or was she so lonely that she'd accept any company – even his – over being alone? Was she that desperate?

"Why not?" he responded at last.

"Because you always sucked at confrontation. Because from what I hear, you offend everyone you meet. Because you hate Archi and a bobby's job is to maintain the status quo. You didn't do it because your mother's a cop, did you?"

"No," he said. "Definitely not. That was actually a reason against."

Lisa eased off her enthusiasm. "You two don't get on?"

"She's..." Did he want to tell her? Well, no; he didn't _want_ to tell anyone. But he _would_ tell her, he knew, because he couldn't lie to her. He'd never had been able to. "She's disappointed in me. Thinks I'm a failure."

"I'm sure she doesn—"

"She's said as much. 'You're not the man you should be'."

"Utter crap. _You_ decide the man you should be."

Paddington found himself liking Lisa even more and before he could stop it, his hand had squeezed hers. Then she smiled and he smiled back and he felt heat in his cheeks and ice in his spine and a deep sensation of being home.

"Lisa," he said, "are you doing anything Friday?"

# Chapter Two: Cellar Door

On the other side of the island, in the kitchen of a house that looked like any other on its street, Norman Winslow complained that the sudden lack of wine was ruining the after-dinner conversation.

"Well I can't get any more," his father said. "It hurts me old knee going up them stairs."

"Then you shouldn't have put your wines in the cellar," Norm said.

"You want me to lug heavy boxes, at my age?" Samuel asked.

"Fine, _I'll_ get the wine!"

Norm yanked open the cellar's steel door and flicked on the overhead bulb. After steadying himself on the doorframe, he started down the wooden steps into cool air that smelled of earth and mould. Samuel had dug the cellar himself with a candle and a shovel. It had started out as an emergency shelter, but over the years the wines had overtaken the rations.

The cave under his house had seemed exciting when Norm had been a boy. Now it was just a smelly, damp inconvenience. Why was something always going wrong in his life? If it wasn't his boss on his back, it was the girls at the office laughing at him, or it was looking in the mirror and seeing that he was nearly fifty, nearly bald, and tubbier by the day.

The wines at the bottom of the stairs rested in racks that reached to the house's foundations above. Norm plucked a bottle from the shelf, but it was a Church of Tipote Shiraz; too good for his father to waste on _him_.

Something scuttled behind the wine rack and Norm sighed. As paranoid as Samuel was about security, he let enough pests live in his house. "Shoo, ratty." Norm replaced the wine bottle noisily. The answering scrape was... heavy. Bigger than a rat. A cat?

A figure dragged itself along behind the wine rack, sandwiched against the wall. Definitely a person. What was someone doing hiding in his father's cellar?

Norm swallowed. "Who's that?"

The figure reached the rack's end and stumbled into the light. The stink of rotting meat and dirt knocked Norm back a step. His dinner burned out of his throat and onto his shoes. When he could look up, the woman was inches away, scabby arms stretched out for him. Her thin hair was matted with – was that blood? – her face was covered in sores, and her eyes were completely white, colourless.

"Blarg!" she snarled.

"Aargh!" Norm retorted. Her corpsish hands closed on his neck and yanked him close. Norm pushed her away, but skin slid off her arms and stuck to his hand like a pizza toppings. Her skin! On his hand! How could he get it off! Get it o—

Broken teeth pierced his throat.

Norm screamed as loud as he could.

"What'sa bloody holdup on that wine?"

His father was a glorious silhouette atop the stairs. A colossus. A saviour with bowed legs.

Norm ran for the stairs. The woman took a piece of his neck as he pulled away. "Help!" Norm mounted the stairs, his eyes on Samuel. He was so desperately hungry.

Samuel disappeared and Norm realised his neck hurt. He clamped his palm over the wound to slow the bleeding. Why had his father left him? Then the woman grabbed his head with rough, cold hands. Her mouth came dow—

The world exploded, leaving a high-pitched whine in its wake. What was left of the woman dropped to the dirt with wet _smack_ s.

At the top of the stairs, Samuel lowered the smoking shotgun. "You all right?"

Norm couldn't answer. The sight of his father had triggered a deep hunger. He had to get up there, _had_ to. Nothing else mattered. Not the wound on his neck, or the raining dead woman, nothing. He scrambled up the steps three at a time and Samuel slammed the door in Norm's face. Too slow! As Norm beat his hands against it, his hunger gave way to fright and shock.

His father had locked him in here with a dead woman!

"Let me out!" he shouted.

"I'm sorry son," Samuel said through the door. "You know the rule. No zombies in the house."

Stunned, Norm realised he _did_ know it. As a kid, whenever he asked if a friend could come over, his father would ask, "Is he a zombie?" Only once Norm said no would Samuel acquiesce. Norm had passed it off as Samuel's awful sense of humour.

It wasn't funny now.

"What?" Norm yelled. "I'm not a zombie! You said the zombies were mindless corpses and I'm not dead! Or mindless!" he added. "It's just a bite; I'll be fine! Dad! I need a doctor!"

Norm thought he heard crying on the other side of the reinforced steel door. "Just a bite..." Samuel said. There was a sniff, then Samuel spoke clearly and loudly. "No zombies in the house."

Norm pounded and shouted, but Samuel didn't respond again. Eventually Norm descended the stairs and crouched beside the corpse. "What happened to you?" he asked. Her pallid skin was covered in bruises. Too much of her face was gone for Norm to recognise her. She'd been tall. Well, until his father had removed the top eight inches of her.

This was just typical. Why did _he_ have to become a zombie? Why not Samuel, who didn't have long to live anyway?

No, that wasn't the way to think. Maybe he could turn this around. Turn a negative into a positive. If he really _was_ becoming a zombie, then he should document the experience. He'd become rich and famous. But what would a zombie do with riches and fame?

Apart from buy brains, of course.

Norm stopped laughing. Obviously his father was wrong, but it was important to keep his mind occupied. Norm selected a blank page in Samuel's wine ledger and started writing. After a moment, the tingling in his neck disappeared and prodding it produced no sensation at all. What else was there to document?

"Arh." Norm's hand sprang open, hurling the pen away. As he stooped to pick it up, his legs stiffened and he collapsed headfirst. Was this what awaited him? Lying in the dirt, unable to control himself? Maybe death would be like sleep.

But, if his father was right, death wouldn't be the end.

Lifting his head, Norm spoke his name. The word echoed back to him, proof that he wasn't mindless _._ Good. He forced himself up and – squeezing the pen with both hands and fighting spasms – he wrote. Each word was ten seconds of concentrated effort. Soon the page drifted out of focus as the world became blobs with blurred edges.

Norm shouted his name again, louder, trying to imbue the cellar with hope and purpose. It echoed despair. There was no point pretending life could continue as it had.

So Norm decided to give up on his life and embrace his death. If he were to become a zombie, fine. He'd become a new person: a rotting person, perhaps, but a new person nonetheless. For starters, no more complaining. He'd leave that behind.

A band of light appeared on the cellar's dirt. Norm looked up to a fuzzy figure at the top of the stairs; probably his father, but it was impossible to even be sure it was human. The old man closed the steel door and stepped down. As Norm approached, he saw the smudge's mouth open and close, but no sound reached him. Why couldn't he hear what Samuel was saying? And were those tears on his father's cheeks? Norm's eyes travelled the wrinkled features and settled on the forehead.

There was a brain in there...

Images flashed, crisp and vibrant. Sounds, more beautiful than the finest concerto. Smells bore him forward, irresistible. Succulent, juicy brain. Pink, tender, fresh off the skull. The sensation of that first bite, of pure bliss.

Norm shook his head. He couldn't hurt his father. Besides, Samuel _needed_ his brain.

Brain... Brain... Slowly roasting over a spit.

Or raw!

So close, so tantalisingly close.

His feet brought him forward and his arms reached out automatically. His father didn't need his brain half as much as Norm needed to taste Samuel's long, full, delicious life. It was murder but Norm didn't care. He'd never truly lived, never tasted, never loved... but with just one bite he would be complete, fulfilled.

It would be ecstasy.

* * *

Samuel wiped his eyes with his sleeve and aimed along the shotgun at his only child. No! That wasn't his son any more. It was one of Them. Once bitten, there was nothing you could do.

"I should kill you..." Samuel said, "or it'll spread, again..."

He'd only been a boy last time – too young to fight, trapped in his house as the world burned around him – but he remembered the heroes who'd fought the horde with lead and steel and fire.

Now it was all up to him. Samuel had to be the hero, stop the outbreak, save Archi...

Norman lumbered up another step and made a throaty noise.

"You're not my son," Samuel told the zombie, but he wasn't sure he could pull the trigger. With Norman only two steps away, Samuel tucked his trembling arm into his side to steady his aim. He _had_ to pull the trigger.

"You're not a failure," he told his son.

"Blarg!" Norman shouted, arms groping.

Samuel fired.

The zombie flopped facedown onto the stairs with a wet smacking sound and the lingering tinkle of broken wine bottles. Samuel dropped onto the step, hot tears streaming down his face, and prayed for forgiveness as he stared at his son's corpse.

Which moved a finger.

A moment later, Norman lurched to his feet and spotted his left arm a few stairs farther up. His elbow leaked thick blood.

Samuel pumped another round into the shotgun's chamber, but he couldn't shoot his son again, not again, and he'd never reach the top of the stairs before Norman reached him.

He was as good as dead.

"Norman, this is your father!" Samuel said with as much strength as he had left. "You've been very naughty!"

Norman crawled up another step. "Blarg?"

"I'm serious!" Samuel shouted. "You know the rules! Go to your... cellar!"

Norman's outstretched arm was inches from his throat.

Samuel raised the shotgun. "Tell them I'm sorry, son," he whispered.

* * *

Norm saw the old man's mouth move, but he couldn't hear anything. Nothing at all. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered but his appetite, the need to taste how Samuel saw the world. It was everything.

Again Norm shouted that he was sorry, but his father didn't seem to hear him.

Then Norm heard a cork pop and Samuel's head burst. His corpse toppled down the steps onto the dirt. Norm followed close behind, but with Samuel's brain gone, reason washed back into Norm like a cool stream extinguishing the fires of his hunger.

His father had shot himself. Why? Why kill himself rather than Norm?

Oh well. Samuel was gone; no point whining about it. Best get on with things.

First, leave the cellar and find a doctor. Norm staggered up the steps and stopped at the door to the house. It _was_ a door, wasn't it? Even when it was shut? Of course it was. Samuel wasn't the kind of man who built _his_ staircases leading to walls.

How could Norm have gone his whole life without thinking about this? Why had he wasted so much time on useless things like taxation, or reading, or women? He hadn't even been any good at them.

Now, what had he been doing?

The door! That was right. He had to open the door. Norm felt for the doorknob, but his fingers wouldn't close on its smooth roundness. He tried again and again: with his elbow, his stump, his wrist, his mouth, his armpit. Nothing made the doorknob turn. Frustrated, he punched the cellar door with his remaining arm.

Oh well. Nothing to be done about it. Norm went back to contemplating the tricky door-wall problem while he waited for someone to come along. He had all the time in the world.

# Chapter Three: Breaching Embargo

It was four days before Paddington accepted he was getting nowhere with Betsy's murder. His best lead – a hair he'd found at the crime scene that was too smooth to belong to either the cow or her owner – had already been shown to both of Archi's vets; neither could determine what animal it came from. When Paddington asked whether there was some Mainland test that might help, he received an official warning from his mother. It was Richard's cow, she said, and he didn't want Mainlanders involved.

Paddington therefore busied himself showing his photographs of Betsy's corpse to every taxidermist on Archi. Most of the island's men hunted on weekends – and weekdays if they could get away with it – and had a fair knowledge of local fauna. He'd circulated posters, but no information came forth. Last night had been spent rereading _The Archi Animal Anthology_ without finding anything resembling Richard's description.

Surely the animal needed to eat all the time, so why hadn't anyone else reported dead cattle? Was there some grand conspiracy? Had everyone involved been sworn to secrecy? Did the creature belong to someone important, like the duke?

Or was he just wishing something interesting would happen on his boring little island?

At seven o'clock, as the sun neared the end of its daily trudge, Paddington left his cottage and drove west. The evening was still and cool and he let it rush in the windows to clear the smell of his fear. Tonight was his first date with Lisa.

Eventually he ran out of road, climbed out of his car, and trod carefully along the cracked stone path toward the ivy-hugged doorframe. In the front garden, weeds had overtaken the plants, and then bigger weeds had overtaken the weeds. What kind of gardener let that happen in her own front yard? What did that say about her?

Nothing. It didn't have to say anything about her or the person she'd become. Since she'd left Archi. Because of him.

Paddington knocked and Lisa shouted that it was open. With a deep breath, Paddington entered. The front room was lined with shelves, stands, and cabinets all overflowing with books and memorabilia. And over here, a shelf full of snow globes and a map of Europe being used as a pincushion. The house smelled of warm cookies and felt hotter than an oven.

He followed the music and carefree singing to the back room, where he found a laptop. An actual laptop! The duke's ban on technology meant Archians required a special licence to own a computer. Paddington's many applications had all been rejected.

Lisa had framed her licence, given it pride of place in her living room.

What did _that_ say about her?

Paddington ambled around and found plants just outside the open back door. They stretched easily as far as the porch light, healthy and overflowing their pots. Right beside the door was a small mango tree that looked like it had recently been uprooted and beside that was a set of overalls with a garage logo on the left side. No prizes for guessing who they had belonged to.

Dominic, a mechanic from the island's south, was Lisa's only other romantic entanglement since returning. Talk of the town, for a few days: a filthy Mainlander dating a purebred, hardworking, Church of Enanti-going Archian. But Dominic could never be the talk of the town for long; he was too easily pushed to the back of life's queue.

His friends consisted of a group of testosterone-fuelled men with more energy than outlets for it who spent their evenings drinking too much and getting into fights. Paddington would call them a gang, except that the words "gang" and "Dominic" didn't fit together in any sensible sentence.

Paddington spotted Lisa's reflection in the glass door and quickly looked from the overalls to the sprightly plants. "So," he said, "why is the front garden..."

"Awful?" Her eyes were fierce but smiling, intelligent, knowing, very... unArchian. Paddington wanted to know those eyes. He wanted to get himself a set.

Lisa shrugged. "Why give them pretty things if all they do is burn them? Besides, the lynch mobs were getting inconvenient."

"Are they still using pitchforks?"

"One used a forklift."

"How times change."

"Care for a tour?" Lisa asked, opening the door. "Don't worry, I shan't bore you to death."

Paddington followed her out. Lisa took a torch from beside the door and swung the beam around as Paddington pretended he knew what the plants were.

"So, what do you do with all these?" he asked.

"Grow them, then ship them off. Well, that's the plan. These I cleared from the Garden of Terpo."

"They let you remove plants from the city garden?" Paddington asked. When was the last time that had happened?

"They hired me," she said. "Keeps me out of sight."

"And you ship them off once a year?"

"I have an arrangement with Charlie," Lisa said. "Once a month he fishes in a certain spot; a boat from the Mainland turns up; everyone wins."

Paddington wished his first thought wasn't about whether that was legal. The Embargo was ridiculous anyway; what did it matter? And why was he thinking about work now?

"Relax, Jim," Lisa said. "The Embargo only prohibits transporting _people_. I checked."

"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me." Paddington puffed out his chest mock-heroically, but Lisa walked faster, shoulders curled inward. Was she remembering the last time she'd trusted him?

"Is it worth the effort?" he asked, touching a dumpy bush with clusters of lavender flowers. "How much could this go for?"

Lisa brought the torch around. " _Nepeta Dynatos_... about two thousand pounds."

"Two thousand!" Paddington carefully retracted his hand. "But these aren't rare."

"Not on Archi, but we have a number of varieties not found on the Mainland."

Paddington glanced at the endless foliage surrounding them. They had to be worth millions.

"Shall we go?" she asked. "Or do you have more questions, officer?"

There was more than playfulness in her words. Even as schoolchildren, outcasts together, Lisa had seen the real him. She knew that, unless she stopped him right now, he'd keep thinking like a policeman all night, all week, all relationship. All his life. And she was telling him she didn't want that.

For the first time in years, Paddington found that he didn't either.

He had something better to be than a bobby.

* * *

A light spring breeze wafted across the street. Samuel Winslow's house beamed light onto the dark front lawn, as it had for a fortnight. Usually Samuel's neighbours were happy to leave him alone with his weird stories and absurd paranoia, but now they were starting to worry.

One such neighbour, Gladys, was preparing morning tea for the Church of Idryo's women's fellowship, pausing occasionally to wonder if Samuel was all right before assuring herself that if Samuel needed anything he'd be the first to ask, loudly and brashly. But since Gladys needed a cup of sugar to finish her lemon slice, she decided to ask Samuel for it, just in case.

Gladys took off her apron, put on her jacket, picked up her measuring cup, and stepped into the night. When no one answered her knocks, she opened Samuel's front door.

"Hello?" Lights were on in the empty living room. The kitchen table was set for two, but the scraps on the plates were growing mould. Where was Samuel? The whole house was dead silent.

Gladys crept out of the kitchen, her measuring cup in one hand, and checked the lounge. Had something happened? Samuel had always kept a loaded shotgun above the mantelpiece, "just in case".

It was gone.

Chills shimmied along Gladys's arms and she turned slowly and checked the bedroom, the bathroom, the lounge. Samuel had disappeared. No missing clothes, no signs of struggle, no body. What was the emergency? Why had he left so abruptly, taking nothing but his shotgun?

Unless he was still here...

Gladys turned to the steel cellar door. Samuel had always taken great pride in his cellar. Was he down there? Had he tripped and fallen? Did he need help? She threw the door open. The light inside was already on.

"Samuel?" she called. "It's Gladys, from next door. I just want a cup of... shit."

The empty measuring cup _tok_ 'd six times down the wooden stairs before coming to rest beside Samuel Winslow's bloody corpse.

* * *

On Archi, privacy was a public affair.

For that reason, Paddington had hoped to keep their relationship discreet. He wasn't ashamed of Lisa – far from it – but his job required public cooperation and most people already talked to him via Quentin. Dating a Mainlander was becoming the final nail in his already lead-laden coffin.

More worrying, it had been two weeks and Lisa still hadn't raised their past. Paddington wasn't sure what to expect when she did; probably a torrent of abuse, a slamming door, and never hearing from her again.

But that was the future. In the present, he was happy.

While Lisa prepared dinner, Paddington surfed the virtual waves on Lisa's laptop and had washed up in some strange realm, the bastard child of myth and wish.

"Lisa," he called out, "have you ever heard of the Beast of... Gévaudan?"

Lisa sighed. "Is that your latest theory?"

Paddington studied the artist's rendition of the Beast of Gévaudan. The shape was right: long muzzle, narrow body. Even the colour. "It fits," he said, "sort of."

"'Sort of' as in 'couldn't possibly get here' or 'probably doesn't even exist'?" she asked. When Paddington hesitated, she pounced. "James, what did I tell you about that site?"

"You don't know they're wrong. And the werewolves _nearly_ fit."

"It was a _new_ moon the night you saw it," Lisa snapped. "You can't get further from a full moon than that, so shut up about the fecking werewolves!"

She was yelling. He'd never been good with yelling people. He didn't know what they wanted him to say, especially when they were right. If anyone were a werewolf, they'd be out prowling _tonight_ , when the full moon had gathered a posse of clouds and was lurking in the sky, bright and bold, intimidating the street lamps.

"Sorry," he said quietly.

"Why can't you just drop it?" Lisa stirred the soup so vigorously that it splashed up the sides of the pot and ran down the edge to sizzle in the stove's flames.

They'd had enough arguments about Betsy's killer for Paddington to know that he should shut up and let her anger pass. She considered his obsession unhealthy, but what if the beast came back? He couldn't do nothing.

The website had a page explaining where the reader could leave details if he'd seen the Beast of Gévaudan so the Supernatural Help and Investigation Team could contact him. There was an electronic mail address and one for "snail mail".

Paddington rubbed his smooth chin. "Lisa, when's your next shipment?"

"Saturday. You plotting a raid?"

"South docks?" he asked.

"Aye. Why?"

He nearly told her the truth. Then he remembered how little she'd like it. "Just wondering."

"Is this about that hair?" Her hands were on her hips again. Such fine hips. He'd lose those hips if he didn't stop this.

"It's over." Paddington closed the laptop. "As of right now. I'm back on the Case of the Weird Graffiti."

Lisa smiled with genuine warmth. "Good."

"Oh, so you think _that's_ an investigation more befitting my abilities?"

"Wait, you have abilities?" Lisa asked, surprised.

Paddington advanced on the kitchen. "I'll have you know, I've broken up at least _one_ bar fight."

"All by yourself? How'd that end?"

"I didn't get knocked out, if that's what you're implying."

"Because you're so tough," she said.

"Exactly." He placed his hands on her hips. "Also because he passed out before he finished throwing the first punch."

* * *

Norm had wedged himself behind the wine rack a few days ago to see if he would fit and hadn't bothered getting out. Why should he? He wasn't in pain, he didn't sleep, drink, or eat; he had nothing to do but think. How long had he been down here? A week? Two? The apocalypse could have come and gone and he wouldn't know.

No, that was daft. He _was_ the apocalypse.

Truth be told, Norm doubted Archi would notice his absence, but how long until someone missed Samuel?

_Just staying here, not eating my father_ , Norm said to the bottles of wine, more to hear his voice than because he was hungry. He wasn't. Was that odd? It was hard to remember how it had felt to be the slave of desire, emotion, and need.

Hold on, had the shadows on the stairs just changed? Was he about to be discovered? Norm squirmed farther against the wall, his head scraping against the racks of wine.

There was a dull scream, then a blob reached the bottom step and crouched by his father.

A human blob.

A human blob with a brain...

Norm shut his eyes. He hadn't eaten in weeks. He was wasting away, his once-large gut now a flap of loose skin. What better sustenance than a brain? He could practically taste it... and how long was it since he'd tasted anything? Nothing else mattered! He scrambled out of the tiny space, arms extended, and thrust himself at the visitor. He shouted, _I'm sorry!_ but the visitor was so busy screaming that she probably didn't hear him. Norm grabbed her dress. She tried to pull away, so he bit her neck to stop her squirming.

Norm tore away a chunk of throat but it tasted like cigar ash so he dropped it onto the ground. Blood poured from her neck and the woman sank to her knees. Her brain was right _there_ , beneath that thinning hair. Norm held her steady and placed his teeth against her head – sweet ecstasy! – and bit...

His mouth wasn't wide enough! He couldn't crack the skull! The brain... He was so close! Norm roared, renewed his grip, and pressed his teeth harder against the head. When that didn't help, he rammed his teeth against her skull. It didn't pierce it, but one of his teeth lodged in his bloody victim. Norm pulled her head up. Maybe he could get the brain through the eye sockets...

But wait... she wasn't a proper meal. The need to feast, to taste her world, shrank and left Norm feeling foolish and weak. His hunger shrivelled away. How was that possible? He'd been famished a second ago.

The woman scrambled for the staircase. When Norm didn't pursue her, she grabbed a wine bottle from the rack and held it out in defence. At least, that's what Norm thought the blur was doing.

"You bit me!" she shouted.

_What did you say?_ Norm asked.

"Who is that? Norm?" The woman rested her back against the wall and edged up the stairs.

_I can hear you!_ Norm said. He wanted to jump with joy but he'd probably break a leg, or hip, or both. _You understand me!_ he said.

"Of course I do, Norm!" The woman was angry it seemed. How odd emotions were. "Have you been down here all this time?" she asked.

What time?

"No one's seen Samuel for a fortnight!" She sounded hysterical. Her voice rose to a squeal. "What happened to him? Why are you covered in scabs? Where is your arm? And who the hell is _that_?"

Dad said she was a zombie, Norm said, staring at the headless female corpse. Which reminds me, you need to write a sign.

"What?"

Before you can't move you arms.

The visitor – Samuel's neighbour, what was her name? – would be losing muscle control every second. At least she wasn't running away.

You have to write "Stay away" or something, Norm said.

"Why?"

_We're zombies!_ Perhaps he should have raised that point both earlier and more gently. Oh well. _We have to stop anyone coming to the house._

"But... I don't want to be a zombie," Gladys said. Gladys! Was that her name? It didn't matter. Gladys would correct him unless she, like him, wanted to be a new person. Did changing your name change who you were? Was the connection intrinsic or arbitrary? The door had been intrinsic, he'd decided: even when closed, it was still a door not a wall, because it _could_ ope—

"Norm?"

Norm shook the thought away. Bits of scalp drifted toward the ground. _It's fine. You just need to... What are you doing?_

"Nothing." Gladys looked down and found her limbs flapping in an invisible gale. "I can't control them!"

_It's happening too fast!_ Norm looked around for help. _Get a pen or something!_

"Norm, you're acting crazy. There's no such thing as zombies."

Norm glared at the swaying floral blob.

"I mean, you're flaking..." she said, "and the missing arm is... and you did try to eat my brain, but..." Gladys stared at the corpses, then nodded. "Okay."

Norm's eyes drifted back to Samuel's corpse. _I wish he was still alive, Norm said. He fought them when he was a boy. I thought he was making it up. I don't suppose you know about zombies?_

_No_ , said Gladys. _My parents never talked about it. No one did. I heard there was a fire._

Norm noticed that Gladys's voice was clearer than before, more immediate, like a thought not a sound. Norm also had a... sense, a notion, a mental image of where Gladys was and what she was doing.

_Not that I'm complaining_ , she said, _but I don't feel like eating brains._

_Wait until you see one,_ Norm said, trying to ignore the lingering feeling that he'd missed another chance for perfect happiness. Maybe next time – not that he wanted there to _be_ a next time. And he certainly wasn't complaining.

_What happens now?_ Gladys asked.

_I don't know_ , Norm said. What were zombies supposed to do if they didn't want to kill people?

I think The Bill is starting.

* * *

Four days later, with the sun still an hour away, Paddington sat in his pale yellow Hillman Imp by the south dock. Twenty feet away, Charlie loaded the last of Lisa's shrubs onto the deck of his trawler. Most of the other fishing boats had already left; it was now or never.

Paddington stepped out of his car and approached. Charlie froze staring at him; the veins on his neck thickening. "Hello constable!" he bellowed and shook Paddington's hand with far too much vigour. "Fancy, uh, seeing you here this early."

"Charlie..." Paddington said.

The large man clapped an arm around Paddington and pointed at the boat. "It's not illegal. No breach of Embargo. It's only people, see? Not plants. Miss Tanner checked. Ask her! It's her plan!"

"I'm not here to arrest you!" Paddington said, mostly so Charlie would stop crushing him.

"Oh?"

Paddington separated himself and glanced around. But for the water lapping at the wooden beams beneath them, the dock was silent. "Can you take something for me?"

Like his mind, Charlie's bushy eyebrows moved slowly. "Take what?"

"An envelope." Paddington handed over the letter he'd written to the Supernatural Help and Investigation Team. The Beast of Gévaudan's hair was inside.

For many long moments Charlie turned it over in his hands as Paddington shivered in the crisp morning air. Finally, Charlie said, "It's a fiver for something this size."

"What?"

"You heard."

"It's not exactly heavy!"

"Got to give the other bloke something to post it."

"It's already stamped!" Everything was more expensive on the Mainland, apparently, so Paddington had put on a few pounds' worth of stamps on it. They took up much of the envelope.

"For his trouble, like." Charlie glanced at his boat, as if worried it would overhear, and leaned in. "I'll tell you what," he said, "you don't tell anyone I'm working for a Mainlander and I won't tell anyone you're writing letters to one."

That simple? Why the change of heart? Of course; Charlie was a respectable businessman. If word of this got out, he had far more to lose than Paddington.

" _And_ you'll waive the fee," Paddington said.

Charlie shoved the envelope into his quilted jacket before Paddington could make any more demands. "Pleasure doing business, constable," he said.

# Chapter Four: Hide and Seek

A week after his clandestine Mainland shipment, Paddington woke to a kick. Last night Lisa had jogged in her sleep; today she sprinted. Paddington placed a hand on her shoulder—

And Lisa woke furious, wild blue eyes inches from Paddington's. She lunged at him and Paddington darted back, afraid she would bite off his nose. When he didn't feel the clamp of her jaw, he peered between his fingers and found Lisa frozen, mouth open, trying to capture the last images of her nightmare.

She noticed him and lay back down. "Sorry," she said.

"Was it the same dream as yesterday?"

"I don't remember."

She wouldn't meet his gaze, so she probably _did_ remember, but Paddington wasn't going to press her. Instead, he shuffled over and put an arm around her. "You're safe now," he said. Lisa settled against him, heart hammering.

"That's quite a blood-pumper you've got there," he said, for something to say.

"Is that a euphemism?"

Paddington couldn't return her widening smile. In his mind, she snapped at him again.

"Just an observation," he said.

Lisa closed her eyes. Her heart kept crashing against Paddington's chest; its pace slowed but it thumped as hard as ever.

The phone pierced his peace. With deep regret, Paddington slid a hand off Lisa and onto the bedside phone. "Yeah?"

"Missing person," Andrea said. "Chief Conall thinks the southern station has better things to do with its time."

"Mum, it's my weekend off," Paddington said.

"Is _she_ there?"

"What does tha—"

"Doesn't matter." As soon as she'd heard about the computer, Andrea's opinion of Lisa had sunken from "tolerable" to "unacceptable" and she'd moved from encouraging their relationship to sabotaging it. "I'm sure Quentin can handle it," she said.

"No." Paddington sat up, eyes widening. Sure, his mother was trying to get between him and Lisa – and succeeding – but this was a _crime_. Possibly.

"He'll be there in ten."

Paddington placed the handset back in the cradle and sat up, aware that Lisa had turned to stare at the ceiling. "Sorry," he said. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Lisa didn't look at him. It had been a week since Paddington had so much as mentioned Betsy's attack and the awkward divide between them was as wide as ever. That left only one possible cause...

"Jim, were you ever going to bring it up?" she asked.

...and there it was.

She said it so calmly Paddington thought he imagined it.

"No," he admitted.

"Your mother came to talk to me," Lisa said. "Said you closed yourself off after I left."

Explanations formed in Paddington's mind, all the reasons why he'd become what he was, but they'd sound ridiculous out loud. "It's better this way," he said at last.

"It really meant that much to you?"

Paddington stared out the window at the bright blue sky, stomach knotting. Could he explain himself, even fifteen years later? Was any reason good enough?

"Then you should know that I didn't leave Archi _just_ because of you," Lisa said.

Mitigating factors didn't matter; he was the primary cause. _He_ drove her away.

"Why did you come back?" he asked.

Lisa lay at ease, eyes closed. "Why didn't you leave?"

"Nah. You've seen me fumbling at the computer; how would I fare out there?" he asked. "Little people, little problems, maybe that's all I'm good for."

Paddington's brown eyes searched Lisa's face for somewhere safe to land. They dodged enemy fire before being shot down. There were flames.

"All right, I'm a coward," Paddington said. "Is that what you're saying?"

Lisa smiled. "I'm not saying anything."

"No, you're just lying there, silently insinuating."

She sat forward until her lips were an inch from his. "And I'll... _insinuate_ all I want."

"No! No time for insinuations now. Quentin's already on his way." Paddington jumped out of bed, showered, and dressed in his black uniform. As he was starting breakfast, Lisa emerged, still in her night-slip and smoothing wild blonde hair.

Why had he said yes to working? Why not spend the day with Lisa? What would it matter if he didn't find one missing person?

There was a knock at the door and, immediately, the sound of it opening. Quentin rumbled along the passage, belt jingling. Lisa made no effort to cover herself up.

"Heya Jim... Lisa." He tipped his helmet at her and dropped a folder on the table, imbuing the act with distaste for everything the southern station was and did.

Paddington kissed Lisa goodbye and grabbed his helmet. As Quentin drove them south, Paddington peeled open the case report. "Norman Winslow. Never heard of him."

"Lucky you."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

The streets became grimier, as though brooms didn't work so well the farther south they went, or roofs were more difficult to repair. The houses were new, too; none more than eighty years old. The south had never really recovered from some big fire a while back; it had just limped along, only half alive.

They parked and approached Winslow's workplace, a dull building that was, inside, one large room filled with ten cheap desks. The floor undulated where the structure had been extended and the walls were three shades of dull orange. Seven people looked up when they entered.

After a brief conversation with Winslow's boss – a heavyset man who hadn't seen Winslow in a month, assumed that he was using his accumulated holiday time, and only reported Winslow missing so he could replace him – they spoke with the staff. None had seen him since Monday the second of April, twenty-six days ago. Winslow's ridiculously-neat desk completely lacked a convenient note saying "Starting one-month vacation tomorrow". Still, maybe that made this proper police work: someone was missing and Paddington could be his only hope, a possibility highlighted when Quentin kissed the hand of the woman he was supposed to be questioning.

"Got anything?" Paddington asked.

"Just a date on Friday!" Quentin whispered.

"What about Denise? And Rose?"

"I won't tell them if you don't," he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Paddington would have lectured him on the merits of monogamy, but Quentin didn't need relationship advice. He was charismatic enough to get away with anything. Hell, if Paddington told Denise about Rose, Quentin would probably just introduce them. And they'd become best friends.

"Let's try his house," Paddington said.

Winslow's house was only a few minutes' walk away, during which Quentin made small talk about how nice it must be to be out in the sunshine instead of trapped inside the interweb.

They found Winslow's house unlocked and his housekeeping obsessive. The books on the coffee table were parallel to its edge. There were no discarded clothes or scraps of rubbish or signs of human laziness. Winslow's couch clearly knew what Proper Conduct was and would not tolerate any filthy romantic behaviour on its pristine surfaces. Not that there was much danger of that.

"What a tosser," Quentin summarised.

Paddington checked the bedroom. The single bed had been made, the wardrobe contained labelled clothes set in neat rows, and there was barely any dust, even after a month.

Quentin opened the fridge. "Bit smelly in here," he said. He upended a carton of milk. Something slurped, but nothing fell. He put it back.

Paddington found a calendar on the side of the fridge. The photo was of a couple on east beach at sunset; not Norm. "On the second of April he's pencilled – very neatly – 'Dinner with dad'."

"Let's off then," Quentin said, heading for the door.

"What about gathering clues?"

"They've been waiting a month, what's another half hour?"

Paddington followed Quentin out into unfamiliar streets. He didn't usually come this far down; the southern station handled all the crime south of the city garden – though apparently they didn't want to deal with Winslow.

Quentin knocked on Samuel Winslow's front door and, when there was no answer, pushed it open. Despite ample sunshine, the lights were on inside. A reek of rotting meat escaped the kitchen, so Paddington left Quentin to investigate that and checked the den, which was empty. They called Norm and Samuel's names as they went, but the house was abandoned. There was no sign of a struggle, no forced entry; a genuine mystery.

Interest piqued, Paddington didn't feel as bad about deserting Lisa.

He spotted an open door and went through it into the small cellar. Wine racks reached floor-to-ceiling and the cool air smelled of dirt and mould. Paddington reached the third wooden step before his breakfast burned out of his throat.

At the foot of the stairs were two corpses, their skin like cobwebs over muscle and bone. Maggots coated the bodies. Paddington covered his mouth, ready to remove his hand if last night's dinner also made a bid for freedom.

There was a severed arm halfway down the stairs, which he stepped over, then stopped above the bodies. Neither was missing an arm. Both were missing their heads, though...

Was this some bizarre suicide club? A shotgun lay near the bodies. One was female; not a Winslow. Why hadn't she been reported missing? And if the headless man was one of the Winslows, where was the other?

Paddington looked around, partly for more clues but mostly to avoid looking at the corpses. The nearby wine ledger's open page was filled with scrawled writing that increased in size and messiness as it went on.

It is 11:58 on April 2nd. My name is Norman Winslow. I am 47 years old and I have just been bitten by a woman who looks like a corpse. My father says I am now a zombie, so I have decided to document my experiences.

She bit my neck, but it doesn't hurt. The skin around it is completely numb.

I wish I'd done something with my life.

Losing control. Dad's right. Not concerned.

Legs sway. Can't close mouth. Can talk.

HELP

Movement, behind! Paddington spun, fumbling with his pistol's release strap. Why did they make these things so hard to undo? If that was the zombie, he was wasting seconds he might not have!

The mental images of reeking death, living corpses, and stumbling figures flashing through his mind did nothing to still his shaking hands.

Paddington risked a glance up and saw not a zombie, but Quentin being violently ill. Paddington released his gun, grabbed his flashlight, and did a sweep of the cellar. Lots of wine. Some tinned food. Blood. Two corpses. One arm. No hiding zombies, not that he wanted to double-check. He grabbed the ledger and led Quentin outside. As Quentin read Norman Winslow's final words, Paddington swallowed the lump in his throat and radioed.

"Unit thirty-eight to control."

"Found him, James?" Andrea asked.

"Bits of him." Paddington felt sick, but nothing came out. "Mum, you'd better get over here, to Samuel Winslow's. We've, uh... got zombies."

"Right-o," his mother said. Why didn't she sound surprised? Yes, she usually thought three steps ahead, but how could she know there'd be zombies? "Be there in thirty."

Paddington and Quentin decided by unspoken agreement that the best course of action was to secure the crime scene from contamination. This manifested itself as sitting on the front porch and staring at a sycamore tree and trying not to think.

Andrea parked her hatchback and climbed out, a shotgun in her hands and the Bretherton Sabre strapped to her left hip. A family heirloom, in emergencies it could also function as three feet of very sharp steel. "Where are they?" she asked.

"There's two bodies in the cellar," Paddington said, desperately not picturing their missing faces.

"Nothing alive?" Andrea asked. "Or... moving?"

"Why aren't you freaking out?" Paddington yelled. Quentin managed a distant nod.

"Why are you?" Andrea touched her son's hand and pulled him to his feet. "Your grandpa always used to talk about the Night of the Realive, when the dead had tried to overrun the living, remember?"

"I thought he was just telling stories to amuse me!"

"What better story than a true one?" Andrea asked. She pumped a cartridge into the shotgun's chamber. "Now, show me the bodies."

"You don't want to see them," he said. There were birds in that tree. How could they sing on a day like this?

"Constable!"

Paddington tore his gaze from the birds to his mother. She waited until his eyes stopped flicking away and were focussed solely on her, then said, "Show me the bodies, James." Downstairs, she added, "That'll be Samuel. Too old for Norman. As for the girl, I don't know. Any thoughts?" When none came, she shouted, "James!"

The cellar's rough wooden steps were warm beneath him. Paddington risked a glance at the bodies, but he had nothing left to bring up. After a moment he looked back, then away, then back at the corpse again. Eventually he managed to see the shape beneath the worms.

"Could be Marion Valdis," he said. "Right height. Timing fits, too: she went missing a week before Norm. I thought her boyfriend Ian killed her and disposed of the body."

"Based on what evidence?" Andrea asked.

"We couldn't find her." Admittedly, it sounded weak phrased like that. "They'd been going out, she dumped him, Ian asked her over, and... she disappeared."

"She just reappeared." Andrea knelt by the bodies. "So what happened here? James! With me, now!"

Before he realised it, Paddington was standing over the bodies. "Impact is upward," he said. "Indicates Samuel's shooter was on a lower step."

"And her?"

Paddington told himself it was a game. A test. A challenge. Above all, it wasn't real.

"Whole head's missing," Paddington said. "Downward angle. Maybe Samuel shot her, then himself. No, that doesn't make sense." He was forgetting something... "Of course! Norman Winslow!"

His mother blinked. "Good, yes."

Paddington pointed. "She bites him, he writes the journal entry, Samuel hears the attack, kills her, but doesn't realise that Norman's been infected. There's a struggle, Norman's on a lower step, gun goes off – _bang_! – Samuel dies."

Samuel dies...

That thought broke through the game and reality struck him again. Two people were dead. Three, if you included the zombie of Norman Winslow that was still out there somewhere.

"This is more than a missing person," Andrea said, "so Conall can deal with it. You two, write your reports then go home. Take Monday off. Conall shouldn't have offloaded this on us to begin with."

She wanted him to give up on this? "But—"

"James, please," Andrea said.

Paddington and Quentin made it back to the station without a single word and with barely a thought. Paddington typed his report, placed it on his mother's desk, then stopped at Quentin's. "Are you okay?"

"Just like cows, innit?" He'd doodled a cow on his paper and traced its outline several times. Its left foreleg was severed and lying beside it on a set of stairs.

"Finish up. We'll go down the pub," Paddington said.

"You hate the pub."

"Come on."

An hour later, they ordered lunch in the _Bleeding Heck_. They didn't eat, but it was comforting to have food in front of them. For once, Paddington found comfort in having others around him. The few scattered regulars – including one pastor, not that either of them were in the mood for drunken religion – reassured them that the world hadn't really ended. Yet.

"You boys look glum," Harold Brown said. "Anything I can do?"

"More beer," Paddington said.

"You sure, Jim? Imbribe any more and you'll likely end up on the floor."

"More beer," Quentin agreed.

Harold poured another couple and set them on the bar.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Paddington asked, when Harold was far away.

"What is there to say?" Quentin asked.

"Yeah," was the only thing Paddington could think of, and it took him a while to get that far. The less said about it the better. No wonder no one ever talked about the last outbreak. Talking made it real. Much better to let it fade... pretend it had never happened.

Paddington bit the end off a warm chip and chewed it longer than was necessary.

"Call for you," Harold said, placing a phone on the bar in front of Paddington.

Swallowing cold chip mush, Paddington took the handset. "Hello?"

"Good morning, constable," said a deep, smooth voice. "This is Duke Adonis Andraste."

Paddington leapt off his stool and to attention, which pulled the phone off the bar and onto his feet. He tried very hard not to swear.

"Are you all right, constable?" asked the duke.

Paddington tried to keep the pain out of his voice. Damn that phone was heavy. "Fine sir, yes sir, thank you sir,"

"I'd like you to come to the manor for dinner tonight."

After taking a second to confirm his ears were working, Paddington said, "Of course, your grace, I'd be delighted."

"Then I shall see you and Miss Tanner at eight o'clock." The line clicked and Paddington picked the phone's torso off the floor and put it gently on the bar.

"Was that who I think it was?" Quentin asked, with awe. Paddington nodded numbly. Most people went their whole lives without talking to the duke; he'd just been invited to _dinner_.

Harold pushed a shot glass of amber liquid at him. "Get that inta yeh," Harold said.

More alcohol didn't seem like a good idea. "I think I'll just go home."

"Good thinking," Quentin said, pulling Paddington's drinks toward him. "You go get ready. I'll finish these."

# Chapter Five: Supping with the Duke

"Stop fidgeting. You look fine." Lisa pulled Paddington's fingers away from his bowtie before he could unravel it completely.

"Aren't you nervous?" he asked. His mother had told him to be firm but not aggressive; polite but not submissive; honest but not rude. How could he do all that _and_ be himself? Or was that her point?

Lisa, meanwhile, acted like dining with the most powerful man on the island was an interesting inconvenience. She sat gorgeous in the passenger's seat, wearing a dress of long, slinking black.

"No," she said. Her Scottish lilt had never sounded so jarring. Would the duke take her accent as an insult? "And I think we've sat at the gates long enough."

Paddington pressed the buzzer on the pillar, the gates swung inward, carefully soundless; Paddington drove down the gravel driveway through woods and open grassland; and minutes ticked away. About them, deer and sheep fled from the car's crackle on the gravel and the cough of its engine, but the elk and aurochs merely watched them. Finally, they were through the forest and saw the mansion.

It looked like a two-storey house – all the usual walls, doors, and windows – but as Paddington approached, the manor kept getting bigger. What he'd thought were seedlings turned out to be fully grown trees. And the manor towered over _them_.

As they climbed the front steps, the double doors opened to reveal an empty candlelit hallway and a wide curling staircase. What was the protocol here? Even Lisa had stopped her confident march.

"Should we go in?" Paddington asked.

"Yes..." the empty room said, "sir."

They crossed the threshold and a bald, pale-faced butler emerged from behind the door and spoke in an efficient monotone. "You may wait in the drawing room, sir, ma'am, may I take your coat, thank you, follow me." He left them in a sitting room. Paddington tried not to gawp at the candlesticks, the centuries-old wallpaper, or the ceiling high above. Portraits of the Andraste family stared at them from every wall.

Lisa edged closer to Paddington. " _Now_ I'm nervous."

She had no reason to be; she outshone anyone in the paintings. Glittering black curves, styled blonde hair; she'd even cleaned the dirt from her fingernails. This was Lisa, but polished. Impressive, but artificial. Paddington preferred her without pretence.

"You look great," he told her. " _I'm_ here in my dad's old suit."

"Then he was a man of the finest taste," said a smooth voice from the doorway behind them.

They spun to find a man of about sixty with a pale complexion, wide cheeks, and a trimmed moustache, his slim build covered by a tailed evening suit, gold cufflinks, and shoes polished to mirrors.

"Your grace, it's an hono—" Paddington began.

"Pray, don't be formal. 'My lord' will suffice." The duke's hand was strong, his skin dry. "This must be the delightful Miss Tanner. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

Lisa shook his hand, her smile tightening. "How do you do?"

"Very well. As do you, I hear." Did the duke know about Lisa's breach of Embargo? Was this a trap? There was something predatory in the duke's manner: a stillness between movements and quickness about them.

"My lord, about my report—" Paddington said.

The duke waved him away. "We shall put pleasure before business, constable."

He inclined an arm and Paddington followed Lisa through the door to a long oak table set with silver cutlery, candles, white napkins, and pre-filled water glasses.

"I shall return presently," said the duke, bowing.

Paddington picked up a bottle of Church of Idryo Cabernet Sauvignon, then placed it carefully back down. It was a good year. Too good for him. Who else was expected tonight? The table was set for thirteen.

"What do you think?" Lisa asked. She sounded edgy.

"It's not my place to say," Paddington said.

"Spoken like a true Archian." The fire he usually adored about her seemed vulgar here, ungrateful.

"Lisa Tanner, how wonderful!" A fifty-something woman wearing long, light fabrics embraced, released, and smiled at Lisa. Lisa gave a tight, false smile back.

"And Constable Paddington." She extended a hand. Unsure what to do, Paddington kissed it.

"My wife, Lilith," said the duke, from the doorway. "And our daughters Niamh, Erato, Guenevere, Clytemnestra, Themis, Phaedra, and Ianthe." As he said each name, a woman – the oldest about thirty, the youngest sixteen – stepped in, curtseyed, and stopped behind a chair. Their hair curled or spiralled or flowed straight, but always shone. Paddington kept his eyes off their plunging – or freefalling – necklines.

"And our boys, Leander and Melanthios," said the duke. Two long-haired men bowed and took places at the table. Each child had fair complexions, slender bodies, rounded faces, and classical beauty. The girls wore flowing gowns; the boys, long-tailed dinner suits.

"Please, sit," said the duke, indicating the two remaining chairs in the middle of the table. The Andrastes sat and folded napkins over their laps with polished air.

"Wine, constable?" asked the duke, his gaze distracted by his younger son, who was staring at Lisa from behind dark eyes. Come to think of it, all the Andraste children were.

"I don't usually," Paddington said.

"We don't drink, you see," said the duke, "and I'd hate to waste it."

"Maybe a small glass, then, my lord."

The butler had finished pouring before Paddington had finished speaking.

"Miss Tanner?" asked the duke.

She held the duke's gaze. "I'm not thirsty."

The wine was rich and dry, almost bitter. Paddington suppressed a cough. "I, uh, didn't know you had such a large family, my lord."

"We keep to ourselves. A sad necessity."

"Are you really a _gardener_?" asked one of the daughters. The youngest, with the lowest neckline and hair so black it swallowed the candlelight. "Plants and stuff?"

"Ianthe!" said the duchess, shocked. "You will be courteous to our guests."

"It's all right." Lisa sat forward. "I can defend myself."

Paddington grasped her hand beneath the table to calm her down.

"Why plants?" asked Ianthe, with under- and overtones of "how disgusting" and "how stupid".

"I like plants," Lisa said. Paddington gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She crushed his fingers.

"I know you people have to make money somehow," Ianthe said, her tone making a lie of her words, "but wasn't there anything... better?" She leaned forward, revealing more cleavage while remaining decent than Lisa had in total.

"Ianthe," said the duchess, "if you canno—"

"I _enjoy_ my job," Lisa said.

"Digging in the dirt?" Ianthe asked.

"And after lunch I roll in manure!"

The duchess opened her mouth, but there was no stopping either of them. The other Andrastes watched with tight smiles. Only the duke was calm, and he wasn't even watching the conflict. He was watching Paddington.

Ianthe's eyes filled with venom. "You insult me, you common—?"

"You arrogant, inbred—" Lisa started.

"How dare you, _bitch_!"

"Skank!"

"Lisa!" Paddington said.

"Trollop!" said Ianthe.

The duke slammed his hand down. Cutlery clattered; Lisa's empty glass toppled; Paddington's wine sloshed onto the white tablecloth; and Ianthe slank back as if struck. The other Andrastes turned, eyes wide, to their father.

And over Lisa's right shoulder, Paddington saw – as clearly as was possible in the candlelight – the eyes of one of the daughters. Her pupils were slits, not circles.

Distantly, the duke excused Ianthe and she stomped out. In the embarrassed silence, the butler entered with a large silver-covered tray, which he set in the centre of the table. Lisa was still trying to out-stare the entire family.

"What's wrong with you?" he whispered.

Lisa looked around the room with increasing panic. "I've got to get out of here, Jim. They're not _right_!"

"They're nobles; of course they are," Paddington said, but the words were Quentin's not his, and left an unpleasant aftertaste.

"Is everything satisfactory?" asked the duchess.

He couldn't leave. The very idea was absurd. Most people went their whole lives without _seeing_ the duke; he'd been personally invited to a candlelit dinner with the whole Andraste family. His mother would never forgive him if he left. Quentin would never speak to him again. The rest of the city would chase him off the island on threat of death.

Then he saw Lisa. She was on the verge of tears.

"We have to go," Paddington said, rising. "Lisa's not feeling well."

"Nonsense," said the duke. "You stay. Our butler will drive her."

Lisa saved him from finding out whether it was an offer or an order. "Stay," she said. She leaned in for a kiss and whispered, "Don't let your guard down."

With that, she followed the butler out of the dining room. Paddington wished he could go with her. Forget pomp and ceremony, duke be damned, he wanted to be with her.

But he had responsibilities.

In the butler's absence, his plate was overloaded with food by Leander: steak and chicken and pork, rare and unseasoned. Even the vegetables, stuffed on the side like an afterthought, looked boring.

The family had now taken to staring at him, perhaps wondering what Lisa had whispered, so Paddington said, "Lisa's sorry for her outburst, my lord." Fear crashed like cold water against his stomach; he'd just lied to the _duke_.

"Apology accepted," said the duke. "We cannot begrudge her her Mainland manners. It is not her fault society breeds monsters." Heavy silence settled, interrupted only by the _tink_ of cutlery on crockery.

Paddington tried to ignore the trickle of juice when he cut his steak, but couldn't bring himself to enjoy the meat; he'd grown up on his mother's forgot-it-was-in-the-oven dinners. Anything that wasn't charcoal wasn't ready yet.

"I understand you two were childhood sweethearts," said the duke.

"Yes," Paddington said. "Well, for a few days."

"And you waited for her all these years?" said Lilith. "How romantic."

"Not exactly." Was he discussing his love life with the duchess? "It's complicated."

"Young love should be," the duchess said, smiling. "Head and heart vying, body swooning..."

"I think not, my dear." The duke raised a finger. "Miss Tanner is more than a mere woman to our guest. She is an avatar of something lost or destroyed. Being with her is not only companionship, it is repentance."

The duke was closer to the truth than Paddington would have liked. Why did he know so much? Surely Paddington's love life wasn't relevant to the running of Archi.

"She is his redemption," continued the duke. "Ah! But is he hers?"

"Oh, Adonis." Lilith shook her head at her husband. "Can't it just be love?"

"Of course. Was it not so for Bion and Zenobia?" As the duke's voice filled the room with talk of religious figures, Paddington tried to think. Was it their eyes? Was _that_ what had worried Lisa? The intensity of their slitted gazes?

Paddington smiled and nodded when necessary, but the duke was content to carry the conversation. Content, perhaps, with the sound of his own voice.

"Would you excuse me?" Paddington asked at a suitable break. "I need to use the lavatory."

"I'll take him," said a daughter with long curls of golden hair.

"Thank you, Clytemnestra."

Paddington followed her along a maze of high-ceilinged hallways and into a white room, the first to be lit by a dim overhead bulb instead of dim candles. This close, Clytemnestra's eyes were green orbs, the irises extending nearly to the sides of her eyelids. Paddington felt drawn inward, and realised this wasn't an illusion only when Clytemnestra placed an arm around him. "Yes, that's it," she said.

"No! No it's not!" Paddington struggled against her smooth embrace but Clytemnestra was stronger than him. Also, he couldn't find somewhere safe to put his hand. "I have a girlfriend."

"We don't have time to fetch her." She leaned forward and kissed him, and Paddington discovered the difficulty of saying "stop" with a lady's tongue in his mouth, and of convincing his mouth that this was what he wanted to say.

He pulled and pushed, but she held him firmly. Finally he dropped down, ducked out of her grip, and dashed for the door. Clytemnestra beat him there and placed her back to it, her cups full to overflowing. "Don't you want me?" Her eyes grew even larger. "We so rarely have visitors."

"Look, I—"

"Would you deny me?" asked Clytemnestra.

"Yes!" He grabbed this escape for all he was worth. "I'm sure you're great, bu—"

He'd raised his hands in emphasis. Clytemnestra put them on her breasts.

"And what is _this_?" At the door stood Erato, the loveliest of the Andraste women.

"Not what it looks like!" Paddington said, still trying to pull his hands free. Trying, admittedly, harder than before. Erato prised her sister's hands off Paddington's without so much as glancing at him.

He opened his mouth to explain, but where did he even start? Why should she believe him? This was the end for him. He'd be dismissed from the police, disgraced. The populace would never so much as look at him.

And the duke... he'd probably hang him from the manor's ramparts as a warning to others.

Erato ignored Paddington's terrified noises and stared at her sister. "You will retire to your room."

Wait, why wasn't Erato surprised? Why wasn't Clytemnestra explaining herself? Why wasn't someone angry at him? What the hell was going on?

Clytemnestra left. Erato smiled an apology, stepped outside, and shut the door. Paddington locked it, used the toilet, and stared into the wide mirror. "What have you got yourself into?" he asked. When his reflection didn't have any sensible answer, he unlocked the door and followed Erato back through the labyrinth and through a door. A moment too late, he realised they weren't in the dining room.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Father's study." Erato circled a glass-topped pedestal in the room's centre. "I thought you'd be interested in this."

The book inside spoke of a long history that would have left lesser books as memory and dust. The thick leather cover was embossed with a design that teased Paddington's memory.

"The Book of Three," said Erato. "An original."

Aware that his mouth was open, Paddington used it. "I didn't think any copies were left."

"There aren't." Erato winked her huge dark eyes. "Understand?"

He did. Collectors would pay millions for a Book of Three, let alone one in condition this good. It was, absolutely, priceless. He'd have to keep his mouth very tightly shut about it.

He leaned closer to inspect the book and noticed that Erato wasn't next to it anymore. She lay on an antique couch, curling her hair around a finger. "I knew you were a man who appreciated the finer things of life..." she said.

Paddington left without a word and made his best guess at the direction of the dining room. Why, after years of being rejected by every woman on Archi, did he now have women _throwing_ themselves at him? Why were they all the duke's daughters? And why now, when he was taken – happily so?

After several minutes and wrong turns in stunning, deep-coloured halls, Paddington stumbled upon the dining room by chance.

Erato was already back.

"Miss Tanner has been delivered safely home," said the duke, then spoke of current events, politics, sports. The conversation swirled. Paddington tried to keep his head above water, but the rip was strong and he gulped water more than once.

Half of the bland meal was all Paddington could choke down. When he set his knife and fork together, the duke crossed to a rope at the side of the room and tolled a bell. Seconds later, the butler appeared and cleared the plates. No one else had eaten their greens, not that Paddington blamed them.

Dinner finished, the duke gave him a tour of the sixteenth-century manor. Paddington nodded along, but his unease had grown and, although his mother would think it traitorous to distrust the duke, he remained on edge. Lisa had been right: something was wrong here.

The duke opened a reinforced wooden door to a spiral stone staircase. "Perhaps in here we may have some privacy," he said. "Close the door as you come. Now... you have questions of me. Please, ask."

Paddington kept his eye on the next slippery stone step and off the duke. Should he really voice his concerns, or was the duke being polite?

"It's not my place, my lord."

"The acquisition of knowledge is everyone's place, especially a policeman's. Ask, constable."

"With all due respect – and stop me if it's too personal sir – your... eyes."

"Ah, yes." The duke seemed amused, not offended. "One reason for my distance as a ruler. My family have a condition called Schmid-Fraccaro syndrome. A gap in the iris creates the appearance of an elongated pupil. We entertain by candlelight to avoid unnecessary distress, but you are too fine a policeman for such simple tricks. Which is why you are here: to speak of today's events."

"My lord?" Tonight was taking forever; what had happened before it?

The duke threw open another thick wooden door and cold air rushed in. Buttoning his suit jacket, Paddington followed the duke onto the roof. At this height – the highest point in Archi – the wind knocked Paddington around.

The duke nodded toward the back of the mansion and an enormous satellite dish. "All of our Mainland communications run through that dish," he said. "Television, radio, phone calls, Miss Tanner's internet."

"I didn't take you for a technophile, my lord," Paddington said. Although, now that he thought about it, he'd never heard that the duke was against technology. Or that he was for or against anything, really. No one knew him well enough to say what he liked, or what he _was_ like. He was always just The Duke.

"Technology has its place, but I fear that correcting people's opinions would do more harm than good. Everything must have _balance_ , constable: balance. For our citizens to have society's best, some of us must know its worst. Some of us must know what lurks in the dark... like you.

"The diary you recovered is now in my study, where it shall remain. You will keep its contents confidential. Write no more reports; do not mention it to Constable Appleby, your mother, or Lisa. Can I trust you to do that?"

What had Conall found since taking over the case? Had Ian been arrested? How had Marion become a zombie? How had she made it into the cellar? Had Conall found Norman Winslow? Were all the zombies dealt with?

His mouth said, "Yes, my lord."

"You're uneasy, constable."

"Sorry." And he was. He had no cause for unease; he was being told to forget the whole thing, which meant that the zombies were all dead and the duke had the situation under control. Thinking otherwise was ridiculous.

But he'd still feel better if he'd seen it himself.

"On the contrary, thank you." The duke smiled. "Your excellent work has been noted, _detective_."

"What?"

The duke stared over the island to their south. "I just promoted you to detective constable," he said, "and you just ruined the subtlety of it."

Paddington leaned against the thick stone. Detective, solver of crimes, not an about-town bobby... and all he had to do was keep his mouth shut and trust the duke. But why the secrecy?

To prevent panic, or preserve balance, or because he'd been told to. What did it matter?

"I'd be honoured, my lord," he said.

"I am pleased to hear it," said the duke. "And now I suspect you wish to tell Miss Tanner your good news. Go then, remembering discretion."

Paddington didn't know whether to shake his hand or bow or just leave without fuss. In the end, he retreated with pigeon-hops toward the wooden door. "Yes, my lord. Thank you for dinner and, everything."

"Good night, detective constable."

* * *

A few minutes later, a small figure emerged from the front door and entered his car. As the yellow Hillman Imp shrank down the driveway, a figure dropped silently from a turret to perch on the manor's edge beside Adonis.

"We did all you asked, father," the figure said. "We gave him every reason to decry us."

Adonis watched the disappearing taillights spook the deer on the front lawn and sighed. "You did well," he said, "though that was, perhaps, more truth than acting by Ianthe."

"It's not her fault. The Mainlander is—"

"I know what she is," said Adonis mildly, "and it changes nothing. Tanner is unimportant in what is to come."

Adonis's elder son shifted his grip on the stone. "Clytemnestra propositioned him."

Adonis suspected Leander had more to report – Erato's tale and his judgements on its veracity – but Adonis would deal with all that later. He leaned against the parapet and sighed again. "And _still_ he chose us."

"He denied Clytemnestra..." said Leander, but it was a stretch. The prophecy was clearer than that.

"But not me," said Adonis. Not Archi. Young Paddington had done everything but physically lick his boots.

"We still have seven days, father."

"I was _wrong_ , Leander!" Adonis turned, furious. He didn't need platitudes now! So many years of planning had been ruined, wasted, pointless! "I was wrong and his mother was right, damn her!" Adonis grasped the parapet with both hands, reassured by the cool stone.

Leander shifted his weight, uncomfortable. "If James isn't the demon," he said, "then we know who is. We can stop him from ever coming here."

Adonis chuckled. Trust Leander to attempt to solve an impossible problem. "Have I taught you nothing, son? The demon is in the prophecy; he _will_ come to Archi." Adonis patted Leander's shoulder. It was good to know he was still one step ahead of everyone else. "But we'll be ready."

# Chapter Six: The Second Brother

Paddington caused a stir at the station on Tuesday when he paraded his new wares: a classical blue two-piece suit, a long tan coat, and a fedora.

"Sorry, sir," Quentin laughed. "No press interviews without an appointment."

His mothers merely stared, her expression her question, until Paddington explained himself with the letter he'd found inside his cottage on Saturday night. Andrea examined the signature then nodded.

"Congratulations, detective constable," she said. Paddington wanted to reach across the desk and hug her, but he didn't. Neither did she. Her only show of emotion was a single quiver of her jaw which sent an empty pang through Paddington. He wished his father were still alive.

Andrea nodded curtly. "Lose the hat, dear. You look like an idiot."

Paddington wanted to ask Andrea whether Conall had found and destroyed all the zombies, but he'd promised he wouldn't and Andrea wouldn't want him disobeying the duke. Besides, no news was good news. No news meant the zombies had been taken care of and no more needed to be said of it.

So Paddington returned to his desk. It was exactly as he'd left it, which saddened him a little. The rush was over; life continued. Even Lisa had been too preoccupied to care. He'd gone to her house straight from the manor and found her on the couch hugging a hot water bottle. When he told her of his promotion, she'd said something too quiet to hear. Paddington remembered nodding and shifting his feet, and Lisa apologising, but mostly he remembered being told that she needed a few days away from him and that it wasn't his fault and not knowing if she was lying.

"Jim!" Quentin held out his phone. "Thomas Brown says that Beast of Giveadamn's killed one of his Barbaras. He wants to know what to do."

Paddington walked over and took the phone. "We'll be there soon, Thomas. Preserve the scene."

"What's that mean?"

"It means don't touch anything until we get there," Paddington said, trying to free a pen from his unnecessarily deep coat pockets. Why had he worn this coat? It had far too many pockets and he couldn't remember which one had the pen in it.

"So I should put her back?" Thomas asked.

Paddington froze, a familiar creeping in his spine. "Put her back?"

"I remember where I found her."

Paddington sighed. "Don't bother, Thomas."

"But I should take her off the spit?"

Paddington squeezed the phone. "The _spit_?"

"Seemed a shame to waste 'er."

"Just..." He forced himself to calm down. "Just put the fire out. We'll be there soon."

"No hurry. She's not going anywhere." The line went dead.

Was this his first case as a detective? Or didn't it count because it was the same case as twenty-nine days ago? Hard to say, but he knew Lisa would tell him to stop feeding his ego with irrelevant questions and solve it already.

Or, since this was Betsy's case, she'd tell him to drop it and investigate something sensible, like graffiti.

Half an hour later, Paddington and Quentin were Thomas Brown's. "'Ello Quentin. She's back here." Behind the house were the still-smouldering remains of Barbara. Or, one of them.

"Just out of interest, Thomas," Paddington said, "what do you call your male sheep?"

"Barbara."

"Thought so."

Paddington crouched by the spit. Partial cooking made identification tricky, but the bites were similar to the last attack. Again the attacker had chomped through flesh, muscle, and bone. Unlike last time, however, the beast had left a good deal of the animal untouched.

Why would it eat a whole cow and only half a sheep?

"I'm sorry for your loss, Thomas," Quentin said.

Thomas watched Quentin carefully. "It happens."

Did the beast prefer beef? Was the wool off-putting or difficult to eat around?

"Don't worry, we'll get her killer." Quentin placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Thomas knocked it off. "Who's worried? I got others."

Or had the beast eaten recently? Had it not eaten as much because it hadn't been as hungry?

Paddington turned the sheep on the spit. There were fewer bites; the beast was getting better at killing.

"So, Jim..." Quentin said. "Do you... detect anything?"

Paddington looked up, mouth open. "Quentin, that was a pun. How long have you been working on that?"

Quentin smiled and shrugged. "A few minutes."

"I don't get it," Thomas said.

"Policeman humour," Paddington said quickly. "No threats or unusual activity lately?"

"Nothing worse than Richard painting a bullseye on the back of Barbara."

Wiping his hands on his overcoat, Paddington stood. He hadn't touched the corpse, but still felt contaminated. Barbara's head hung awkwardly, pleading for Paddington to end her pain. He didn't know how to tell the sheep she was already dead.

"Right," he said, because there was nothing more to ask. "We'll take some samples and be on our way. Might I suggest that you leave the rest of Barbara to the fire? We don't know what diseases her attacker might have."

Thomas dispassionately regarded the carcass. "Right you are."

"Also," Paddington said, "I think it best that we stake out your farm tonight."

Quentin's face lit up like a pinball machine. "I get it. It's a pun, right?"

It was nice to see Quentin making an effort. "That would only apply to cows, but sure," Paddington said. "We'll have a steakout."

"You said that already," Thomas said. "Now, I want Constable Appleby in charge."

Paddington stood up straighter and took his hands out of his coat pockets. "What? Why?"

"Because I don't want _you_ here at all. We'll handle this the proper Archi way."

Wait, was Thomas not letting him come because he was dating Lisa? What did he expect Paddington to do, renounce her? That was never going to happen.

"Fine," Paddington said, and set about documenting everything that seemed important. When they'd finished, Quentin suggested they have lunch at the pub to celebrate Paddington's promotion, which Paddington declined in favour of visiting his girlfriend.

"Lisa? Are you home?" Paddington crept along the front corridor of her house, worried he hadn't given Lisa enough time. He didn't want her biting his head off, but he needed to use her computer for Betsy's case again.

A point he planned to bring up gently. Or not at all.

The back room was empty and the lights on. Paddington checked the back yard. "Lisa?" Her car was out the front, so she wasn't working in the city garden, but no head popped up to greet him. He moved farther into the nursery, checking each row in turn. In the fourth, he found a pair of jeans, Lisa's red sweater with the hole in the sleeve, and a brown shirt.

"Lisa! Are you okay?"

Frantic, he ran along the rest of the rows. What had happened? Had some patriotic Archian taken matters into his own hands? Surely not. True, Lisa was the most outspoken, technophilic Mainlander he'd ever met, but _kidnapping_? And why leave her clothes?

Paddington felt eyes on him. Very slowly and non-threateningly, he turned toward the sensation. Before he could see what it was, he heard claws catch on gravel and disappear right.

That wasn't the Beast of Gévaudan, was it? They were close to the farms, after all...

"Lisa! Where are you?" he yelled.

No reply. No movement. No cries for help. Where was she? Where was the... whatever had disappeared among the plants?

He gave each row another furtive search, then pulled his radio out of a pocket. "Unit thirty-eight to control."

"Yes James?"

"Mum, something's happened to Lisa. I want to report her as missing."

There was a sigh over the radio's crackle. "One tiff and it's the end of the world. Any evidence?"

"There's a set of clothes in the back yard; no other signs of a struggle. Her car's still here. No ransom that I've found. Plenty of people with motive, though."

"All right, I'll have it investigated," Andrea said, "but not by you."

"What?" Paddington pressed the radio's button harder. Was she serious? Lisa could be in danger; who better than him to find her? Who more _driven_ than him?

"I'm not discussing this, James. You are _not_ investigating your girlfriend. Stay there until Conall arrives, then prepare for tonight's stakeout. Is that understood?"

Paddington clenched his jaw. She wanted to treat him like an employee? Wanted to give orders? Wanted him to obey, like a good little bobby? Fine. "Yes, ma'am," he said.

"James, don't—"

Paddington switched the radio off and resisted the urge to hurl it at the side of the house. It wouldn't make him feel any better.

* * *

Captain Jermaine Mitchell heard his computer _ding_ , put three rounds in the head of the paper target, and left the firing range for the relative quiet of his desk. One new email awaited him.

Dear Sir,

Approximately one week ago I sent you a hair sample from a creature I believe to be the Beast of Gévaudan. Last night a sheep was killed. I am convinced that the Beast of Gévaudan was involved. Please help; there is little time before the trail goes cold.

Eagerly awaiting your response,

Detective Constable James Paddington.

" _Detective_ , is it now?" Mitchell asked. "It was only constable a week ago. You need to keep your story straight... James." Mitchell moved the cursor over Delete, then hesitated. It had been a while since they'd had a case, even a meritless one like this. "McGregor! Do you have the results from that animal hair?"

"Yeah. Actually, it's a bit... odd."

Odd was good. Mitchell released the mouse, then turned to the firing range, shouted, "Skylar, cease fire a minute!" and nodded to McGregor when his ears had stopped ringing.

"The hair's from a _Canus Lupus_ , a common wolf, which is surprising."

"Why is common surprising?" Mitchell asked.

"Because wolves have been extinct in Britain for five hundred years."

"Hardly supernatural, though."

"There's more." The scientist settled on a chair and spoke in a single increasingly annoyed breath. "There were high levels of oestradiol – understandable if the bitch is in heat – but there's no indication of ovulation; the progesterone level is too low for mating season but the oestrogen's too high for it _not_ to be; and that's not even mentioning the melatonin level, which doesn't make the slightest sense."

Mitchell waited for the doctor to catch his breath before asking, "You got all that from one hair?"

McGregor's eyes darted to the firing range and back. "I don't get out much."

"So what does that tell us?" Mitchell asked. "Perhaps using words grunts like me understand."

"That..." McGregor struggled for words. "This creature is impossible. She's almost definitely a common wolf, but she produces eggs too often and sheds her endometrium, which only apes do. So she's either a new species or one very sick wolf."

"An _un_ common wolf?" Mitchell said. He felt seven pairs of eyes watching him, hoping he'd greenlight a mission. What the hell; they were going stir-crazy here. "Gear and guns! Wheels up in two hours!" he shouted.

McGregor pushed the glasses up his nose and followed Mitchell toward the armoury. Mitchell plucked a rifle from the rack. "Something else, doctor?"

"One other thing," McGregor said. "The hair had some chemical residue."

"Pesticides? Fertilisers?" Mitchell sighted along the L85. This felt good: the preparation, the anticipation that preceded the inevitable letdown of another hoax or mistake.

"Traces of both, but..." McGregor winced. "...there are other chemicals whose presence could only be intentional and the contact... vigorous."

Mitchell squared his frame and pronounced each word slowly, enunciating clearly so McGregor couldn't feign incomprehension at Mitchell's northern, Lancashire accent. "What... chemical... doctor?"

McGregor ran out of excuses and sagged. "Pantene Pro-V Protect and Repair... sir."

* * *

Paddington spent the rest of the day preparing Thomas's farm, worrying about Lisa, and calling the southern station every hour for updates. There were none. He wasn't even sure they were looking. Perhaps they were busy tracking the last of the zombies... No. Conall's voice across the phone line was strong, without a hint of worry. Winslow had been no problem. The zombies were already dead. Or re-dead, or un-reanimated. They'd been dealt with.

If only he could be as confident that Conall would find Lisa. Paddington discounted the beast as a suspect because Lisa's clothes were intact and it had already eaten today. That meant some human monster was responsible, and instead of catching them Paddington was making cups of tea for eight men with shotguns.

Paddington felt sorry for the Beast of Gévaudan. Being a mystical creature was a poor defence against socially-minded Archians.

The minute five o'clock struck, Paddington bade Quentin goodbye, made him promise to radio if anything happened, and drove away. He was on his own time now, and he'd find Lisa even if he had to search the whole damned island himself.

* * *

Richard Brown lay in one of his fields, smothered in mud to mask his scent, cradling a new semi-automatic rifle and waiting for Betsy's killer to poke its head out so he could take it off. This time he'd put two rounds in it before it knew it had been spotted. Maybe then Thomas would shut up about always winning the marksmanship contest at the fair.

Nearby, Delores mooed and tugged at the rope that tied her to the ground. Richard wanted to soothe her, but that would give away the game. She needed to be bait for a bit longer.

Richard stretched a little to avoid further cramps. His old joints weren't made for this. He'd need a long hot bath before morning. How many hours away was that? Didn't matter; he'd stay out here as long as it took, as many nights as it took, to ensure his ladies had revengence.

There was movement, to the right.

Richard placed his eye to the night-vision sight. Delores... grass... nothing... fence... field... light, another light. Two lights? Eyes!

The beast crept through long grass straight for Delores, but Richard wouldn't let it get her. He recognised the beast from the telly: it was a wolf, a green one. Wait. He stopped looking through the night-vision scope. A grey-white one. Probably three feet tall at the shoulder, if it would stop crouching and provide a decent target. Richard held his breath and waited for the perfect moment to fire on the foul thing.

Delores spotted the wolf and joined her moos to the ever-more-drunken noise coming from Thomas's farm.

Richard tried to send her soothing thoughts. It would be all right. He was here. She needn't be afraid. If only the wolf would get over that little rise, Richard might get a clean shot at it.

Finally, with the wolf only a few feet from Delores, he fired. The rifle's _crack_ almost deafened him in the silence and the recoil almost knocked his shoulder out of joint, but at least he'd—

He'd missed. The wolf was still there, but now it was looking at _him_. He'd been spotted! And the wolf didn't look too forgiving about being shot at. It lowered its head and snarled and Delores, panicked, kicked out for all she was worth.

For a moment, the wolf was weightless, drifting slowly away from Delores's extended foot and past the fingernail of a moon...

It hit the grass headfirst and scrambled to its feet, then glanced sideways like it was thinking of running before showing Richard a mouthful of teeth dripping with blood.

Richard stood. This scope wasn't accurate, that was the problem. He'd shoot from the shoulder. That would do the job.

It had better, because the beast was already rushing at him, leaping now, its red mouth full of pointed teeth.

Richard fired.

He didn't hit its body – which was understandable, since the thing was in the air and running and all – but he got a leg. The wolf let out a whine, changing from teeth-out attack to pained howl in a second, and crashed into Richard. Rather than tear out his neck, the wolf's long snout only thumped Richard on the jaw.

The heavy wolf did knock him to the ground, though, and the rifle landed on the grass a few feet away. Was there time to get it? The wolf rolled away from Richard, turned, growled... then toppled sideways down a hole.

For a few heartbeats, Richard feared the beast would climb out. When it didn't, he picked himself off the ground, grabbed his rifle, and peered over the edge, ready to shoot. He'd borrowed a digger and spent all day making the pit because, well, maybe Thomas was right about his aim.

Eight feet down, the beast spotted him and tried to leap but stopped with a squeak when its front left paw touched the ground. It lifted the bloody limb and stared at him almost pleadingly.

Richard lowered the gun. Young James would probably want to question the damned thing.

"That's for Betsy," said Richard, wiping a fleck of the wolf's blood from his mouth.

# Chapter Seven: The Beast and the Pit

Paddington woke to a crackly voice beside his ear. It wasn't Lisa's, not that she'd woken up beside him much lately anyway. And crackly... Why was it crackly? Almost tinny... What did that—

The police radio!

Paddington grabbed it off the bedside table. "Yes, Quentin, come in. Did you capture it?"

"Nope. Nothing all night." Quentin sounded groggy, probably because from all the grog he'd drunk. "Weren't even any little foxies."

Paddington sighed. No sightings, no Mainland help. The beast had slipped away again.

"Thanks, Quentin. I'll see you at the station."

"Maybe tomorrow, yeah?" Quentin hiccoughed.

"Sure." Paddington placed the radio back on the nightstand and wiped the lethargy off his face. It was a little past eight a.m., which meant he'd had four hours of sleep. Last night was a haze of people saying they hadn't seen Lisa for days and sounding happy about it.

Where the hell was she?

He tried her phone again, but there was no answer. What if she was hurt? Lying in a ditch, calling out to him for help? Foul play was the only other alternative, and the Three-God help anyone who had laid a finger on her...

With nowhere to direct his rage, Paddington focussed on the day's menial tasks. He climbed out of bed, washed, dressed, called Conall in the vain hope of news, then went to work. As always, his mother was already there. "Message on your desk, dear."

"Thanks," Paddington said as he hurried past. Had Conall found something? Found Lisa? No, but this was almost as good:

Richard Brown says he caught your monster, if you're interested.

Paddington rushed back past his mother's desk. "I'm going to Richard's. Radio if you hear anything about Lisa." Andrea asked something about waiting for Quentin, but he was already out the door.

Half an hour later, Paddington stepped onto Richard's land. The day was pleasant: cool but still, bright, birds chirping. Things were looking up. Richard sat on a wicker rocker, resting a shining firearm across his knees. "'Ello Jim. No Quentin?"

"He had a long night trying to catch this beast. I hear you had better luck."

Richard stood as straight as his crook-shaped spine allowed. "What did you say this thing was?"

"The Beast of Gévaudan."

"Only I took some polonecks." Richard extended a set of dark photos, obviously the result of a cheap flash on an old camera, but the white beast was clear enough. It was more wolfish than Paddington had imagined. Very wolfish, actually. Rather... entirely... wolfish.

In fact, Paddington suspected that Richard had caught a completely innocent timber wolf. It was still mysterious: a single wolf wouldn't take on a cow, but surely a pack would have to kill more than once a month?

Well, he wasn't going to find the answers standing around here. "I'd like to have a look at it myself," he said. He couldn't see a cooking spit, which was a step in the right direction.

"I thought you might," said Richard. "Even kept it alive for yeh. But after this I'm killin' it. Fair's fair." Richard ignited his tractor, Paddington grabbed on, and Richard yelled back at him over its roar, "I set the trap away from the house so the lights didn't scare it away."

"What trap?" Paddington asked.

"I dug a hole."

Paddington waited for the rest of the plan, but there didn't seem to be any. "And, what, hoped it would fall in?"

"Which it did," said Richard proudly.

Success notwithstanding, Richard's plan offended Paddington's sensibilities. It shouldn't have worked! Surely a wolf was smart enough to avoid a hole in the ground. Surely even the dimmest mongrel dog could outwit a Brown.

"I used Delores as bait," Richard said, "but it were more interested in me." He shrugged his plaid – and, Paddington had never noticed before, very thick – shoulders and stopped the tractor. Beside them, the land dropped away steeply into a pit with a mouth six feet wide. Paddington couldn't see how deep it was without getting closer, which he didn't really want to do.

What if this _was_ the beast, and Richard had caught it? What did that say about Paddington as a policeman? Or what if it was just someone's dog and it was dead? He'd have to deliver the bad news. And if it _was_ a wolf, what then? He couldn't exactly question it, or even release it and follow it to its pack. All he could do was stand aside as Richard shot it.

Was that how he wanted his first case as detective to end? An accomplice to execution?

Richard's stare was unsettling, so Paddington climbed off the tractor and approached the hole. The thought that he was approaching a killer nearly made him stop, but he forced himself on. He was a detective; this was his job.

Paddington leaned over the edge...

* * *

Mitchell leaned out the helicopter's open door. Archi was very impressive, especially for an island that apparently didn't exist. Its few hills on the western edge became cliffs that plummeted into the sea. On its east side, a beach extended most of the island's length. Roads spiralled nonsensically. The town had clearly expanded wherever it could whenever it had to. Most of the industry seemed confined to the south, though, where the land was swampier and the roofs were grey with soot rather than rosy red.

Mitchell tried to guess where the wolf would make her home. Probably in the woodland and forests to the north or the park in the very centre of the island.

"Pilot, put us down!" Mitchell said. "The rest of you, prepare to drop!"

He pulled off the headset, looped the strap of his L85A2 assault rifle around his neck, and kept half an eye on the red light above the door as Archi grew larger beneath them. It had a retro look, like they were dropping into a 1960s painting. The buildings were all stone or wood. The people drove old cars, held wicker baskets, and wore knitted sweaters. There wasn't a single advertisement bigger than a fold-out sign in front of a shop.

The helicopter came to rest above a marketplace, hurling newspapers around the square. Townsfolk raised chubby arms to ward off the dust or tried to hold still their terrified livestock.

The light above the door turned green and Mitchell dropped out of the helicopter, landing smoothly a moment later. Behind him, the seven other members of the Supernatural Help and Investigation Team rappelled down and swept the area with their L85s for signs of trouble. Around the marketplace, fifty dull-looking, windswept inhabitants stared back. One bleated.

Mitchell signed for them to lower their weapons. There was no threat here. Probably wasn't a single threat on the whole island. "Which way, doctor?" he asked. Above, the helicopter thundered away.

"I don't know," McGregor said. "Detective Paddington didn't sign the email with a postal address."

Mitchell selected a startled man who'd dropped his shopping. Fear was good. Fear led to cooperation. "Which way to the police station?" he asked.

The man's mouth flapped open and shut.

"Police?" Mitchell prompted. "Polizia? El... police-o? You speak English?"

The portly man grabbed his paper bags off the ground. "No."

"What?"

The portly man shuffled toward the circle of onlookers. "Go home, Mainlander."

Six fingers tightened on triggers, but Mitchell waved them down. This wasn't hostile action, not in any serious way, but it was worth stamping out. He followed the portly man. "It's an offence not to answer questions posed by a member of Her Majesty's Armed Forces. Did you know that?"

"Piss off!" someone shouted from within the mass of townspeople. This definitely ranked as the most hostile reaction they'd ever received. So far, everyone they'd seen loathed them.

Not feared. Not disliked. Loathed.

Like they'd been waiting for him, just so they could hate him.

Mitchell heard the clop of boots stop beside him. "Not very friendly, are they sir?" Skylar asked.

"No they aren't," Mitchell said. "Try using your womanly wiles. Don't forget to shake your hips."

"Never do, sir."

True to her word, Skylar didn't shake her hips in the slightest, which was a pity. When the crowd didn't move out of her way, thick locals met her focussed stride, which was another pity because, though the locals were larger than her, they were mostly comprised of fat. Skylar was mostly muscle, with the remainder being fire, determination, and training. The locals were bumped aside.

After a moment, a hand appeared above the crowd and the Team advanced toward it, weapons darting from face to face; Mitchell wasn't convinced this crowd wouldn't turn into a mob. Some of them already had pitchforks, for crying out loud.

He wanted to be out of here as fast as possible; find James Paddington and his impossible wolf so McGregor could spend thirty seconds determining which of the Holy Trinity it was – hoax, contaminated sample, or honest mistake – and they could get out of here.

They found Skylar beside a payphone. "Good thinking," Mitchell said, picking up the receiver and preparing to spin the dial.

"Hello," a woman said brightly over the line.

"Oh, hello," Mitchell said. They still had telephone operators here? "Can you tell me the address of the local police station?"

"Ah." Her warmth vanished. "No." The line went dead.

Mitchell stared at the phone. What was wrong with this place?

* * *

It took Paddington a while to remember how to breathe. In the end, his body did it for him, sucking in air without him ever looking away from the base of the hole. After a few seconds that seem to go on forever, he asked, "Richard... is there any reason why your trap has captured my very naked girlfriend?"

"Your _what_?" Richard leapt from the tractor to land on all fours beside him.

Eight feet down, Lisa clutched her bloody left arm. Mud caked her body where she'd tried to climb the sides of the pit and her mouth was black with dried blood. She had a hoof-shaped bruise on her ribs.

She looked up, face bruised, lip split, panicked. She saw him. Found his eyes. Held them. Turned his spine to ice.

"James!" she said.

The beast... was Lisa, had always been her, and she'd known it. And she hadn't told him, she'd let him piss about with the hair and the internet and make a complete fool of himself.

Deep inside, something asked Paddington why he was surprised. Told him he should have known better, shouldn't have trusted her, shouldn't trust anyone. Never would again.

"That weren't what I caught," said Richard, and Paddington realised that almost no time had passed.

"It was a wolf, Jim," said Richard. "You saw the pic—"

"I believe you, Richard," he heard himself say. He wanted to reassure the farmer somehow, like Quentin would have done, but he didn't dare take his eyes off Lisa; wasn't even sure he _could_ take his eyes off her as long as she held his gaze. He couldn't even think.

Lisa rose on shaky legs and covered herself with blood-coated hands. "Jim! Help me!"

Richard leaned into Paddington's peripheral vision, distraction enough for Paddington to look away from Lisa. There was lust or hatred in Richard's eyes; Paddington wasn't sure which and didn't want to find out. The last thing he needed now was a dull farmer distracting him and getting in the way. Paddington shoved him toward the tractor. Richard was heavier than he looked, but obliged a single step before stopping and leering into the hole again.

"Jim, get me out of here!"

Paddington closed his eyes. He needed her to tell him the truth. "How'd you get in there?"

"I... don't remember."

That wasn't the truth. "Yes you do." He knelt at the edge of the well. "Think back. Why couldn't I find you yesterday? What were you doing the day before? Where were you?"

Lisa wouldn't even look at him. After all she'd put him through. After the lies.

" _Where_?" he shouted. "Answer me!"

Lisa dropped back to the dirt. Filthy hair hid her face, but not the convulsions of her shoulders: she was crying. That didn't earn her sympathy. Not today.

Not after this.

"Just taking a midnight stroll through Richard's fields?" Paddington asked. "Bit warm, thought you'd lose a few layers?" He waited for her to look at him. "It was never the Beast of Gévaudan. It was you. And you knew it." Paddington threw his overcoat into the pit. "Get dressed."

Lisa's left arm started bleeding again as she struggled into the long tan coat. By the time Paddington had lain on his stomach in the mud and pulled her up, it had soaked all the way through.

"I can explain," she said.

"In a minute." Paddington turned to Richard, who was standing frighteningly close behind them. "I'll take her from here."

Richard's head dipped and rose once. He spoke evenly, still eyeing Lisa greedily. Was it just that he didn't see many women up here, let alone half-naked ones? Or was there something else behind that glare? "Honestly, Jim, I don't know how—"

"Don't worry, Richard," Paddington said, not that Richard looked worried. " _You_ haven't done anything wrong."

They boarded the tractor, Lisa hanging on with her good hand and holding the other away from her body, then Paddington guided her to the van. Technically she was a prisoner and must be placed in the cell at the back, but he needed to know what she had to say. Needed to know what could possibly lessen this betrayal.

He let her into the passenger seat and she watched him round the van and climb in the driver's side. There wasn't hatred in her eyes or fear; there was caution. She wasn't sure what he would do, how he would react. To be honest, Paddington wasn't either.

When they were alone with the road he said, " _Now_ , explain."

"I... I didn't know."

"Of course not. How could you know you were a werewolf? What clues might there have been? Apart from turning into a wolf once a month!" She watched him. He watched the road. "No hints?" he asked. "No random nudity? No waking up in a field, bathed in blood, hoping it had all been a drunken dare?"

"It's not like that!"

"So you _do_ remember."

Lisa shifted her legs away from him and stared out the window. "I remember everything."

"This explains why you didn't want me investigating. I might find out the truth, might arrest you."

"Is that what you're doing?"

Paddington wasn't even sure he _could_ arrest her. And if he did, "I turned into a wolf" was an excellent defence, if the jury believed it. If they didn't, there was no charge in the first place, apart from maybe trespassing or destruction of property.

The road passed beneath them. Paddington needed time: a few minutes to come to grips with this, a cup of tea, and a long talk. Some time to calm his outrage, shame, and worry. To look at things logically. To decide whether he wanted to know everything about it or never speak to her again.

Maybe, after he knew a bit more, or a lot, maybe after that he could forgive her. Maybe it would all make sense. Maybe. Right now there was too much noise in his head.

"I don't know," he said. "We need to talk, somewhere private."

"James!" Andrea said, crackly and tinny.

Paddington would have grabbed the radio and hurled it from the still-moving van, but the radio was in the pocket of his coat... which was on Lisa.

"Fine," Andrea said with a sigh. " _Detective_ Constable Paddington?"

"Give me the radio," Paddington said. "Right pocket."

Lisa shook her head, eyes watering. He didn't have time for this. His mother was still his boss; right now Lisa was only his prisoner.

"Give it to me." When he reached over, she covered the pocket with both hands; Paddington pushed through them and grabbed the radio. Lisa whimpered and slunk against the left side of the car to cradle her bleeding arm.

"James!" Andrea said. "Answer me, damn it."

"What?" he said.

"There are some people from the Mainland to see you. They say you summoned them." Cold anger slid across the radio waves. His disobedience had been discovered. Worse, the Mainlanders had come to Archi without permission.

There would be hell to pay when he got back.

Fear slithered through him. "I'm still at Richard's," he lied. "Give me half an hour."

"They're impatient."

"Then give them a cup of tea!" He clicked the radio off and dropped it onto the centre console. This was just what he needed.

Lisa grabbed his arm. "Jim, please! Pull over. I'll run. Say you didn't find me."

But he had. He couldn't pretend it hadn't happened; he had to find some way forward, something that still made sense.

And he did: the law was clear, and just, and right.

"I can't do that," he said.

"Jim..." Her voice was small and hard. "Don't do this."

"It'll be fine."

Lisa released him and leaned as far away from him as she could get. "For whom?"

"What does that mean?"

"That you're only looking out for yourself. Again."

As Paddington glanced over, childhood betrayal reflected back at him in sapphire tears, to the memory of butterflies and shattering glass.

Paddington tore his gaze away from her in time to avoid a row of parked cars and brought the van to a screeching rest at the edge of the cobblestones. In the silence of the stalled engine, his heart tried to escape his chest and Paddington tried to think of anything except the day he'd driven her away. Betrayed her. Destroyed himself.

His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. "What do you expect me to _do_?" he asked. "I can't deal with this. Little people, little problems, remember? Lisa, these Mainlanders will know what happens next. Maybe they even have a cure."

Lisa kept staring. All the condemnation he'd feared from her this last month condensed into a single disgusted glare. "Lie to yourself if you must, James, but don't you _dare_ lie to me."

After another deep breath, Paddington restarted the engine and pulled away from the curb. She was wrong; he wasn't lying to himself. They were experts, members of the law, and Mainlanders to boot. They'd do what was right.

A tense minute later, he parked at Lisa's cottage and nodded at the windshield. "Come on. We'll get you cleaned up."

"Want to present your prize sparkling?" she asked.

"You can go naked and bleeding for all I care."

Lisa was studying him again, so Paddington remained stone-faced and hoped she wouldn't crack his façade. He left her at her bedroom door.

Once the en suite's shower began, Paddington dropped into the nearest seat and allowed himself a short moment of utter horror. What was he doing? But what else _could_ he do? There was nowhere to hide on Archi and no way off it. They'd have to cooperate, but what did the Mainlanders want? What would they do to Lisa?

No, that wasn't how to think. She'd been playing him, manipulating him. He'd bared his soul and she'd... what? What did he know about the real her? And why hadn't he recognised the truth? There must be clues in this house, in this very room, that he'd missed. He was a failure as a policeman.

And, now, as he waited to deliver her to people with intentions unknown, he was a failure as a boyfriend too.

He'd had enough of his own company. "You nearly ready?" he asked her door. When there was no reply, he moved closer. Was she escaping? Trying to run? There was a window in her bedroom, but she'd have to use her injured arm to get through it...

He heard soft sobs from inside and retreated guiltily.

Another minute passed before Lisa emerged wearing jeans and a sweater, hair wet. Her eyes were ringed red, her jaw was black and purple, and her left wrist was wrapped in a white bandage. She handed him his coat. The bottom three inches of its left sleeve were now stained red.

"Do you need a doctor?" he asked.

"We could stop at the vet and have me put down," she said. "Save them the trouble."

"Come on."

Twenty minutes later, Paddington stared at his hand on the ignition key in the station's parking lot. Once he removed it, they'd have to go inside and the secret would be out. It would become real. It would be Done. Unchangeable.

But right now, he could still turn away. Still save her.

Except... that was what he was doing here, wasn't it?

"Come on," he said again, when the bickering voices in his head reached no consensus.

Lisa pleaded silently; Paddington answered with mute resolution and led her by her good arm past the empty sergeant's desk to the crowded station beyond. Usually the space between the three desks was bare, even barren. Now it was full. Figures in black fatigues obscured the doors to the side entrance, the cell, the interview room. Paddington had never seen the station so busy, and eight of its nine occupants were unfamiliar to Paddington. Its other occupant, his mother, was storming toward them with murder in her eyes.

What would she say? How could he explain? What sort of impression would that make on the Mainlanders, seeing him berated by his mother like an irresponsible schoolboy?

So Paddington spoke first. "Take Miss Tanner to the interview room and tell Conall to call off the search."

Andrea looked from her son to Lisa, noticed the bandaged arm and Paddington's expression, and seemed to understand that now wasn't the time for questions. Andrea took Lisa's arm and played along, but he knew he hadn't heard the last about inviting the Mainlanders over to stay.

One problem down, Paddington cleared his mind. This wasn't the time to think about Lisa. He had to focus, make the Mainlanders welcome. He was doing the right thing, surely.

One of the Mainlanders approached him and Paddington attempted a smile. This would be the cocky, streetwise leader. "Cheery little town you've got here, detective," he said. He was a touch shorter than Paddington and nearly thirty, the ranks of his dark hair were already retreating from his bony face. It gave him the look of a cartoon vulture peering over its prey.

"I'm Captain Jermaine Mitchell. This is Peterson, Thompson, Clarkson, and Normson." Mitchell nodded at four muscle-bound men who held backward-heavy assault rifles. Each soldier had close-cropped brown hair, was three inches taller than Paddington, handsome, and in his late twenties.

"What are their first names?" Paddington asked. He wanted to shake their hands, but doubted they'd shake back.

"The other two are Skylar and Truman," Mitchell said. A brunette in her mid-twenties raised her chin. She'd be the tough-as-nails fighter whose cold heart would be warmed by the captain until their initial enmity melted into love.

Truman wore a cowboy hat over blond hair and blue eyes. "Put 'er there!" he exclaimed, extending an arm and shaking Paddington's hand with vigour. Paddington recognised him now: he was the American. There was always one.

"And that's Doctor McGregor," Mitchell finished, nodding toward Quentin's desk. Also in his late twenties, McGregor was smaller and slimmer than the soldiers. He also had freckles, glasses, and red hair instead of brown, but at least he wasn't wearing a kilt.

Paddington reminded himself to be grateful they'd come. That this was his dream. After years of longing, he was finally meeting Mainlanders. So why did he wish he and Lisa were still at her house? Why did he wish they were talking this through like boyfriend and girlfriend instead of officer and criminal?

Why did he wish the Mainlanders would just get off his island and leave them be?

McGregor was still waiting awkwardly, either to shake hands or just because he was an awkward sort of person. Paddington felt he should put the doctor at ease. He had to do _something_ ; they were all staring at him. "Doctor McGregor," he said, "uh, would you like some haggis?"

"No... thank you," McGregor said in a squeaky London accent. "Sorry for the delay we, um, couldn't find Archi on any of our maps."

"What?" Paddington asked. The Mainland was big, but how did you lose an entire _island_?

"Yes, it's all very mysterious," Mitchell said dismissively. "Now, where's the Beast of Gévaudan?"

"Well, uh..." Paddington said.

"You can't miss it." Mitchell stepped into Paddington's personal space. "Size of a cow; red fur, black stripe; ate more than sixty Frenchman over a four-year period in the seventeen-hundreds. Sound familiar?"

Paddington wasn't sure he was ready for Mitchell to meet Lisa. Not until he knew more about him. "We... don't have Frenchmen."

Mitchell wouldn't be stalled. "Detective..." His hazel eyes bore into Paddington's, demanding, forcing. "...take us to your beastie."

"It's not the Beast of Gévaudan," Paddington admitted. He'd never been any good at lying; his mother had been too good at seeing through it for him to develop the knack. "It's a werewolf."

He handed Richard's photos to Mitchell, who inclined them to McGregor. "Analysis, doctor?" Mitchell asked.

"Werewolves are typically depicted as humanoid – muscular, bipedal, no tail, with a shorter snout. Although, there's an argument that historicall—"

"It's not a full moon, detective," Mitchell said, throwing the photos onto Paddington's desk, "not even on islands that don't exist. You took a photo of someone's dog. Now stop pissing me about."

* * *

Andrea had delivered Lisa to the interview room and left without a word. She stared plenty, examining every detail of Lisa's dress and mood, but never opened her mouth. Lisa found that oddly comforting: some things never changed, and one of them was that Archians hated Mainlanders. That might be good now; perhaps the citizens would side with a Mainlander who'd grown up with them over these invading Mainlanders.

Ha, and maybe Jim would grow a spine.

The interview room was small and beige, with a wooden table and uncomfortable chairs. There was one window on the wall opposite the door, but it was too high for an escape, not that she had anywhere to go. Even without the Mainlanders, Jim would hunt her to the end of the earth.

Lisa ran her fingers over her skin and bandage. Was she still herself? The same person Jim had liked? She remembered how he'd looked at her in that pit, like she'd deliberately deceived him... like she'd crushed his last ounce of hope and all he had left was stubbornness and bitter rage.

The door cranked open and four of the intruders entered, her boyfriend in tow.

"Miss Tanner," said the northerner with the thinning hair and prominent nose. "Your detective tells us you're a werewolf. That true?"

Lisa sought Jim's eyes, but he wouldn't look at her. He was stone-faced, like he'd been at her house. She could go naked and bleeding for all he cared.

"Yes," she said.

The leader paused, an inch from sitting. "You are?"

She nodded.

He frowned and slowly lowered himself. "You turn into a wolf?"

"White fur, four legs, tail," she agreed. No point denying it now. Jim focussed on the empty space to her right.

"Were you bitten by a wolf?" the leader asked.

"No," she said.

"Always been a werewolf, or is this new?"

"It's new."

"Right. We'll need a moment to confer."

As the strangers left, Lisa said, "Detective Paddington, can I have a word?"

Jim clearly wanted to follow the others, but he couldn't ignore her request without the Mainlanders asking questions he wouldn't want to answer. Once they were alone, he said, "What." It wasn't a question.

"What was I supposed to say?" she asked. "'Hey Jim, great to see you after all these years. By the way, I think I ate a cow once; still interested in me?'"

Jim leaned on the table, eyebrows arching so high it would have been funny but for the torture in the eyes below them. "Why _were_ you with me? To make sure I didn't work it out?"

"That doesn't even make sense." Lisa leaned forward to say more, to say that she'd been with him for him – or at least for the man he should be – but Jim stepped away.

"Was there something you wanted?" he asked.

It was still too early for him to talk about his feelings, but Lisa knew Jim: asking what she wanted was his way of asking if he could help her. It was hidden behind his policeman mask, but his concern was there. If she wanted to reach him, it would be through the medium of suspects and evidence.

"I wasn't bitten by a wolf," she said. "It was..." Did she really want to tell him? What if he ran straight to the Mainlanders? But who else would help her? Who else was on her side?

Was Jim?

"Dom," she said. "He... bit me once whil—" With a shock, Lisa remembered exactly what they'd been doing when Dom had bitten her. "Forget it."

"What?" Jim asked. Was that concern in his voice? The first cracks in his mask?

Lisa grimaced. "You... really don't want to know."

"Ah." The mask was back in place. "Is he a werewolf?"

"Don't tell the others," she said quickly. "Find Dom, ask him. If you _ever_ loved me, do that much, please."

Jim nodded and stepped away, eyes low. At the door, he paused to say, "I _always_ loved you." Then he was gone, and she was alone again.

# Chapter Eight: Pack Mentality

An angry knocking interrupted Quentin's sleep and continued to do so until he thumped to the front door and threw it open. "Officer of the law!" he said. "This had better be important."

A thin figure brushed past him. "Officers of the law wear trousers."

Quentin knew that voice. He tied the ends of his bathrobe together and followed the blur to his sitting room. "Jim, I said I wasn't coming in today."

"I know." Jim's voice was reedier than usual. "I'm just... hanging out. We're mates, aren't we? Best of friends, really, like peas in a pod or... pod people... or something."

Quentin lowered himself onto the couch and propped his head against his arm. "Jim, have you been drinking?" He couldn't remember ever seeing Jim so pale, or messy-haired, or jittery, and there was something else... his long detective coat was missing. He looked lost without it, like he didn't know where to put his hands.

"Drinking?" Jim asked. "Not a drop. No, I'm sober as I've ever been, me... Ever..." He trailed off, staring into space, then found new energy. "But surely something's going on with you, Quentin, some ridiculous love-triangle, or love-dodecagon. Good word, that... dodecagon."

Quentin waited until he was sure Jim had finished. "Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"You're speaking very quickly."

Jim play-punched him on the arm. Quentin couldn't remember Jim ever messing about before. Or initiating physical contact. "That's excitement," he said. "Excitement to see _you_ , Quent."

"James!" Quentin spoke loudly and slowly and clearly. "What's going on?"

For a moment, Jim's mad stare failed, but then he spotted the kettle. "Tea! I'd love a cup of tea. Do you want one? It's a bit strange, offering you your own tea, but it seemed rude if I didn't." Jim was in the kitchen now, one hand frozen on the kettle.

Quentin was too tired for tea and far too tired for this nonsense. "Much as I appreciate the visit," Quentin said, "I have to get back to bed."

Jim looked toward the bedroom and his eyebrows rose even higher, which was quite a feat. "Oh! I haven't interrupted one of your... dodecagons, have I? I can go. Yeah, that's best. I'll just go." He started backing away.

"Jim! Stop!"

Quentin closed his eyes a moment and tried to think like Jim: focussed, professional, obsessed with right and wrong, lonely. There was a reason for everything he did. He wouldn't have come here to muck about. Something must have happened, something he needed help with, but didn't know how to ask. But Jim was _here_ , so it was something he needed _Quentin's_ help with.

No. Jim never needed his help. Not with police work, anyway. His love life could use a bit of counselling, of course, but he'd never ask...

"Lisa hasn't left you, has she?" Quentin asked.

For a moment Jim looked exposed, caught with one hand in the cookie jar; then he grinned far too wide. "Why d'you say that?"

Quentin shrugged. "What else would get you in such a state?"

This penetrated his cheerful barrier and Jim drooped against the counter. Quentin wandered to the kitchen door. "So what's happened?"

Jim stared at his reflection in the filthy kettle. "Lisa's been lying to me."

That sounded like a Mainlander thing to do, but Jim didn't need to hear that now, so Quentin just said, "About what?"

"Maybe everything. She's a werewolf."

"A what?"

"Once a month she turns into a wolf. Last month she killed Betsy. Night before last she killed one of Thomas's sheep."

Quentin looked for the hint of a smile, but he couldn't find one.

"Come on, Jim," Quentin said. "What's really up?"

"I called Mainlanders," Jim continued. "They arrived this morning to catch her."

Again Quentin expected some humour, but Jim simply stared at the kettle like he hated it. As the seconds shuffled past, Quentin realised he was serious.

The how and why could wait; they had to _do_ something. Lisa meant the world to Jim; if he lost her... perhaps the flicker of hope in Jim's eyes over the last three weeks would get snuffed out forever.

Quentin grabbed Jim's arm and dragged him toward the front door. He needed to get Jim moving, get him thinking, taking charge, solving, making it right. That was what he liked doing; he just needed a jump-start. "Come on!" Quentin said. "We've got to hide her! How much do they know?"

"Everything. I... delivered her."

Quentin stopped and Jim slammed into his back. When Quentin turned, Jim was staring vacantly at the wall. "You handed your girlfriend over to strangers?"

"I don't know what she is. She's been lying this whole time."

"You can hardly blame her!"

Jim stared at him, hard. Quentin wished he wouldn't. Jim could be very... intense.

"You gotta admit, you got a bit... obsessed. Always on about hunting it down. I mean, what would you have done if she _had_ told you?"

"Not believed her. Or..." Jim increased his half-frown to a full frown, seemingly confused by his own thoughts. "I think I'd have been all right with it. It _is_ interesting..."

They were getting somewhere: Jim had stopped staring into space. Another question or two and he'd realise he wanted Lisa back and they could get on with rescuing her.

"Yeah, but Lisa killed Betsy," Quentin said.

"That's not her fault. She must have been confused, terrified."

"Exactly," Quentin said smugly. "So what are you upset about?"

"I don't know!" Jim ran fingers through his plume of brown hair. "That she didn't trust me, that she kept it hidden, the lies."

"The lies kept you happy."

"That's not good enough." Jim opened his mouth to say more, but stopped. He probably didn't know what to say, or even what he was mad at.

This wasn't working. If logic couldn't get through to Jim, then things were really bad. Quentin decided to try shock therapy. He sighed elaborately and said, "Are you always like this after a break up? No wonder your girlfriends are such easy rebounds."

Jim blinked like he'd been slapped. "What?"

"Yeah. A little consoling, a bit of 'There there', and Bob's your uncle... well, how's-your-father. And you're saying Lisa's availab—"

Jim's hands were pinning Quentin's throat to the wall. He wasn't quite sure how that had happened. Or when.

"You don't even like her!" he yelled.

"But... you... do..." Quentin said. Suddenly he could breathe again, though now he seemed to be sitting on the ground. He coughed up something wet and horrible.

Jim stared down at him from the opposite wall. "That was...?"

Quentin rubbed his throat. "Now you know how you feel."

It was hard to tell if Jim was sorry or horrified. Both, maybe. "Are you okay?"

"Skinny bloke like you? I'm fine," Quentin lied, getting to his feet. "Now, what're these Mainlanders doing?"

"At the moment, examining Lisa to see if it's real."

"Then what?"

Jim ran his hands across his long, neatly-shaven face. "I don't know."

"And the million-pound question: what do _you_ want?"

"I want... to see Lisa free, and safe, and warm. And I don't think they'll agree."

Quentin nodded. Jim had his serious-face on again. "So we overpower them."

"There's eight of them," Jim said.

"It's a challenge."

"All with rifles."

Wasn't one Mainlander bad enough? Why had Jim invited an army? "You didn't spit on the duke at dinner for added challenge, did you? Still, we'll think of something."

Jim's eyes found Quentin's. They had their strength back: that arrogant gaze like the answers were right there but he was the only one who could see them, like the world was a puzzle specifically created for him to solve. "This is my mess," he said. "And I need to find out what we're dealing with... but thanks."

Quentin watched Jim go, then, job done, went back to bed and curled an arm around Denise's shoulders.

* * *

Someone was watching him. Paddington spotted the same car when he left Quentin's that he'd seen at the station. He was being followed. Tracked? Hunted?

Possibly. The existence of werewolves wasn't common knowledge, which meant someone was keeping it a secret. His knowing their secret was a threat to their very lives.

Logically, they had every reason to hunt him.

Sometimes Paddington really hated logic.

He tried doubling back and finding out who was in the car, but didn't succeed. The idea of losing his tail – as they said in spy films – crossed his mind, but he doubted he'd succeed and while it was content to wag along behind him, Paddington was content try ignoring it.

Twenty minutes after leaving Quentin's, Paddington arrived at Dominic's garage, which was empty of potential werewolves. The one man working there said Dom had the day off, but gave Paddington Dominic's address.

It was only a street away, so Paddington decided to walk. Walking was good for thinking. Stretch the legs and the mind. Find a way out of the hole he'd dug Lisa into.

Ah. Bad choice of phrase.

Paddington ran through his options for freeing Lisa. There weren't many, but he hadn't even reached the list's end before men who had been walking by or waiting at the bus stop or chatting pleasantly became a ring around him.

He was completely surrounded.

"Detective," one of them said from behind him.

"Yes?" Paddington spun to face the group's spokesman, but the circle around him was still turning and he wasn't sure which burly young man had spoken. The only thing he was sure of was that it couldn't be Dominic, who was thinner than the rest and slightly out of step.

"We hear you have visitors," another said behind him. Again he spun, but he couldn't place the speaker.

Then they were all firing questions at him – who were the Mainlanders, where did they come from, how many were there, what did they want, make them leave – always behind him. It was disorienting. Paddington spun, the circle spun, the world began to tilt...

"Stop it!" Paddington yelled.

"We just want what's best for Archi," one said.

"You!" Paddington pointed an unsteady hand at Dominic and tried to ignore the others. "I need your help."

The group stopped circling and faced Dominic. Dominic froze.

Paddington stepped forward and whispered, "Did you ever bite Lisa?"

Dominic's panic indicated this wasn't the best time to ask, but Paddington couldn't wait. Lisa didn't have time.

The others must have heard the question, because they backed away.

"I know what you are," Paddington continued. "I won't tell the Mainlanders."

The others had already reached the street corner, leaving Dominic alone with Paddington only because Paddington had hold of his arm.

"Is there a cure?" Paddington shouted, as Dominic pulled free of his grip and ran after his friends. Paddington gave chase, but ran out of puff after a few streets. With a few turns, Dominic disappeared from sight.

Paddington tried asking passers-by if they'd seen men running this way, or where Dominic might have gone, but all anyone would talk about was the Mainlanders. The word on the street was that Lisa must have summoned them, since Paddington had escorted her to see them. That rumour was better than the truth, so Paddington left it alone and dragged his feet back to the station.

He tried to avoid his mother by sneaking in the side door, so naturally she was reading a magazine beside it. "Have you asked them to leave yet?" she asked.

It had been a long morning. The last thing he needed was more criticism. He got enough of that from himself.

"No I haven't," he said. "And I'm not going to." He wanted to tell her to mind her own business, but, well, this _was_ her business.

Andrea put down her magazine. "James, I never liked Lisa. She's poor stock badly raised, you're too attached to her for no good reason, and she's a technophile to boot. I only set you up so you could realise there's nothing special about her and get over her. Instead you're more obsessed with her than ever."

"Great. You don't approve of me. Still. Can I go now?"

Andrea stood. "But I'll say this for Lisa: I liked _you_ a hell of a lot more when you were with her."

Then she was gone, back to her desk by the front door. Paddington tried to shake away her comments, but they irked him. After all she'd done to try to break them up, was his mother now trying to get them back together?

And why hadn't she mentioned werewolves? She would have worked it out; she was good at that. Why not mention it? Because it annoyed him not to? Because she didn't consider it a fault? Because she didn't believe it? Yes, that would be it: she was a rationalist, not a Believer.

Paddington shook his head, not that it cleared his thoughts; too much was happening. At best it rattled the problems around. Putting one aside only meant another leapt to the front: like the six soldiers of the Supernatural Help and Investigation Team blocking the interview room door where, presumably, the other two were interviewing Lisa.

"I need to see the prisoner," Paddington told the group at large. And it was a large group. Skylar alone would have been enough to stop him.

"No one goes in," she said.

"Orders from Mitchell," Truman said, with Southern drawl and an apologetic smile.

Paddington eyed them, armed with only his fury and a coat stained with werewolf blood. "You're in _my_ station, on _my_ island," he said. "If I want to go inside, you can't stop me."

In fact, the soldiers made no move to stop him. But they also ignored his attempts to pry them far enough apart to slip through.

Then, without a word, they parted, the door behind them now open, and the scientist exited carrying a small black bag. With a final glance at the wall of muscle guarding Lisa, Paddington followed McGregor to Quentin's desk.

"I've been meaning to ask you, doctor, about not being able to find Archi."

"Um, yes," McGregor said. "There's no record of your island anywhere. History, encyclopaedias, maps: all blank."

Archi was private, but surely there were traces of it on the Mainland. There had to be. Didn't there? After all, no one could hide an island, could they? And if they could, why bother?

"Then how did you find us?" Paddington asked.

"I determined the satellite that sent your email's location. It seemed to be in the middle of a military no-fly zone, and the satellite images were of blank ocean, but I convinced Mitchell to take a look."

Before Paddington could ask about the various bits of equipment McGregor was setting up, Mitchell exited the interview room. "Fill us in, doctor," he said. The four mutes, the American, and the woman closed in all around Paddington and began looming.

McGregor's face lit up immediately. "It's remarkable. Truly incredible."

"You've got something?" Truman asked.

" _Lots_ of things."

"Like what?" Paddington asked, before reminding himself this wasn't some beast he was investigating or a theory on the internet; this was his girlfriend.

Still, he needed to know what had happened to her. What to expect.

"Her hearing is above average, but not suspiciously so," McGregor said, "maybe eighteen hertz at the low end to twenty-four kilohertz at the high. Uh, I think her heart's oversized, lungs too, but I can't be certain without x-rays. Still, the percussion and palpation tests were exciting."

The Team nodded sagely, like McGregor's words were so obvious they almost weren't worth saying aloud. All in a day's work.

"What?" Paddington asked. He felt it conveyed everything he was feeling.

"He put his hands on her," Mitchell explained, "tapped a bit, and thought she sounded big."

"I... she... patient!" McGregor stared at his captain in horror. "The percussion test takes years of training. I can hear tumours and air bubbles inside the organs, can ascertain a person's internal workings by sound alone!"

"Relax, doc," Mitchell said. "What else?"

"She isn't colour-blind," McGregor said, sighing. "Oh, and I don't think her lupine transformation is dictated by the moon..." He hesitated, with significant glances at Skylar. "It's, uh, delicate. We should respect her priv—"

"Spit it out," Mitchell said.

"Right, ah. From the timing of your emails, detective, and a few questions I... She's about to ovulate. There, I said it."

"Yeah, we bleed on the inside," Skylar said. "Gross, huh? And if you touch us, you get girl germs."

"I had that once," one of the mutes said.

"Shut up Normson," Mitchell said. "Doctor."

McGregor nodded. "In the, uh, period – as it were – between menstruation and ovulation, the female body produces high quantities of oestradiol: oestrogen. I think that controls her metamorphosis."

"She turns into a wolf based on what time of the _month_ it is?" Paddington asked. Was McGregor serious? What about the full moon? Wasn't it always the moon?

"It's not so strange," McGregor said, to general disbelief. "Etymologically, it is a short jump from mensis to moon. The word 'mensis' is Latin for 'month', after all. Or, take 'lunatic'. Lunatics were people with fluctuating mental states and the word comes from the Latin ' _lunaticus_ '—"

"Sir, McGregor's making up words!" a mute interrupted, with a raised hand.

"McGregor, don't invent words just to prove your point," Mitchell said.

The doctor uttered a series of short exhalations. "...which means 'moon-struck'. People thought the moon could make you crazy; why not make you a werewolf too?"

"So, to clarify," Skylar said, "you're saying women become crazy once a month?" Her eyes didn't so much smoulder as burn.

McGregor wilted. "That's not... It's not a metaphor, it... No."

"So what makes the males change?" Mitchell asked.

"It's unlikely to be oestrogen," McGregor said. "Probably another hormone."

"It's _not_ the full moon?" Paddington asked. The internet had been wrong. What other monsters were nothing like their stories?

"No, it's hormonal," McGregor said. "She didn't turn human in the daytime, did she?"

"She was gone," Paddington said. "For two days and three nights."

McGregor nodded. "Once she turns into the wolf she stays that way until her oestrogen drops back below a certain level – about one nanomole per litre, at a guess. Day, night, full moon, new moon; it doesn't matter."

There was a silence. Paddington waited for one of the paranormally experienced soldiers to speak. This was over his head, but it was all in a day's work for them.

A few seconds ticked by in silent contemplation before Skylar said, "You mean it's _real_?"

"Well, yes," McGregor said.

Panic exploded around him. Mutes demanded verification and more tests, or asked whether she'd have a tail, or vowed to leave, or just swore. The only Mainlanders to remain quiet were Truman, who clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on his rifle, and Mitchell, who watched them, nostrils flaring, before bellowing, "Shut it!"

The soldiers stood at attention, brave in the face of the unknown except for occasional flickers of terror.

"What's the move, sir?" Truman asked.

Bubbling anger rose in Paddington. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Aren't you the _experts_?"

Most of the Team studied new and interesting patterns on their boots. Only Mitchell met his eyes. "This is the first case that hasn't been either a hoax or a mistake," he said.

Paddington stared back. "You're joking."

"No. In twenty years we haven't had a single verifiable supernatural occurrence."

"But..." That couldn't be true. Except, as he looked around the worried faces, he knew it was. "Why didn't they shut you down?"

"For such a day as this," Mitchell said. "And I assure you, detective, we know what we're doing."

"You've just never done it before!" Paddington said. This was all going wrong. He shouldn't have involved Mainlanders.

"We'll take her back to London for further study, obviously," McGregor said.

"Granted," Mitchell said, ignoring Paddington's forming objection. "Before that, however, we need official orders. I'm not cocking up our first real case." He turned away to mutter into his collar.

"Get us some silver bullets, too," Skylar called, then continued fiddling with her gun's safety.

"What do you want silver bullets for?" Paddington asked.

"Werewolves can heal from any injury."

"Really?" he asked hopefully.

"I saw it on TV," she said, and Paddington's hope faded. "A silver bullet to the heart is the only way to kill a werewolf," she finished.

"Wait, _what_?" Paddington said. They looked at him in surprise. "Why are you talking about killing her? She is sitting in there, terrified! She's no threat."

"True," Truman said, as resolute as the others were jittery. "But we also have to deal with the werewolf that bit her."

Paddington thought of Dominic. Snivelly, unkempt Dominic. What chance did he have against seven big, broad Mainlanders? Even protected by his friends... his pack.

What would happen to them? Would the Team kill all of them too?

"Isn't there a cure or something?" Paddington asked.

Everyone turned to Doctor McGregor, who stammered, "Possibly. I mean, all we need to do is keep her oestrogen down."

"That's controlling," Paddington said. "What about curing?" How could he have put Lisa's life in their hands? What was wrong with him?

"Until I examine her in a proper lab—"

"I can't get a signal, detective," Mitchell interrupted. "Any idea why that is?"

"No. Our police radios work fine." He led Mitchell to the station's radio beside the kettle and asked, "Can I see her?"

"What for?" Mitchell stared at the knobs and dials with distrust.

"To make sure she's all right. She's my prisoner; she's... under my care."

Mitchell glanced at him. "Fine. But we're not bailing you out if it all turns hairy."

# Chapter Nine: It's Tradition

The first thing Paddington saw in the interview room was the pile of clothes stacked on the otherwise-empty table. The second thing Paddington saw were the two empty chairs, one on either side of the table. The third thing Paddington saw was Lisa, huddled in the corner of the room, arms wrapped around her knees, naked.

"Oh God, Lisa, what did they do?" Paddington rushed toward her, but stopped dead as she balled herself tighter. He'd brought her to this.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry." This time he approached slowly: kneeling, touching her hair, her jaw, tracing familiar lines now swollen and bruised. "What happened?"

He never saw her fist move, but he felt the wooden table on the way down and the concrete floor on landing.

"Exactly what you fucking wanted!" Scrunched paper fell from her hand as she flexed it to rub her knuckles. Paddington remembered writing the note yesterday after reporting her missing and placing it on her bed.

Lisa, I came looking for you. Are you all right? Call me as soon as you get home. Love, James.

Why was Lisa still carrying it? Why shed her clothes but not that? Because she wanted it to be true, or to remind herself never to trust him again?

"I didn't want this," he said, rising. "I—"

"What, Jim!" She shot to her feet, then realised she was naked and moved to cover herself, but thought better of it. Instead, she spread her hands at waist height, inviting him to look. This was what he had done to her: ignored her rights, desecrated her privacy, reduced her to an object for examination. Her exposed skin was covered with bruises, cuts, the bullet wound: all the evidence that although she was a wolf, _he_ was the real monster.

"You wouldn't have called them?" she asked. "We would have been rosy?" A tear streaked down her cheek as she advanced. "Or are you glad? Is this justice?" She held up her left arm and its freshly-changed bandage.

Paddington felt the table at his back and groped its surface for her clothes, which he brought forward as a peace offering. She didn't take them.

"I'll get you some food," he said, "and something to keep you entertained." As soon as it was past his lips, Paddington regretted the sentence.

Lisa eyed him bitterly. "Treats?" she asked. He couldn't think of anything to say, so they remained like statues, Lisa flaunting her pain and Paddington offering only to hide it.

What else could he do? He couldn't take it back. All they could do was move forward, hopefully together but probably not.

"I found Dominic," he said eventually.

With a slow nod, Lisa put her jumper on, flinching as it slid over her wrist, then stepped into her jeans. Her legs were hairy; strange, she always shaved them.

"And?" Lisa asked, startling him out of thought.

"I think you're right. He's a werewolf."

Her lips set in a self-satisfied smile. "Great. Mystery solved. You can go now."

Paddington's mouth flapped and closed. How could he tell her? "No, I can't," he said, then circled the table and sat. "I need you."

"You think I'll trust you?" Lisa snarled.

"No," he said. "I shouldn't have called Mitchell, or turned you in, or left you with them. I should have let it go a month ago. I am so sorry and nothing will ever make up for what I've done. But I'm here now."

He waited for a reaction. Lisa watched him right back, unreadable blue orbs slicing into him over and over, anger and disappointment spreading across her face. "Get out," she said quietly.

He nodded into his hands. What had he expected? Forgiveness? Understanding?

"Now!" she yelled.

His instinct was to rush out of the room, but he sat his ground long enough to say, "I won't let anything happen to you."

Lisa banged a hand on the table, then leaned across it and whispered with breath that smelled of yesterday's sheep, "And just how are you going to stop them?"

He met her gaze.

"With every breath in my body," he said.

Lisa blinked, surprised, then stepped away and nodded at the door. Paddington went.

Outside the interview room, the Team went about its business. The doctor/scientist, McGregor, tinkered with the radio; the leader, Mitchell, rested his heels on Paddington's desk; the American, Truman, stood at attention by the interview room door; the woman, Skylar, stood at ease on the other side; and the mutes – Clarkson, Peterson, Normson, and Thompson – were scattered around the room, mostly staring into space.

Oh, and his mother, Andrea, sat by the front door, apparently engaged in paperwork but probably writing down their every word.

"Your radio isn't getting through to London," Mitchell said.

"Not my fault," McGregor said through the wrench in his teeth. "This equipment was old forty years ago."

Paddington wiped his face. He'd love to think that this was the final problem of the day, but his luck wasn't that good.

That was mostly his fault.

"And your phones aren't connected to the international grid," Mitchell said. "How else can we get a message off-island?"

"You can't," Paddington said. "The duke's kind of paranoid about the outside world."

"Then let's see him, bust up his happy little commune."

See the duke? "No one sees the duke. I might be able to arrange a meeting with the mayor."

"Let's go then. The sooner we contact London, the sooner we get reinforcements to hunt down the other werewolf."

Paddington sucked air through his teeth. "I doubt the mayor would want anyone else coming here."

Mitchell nodded, perhaps trying to portray a friendly demeanour, but he looked too much like a vulture: long nose, beady eyes always calculating, high forehead and thinning hair. His smile was a victorious sneer, not a warm reassurance. "We are here under Her Majesty's authority, detective, and I am ordering you to take us to the mayor, now."

"No."

"Pardon?" Mitchell asked. Behind him, the four mutes rose as one.

"He's not there," Paddington clarified.

"It's the middle of the day," Mitchell said. "Politicians don't do much, but they do it in the comfort of their offices."

"His office doesn't even open until sunset."

"It's true," Andrea said without looking up or turning around. "This way you don't need to take time off work to see him."

"That makes sense here, does it?" Mitchell asked.

"Everywhere has its quirky little traditions, captain," she said. "Ours are just more practical."

Mitchell snorted and glanced at McGregor. "Any hope here, doctor?"

"None," McGregor said, replacing the radio's cover. "Nothing past Archi's border."

Mitchell glared from McGregor to Paddington to Andrea, thinking. Paddington waited, worried. What if Mitchell demanded to see the mayor right now? But... that was impossible. You didn't see the mayor during the daytime. You just _didn't_.

"Detective Paddington," Mitchell said, "find us somewhere to set up an H.Q. so McGregor can analyse his samples. Thompson, Peterson, guard the prisoner. Everyone else, with me."

There were people outside the station. Not a crowd, exactly, just citizens slowing as they passed in case there was an opportunity to scowl at the Mainlanders. Paddington led the Team through the backstreets, down winding cobble lanes, past mismatched stone walls and carts full of produce. Occasionally a car putted past them and one of the Team would snigger. Even away from the main roads, the air sizzled with whispers and people waited at every intersection – arms crossed over knitted jumpers, chins high, feet planted far apart – but none followed them and none bore flaming torches. For now they were content simply to disapprove.

After fifteen minutes, Paddington found a cottage with a For Sale sign out the front whose auction wasn't for another week. "Here we are," he said, opening the door.

"Won't people be coming to inspect it?" Mitchell asked

"Why should they?" Paddington asked. "Everyone knows what it looks like."

It smelled of dust and stillness, but the lights worked and it was fully-furnished. The large front room had a dining table in its centre, where McGregor started unpacking his luggage.

"You should be safe here," Paddington said.

Mitchell laid his rifle on the table. "We will be," he said. "Detective, dismissed. McGregor, do your tests. Everyone else, pair up. Let's find the werewolf that bit Miss Tanner."

Paddington lingered by the door as the Team loaded the pockets of their black flak jackets with various items from their bags: ammo clips, grenades, flares, food. McGregor assembled an alembic on the table. Mitchell pulled a phone and laptop out of his satchel.

"What's that?" Paddington asked. He couldn't help himself. This room contained more modern technology than the rest of Archi combined.

"A satellite phone... with no reception." He opened the laptop. "And an unplugged cable?"

Paddington frowned. The laptop didn't even have cables. Lisa's had never had trouble connecting. Had something happened to Archi's satellite dish, or was someone keeping the Team offline?

"I'd better be off," Paddington said.

"Buh-bye," Mitchell said, mock-brightly.

Paddington returned to the station and found that Thompson and Peterson had moved Lisa to the station's only cell. He delivered her a lunch and left immediately, pretending she was just another citizen and not his girlfriend: if Lisa escaped, he didn't want Mitchell suspecting him. He really didn't want Mitchell as an enemy.

He was worried enough having him as an ally.

The rest of the day was filled with routine patrols, paperwork relating to the Team's visit, and any other task Andrea could find to keep him away from Lisa and remind him he was still an Archian policeman.

When his work day ended, Paddington collected Lisa's laptop from her house and took it back to his. It had no trouble connecting, so he spent ninety minutes learning about werewolves, starting with how unreliable and contradictory their history was. For instance, he doubted Lisa was a werewolf because she'd drunk out of a werewolf's footprint, or had leaned her head against the same pillar as a werewolf, and she certainly wasn't the seventh son of a seventh son. She also wasn't like the internet's pictures and she didn't change on the full moon. Did the Mainland have a different breed of werewolves? Or had these tales been wildly distorted over the centuries?

Farther back in history, werewolves weren't regarded as mindless evils that fed on human flesh. Some were protectors, able to change form at will, though this was apparently just an exaggeration of the hunting practice of wearing a wolf's pelt hoping to channel its speed, strength, and pack coordination.

When night fell, Paddington drove the police van to the Team's headquarters. In the eight intervening hours, the Mainlanders had gained nothing from their investigations but sore feet. Was that good or bad? If they found Dominic, would they spare Lisa? Doubtful.

Paddington chauffeured them to the station, where Mitchell checked that Lisa was still human and collected Thompson and Peterson, then they headed toward the council chambers.

Cool evening air rushed into the van's cabin through the open windows. The van was sluggish with seven people in the back so Paddington took corners slowly, not that there was much choice. "What do you think of Archi?" he asked Mitchell, more to fill the silence than because he wanted to hear another of Mitchell's rants.

"Beautiful place; shame about the people," Mitchell said. "Tell me, why do you lot fear the modern world so much?"

"We're not that bad."

"Your radio still had vacuum tubes in it. McGregor says they stopped using those in the sixties. The _early_ sixties." Mitchell went back to staring at cottages. Most of them had been started hundreds of years ago and patched or extended as needed. "Still," he continued, "that's practically new in these parts."

"We don't have much need for technology."

"Someone does," Mitchell said. "Someone who doesn't want us leaving this island. And I'd guess that that someone also knows about the werewolves. He'll know where the bodies are buried, or at least who the gravediggers are."

Sweat dripped along Paddington's armpits. Was Mitchell planning on interrogating the mayor?

They reached the council chambers, climbed out of the van, and started for the entrance. Paddington stopped a few steps later when he realised the others weren't following; they were all staring at the marble statue of Idryo's Champion on the roundabout out front. Lights shone up from under the water to create a mosaic of moving lines on a faceless man in a long coat endlessly pouring water from a jug into the pool. He had one foot in the water and one on land.

"Probably bloody leather," Mitchell said.

"What?" Paddington asked.

Mitchell nodded at the statue. "The hero always wears a leather coat."

"Must be an archetype."

"Or a stereotype."

Paddington started toward the council chambers but stopped again when he realised he was still alone. This time the Team was staring dumbfounded at the council chambers. To be fair, the chambers were unlike every other building they'd passed. Two storeys of cream stone highlighted against the night by huge floodlights and supported by tall columns it was, in no way, a cottage.

"The old chambers burned down about seventy-five years ago," Paddington said, leading them up the stairs. For once, they followed. He didn't mention that the fire had been during a zombie outbreak; best keep things simple. He didn't need the Mainlanders checking every cellar and outhouse for zombies. They'd be here all year. Besides, Conall had already dealt with them.

"And the fountain?" Mitchell asked.

"That's always been there."

By now they were inside and, at a nod from the receptionist, Paddington guided them upstairs and knocked on a tall wooden door.

"Come."

The room was dim, lit by candles and a dull desk lamp. It was the most faithful recreation of the old mayor's office they had been able to make. There was an antique desk, three chairs, bookshelves, thick carpet, and only one door. The curtains had seen better decades. Except for the podium and Book of Three, it was a replica of the duke's study.

A single figure stood at the window, his back to them. "Welcome gentlemen. I'm Mayor Baldwin," he said. His dark jacket was tailored, the tails reaching his knees. His white-gloved hands were clasped behind him. "Lovely night, isn't it?" Still Baldwin gazed out the window and spoke like he didn't have a care in the world.

Mitchell's finger crept to his rifle's safety. "Who's blocking our communications?"

Baldwin turned to face them. His dark hair was styled back, off his pale forehead. Two pointed yellowing teeth hung over his bottom lip.

As one, the Team members took up firing positions.

"What the hell are you doing?" Paddington screamed, looking from Mitchell to the mayor and back, needing to defend the mayor, to spring into action, to save the day, if only his feet would move.

"Me?" Mitchell stared at him like Paddington had gone mad. "He's a bloody vampire!"

"Am I?" Baldwin sounded interested. "What's that? One of your Mainland minorities?"

"What?" Mitchell asked.

"Care to explain what a vampire is?" Paddington asked.

Baldwin looked ignorant. Honestly, his role was mostly show. He chaired meetings, made the occasional speech, but the difficult decisions were made elsewhere. Baldwin was mayor because he was popular, not capable. It had always annoyed Paddington that Archi worked like that.

"McGregor, enlighten the natives," Mitchell said without lowering his rifle.

"A vampire is a corpse that rises from its coffin at night. Usually depicted as having two pointed teeth, which it uses to pierce the victim's neck and drink their blood. Modern variants of the myth include eternal life, pale skin, and old clothes."

Paddington had to admit, Baldwin fit the description.

"Truman, find me a stake," Mitchell said.

"You're hungry?" Baldwin reached for the phone. "I can call the kitchen."

"Hands where I can see them!" Mitchell shouted.

Baldwin lifted his hands high and turned to Paddington. "No wonder we've had complaints," he said brightly.

"This is ridiculous!" Paddington said.

"Really?" Mitchell asked. "Today you arrested a werewolf."

"But that's..." Paddington trailed off. That was what? Sensible? "Why do you need a stake?"

"A stake to the heart's the only way to kill a vampire," Mitchell said.

"Or silver," Skylar said.

"I thought that was werewolves," Paddington said.

"Bullets for werewolves; stakes for vampires," she said.

"Or sunlight," McGregor said. "Vampires turn to ash in sunlight." Behind him, Truman beat an antique chair against the wall.

Paddington held his hands out for peace and risked a half-step forward; no one shot him. "I'm sure there's an explanation."

Truman handed Mitchell a wooden chair leg, smashed to a point at one end.

"We were talking earlier about traditions!" Paddington said, stepping in front of Baldwin. He'd made a mistake giving Lisa to these strangers; he wasn't abandoning the mayor as well.

Mitchell aimed his rifle with one hand, the stake in the other. "Out of my way, detective."

"It's a misunderstanding!" Paddington said. "The suit's understandable, and he's pale because he's awake all night and asleep all day, and the teeth... the teeth..." He turned to the mayor. "Care to help me out, sir?"

"The teeth are a symbol of office," Mayor Baldwin admitted. He deposited his worn, yellowing dentures into a gloved hand and Paddington wondered what carnivore they'd been moulded from.

"Please tell me they craft a new set for each mayor," Mitchell said.

"Cer'anly nob!" Baldwin sounded offended. "Dese teef are a shtaple of the mayoral posi'ion, handed down frough 'enerations."

"I'm getting sick of your traditions, detective." Mitchell lowered his rifle and dropped the stake. "Skylar, get us some garlic from the kitchen."

Baldwin sat behind his desk, reinserted his teeth, and spoke as if nothing had happened. "Now, what are you doing here? Searching for these vampires? Or is it werewolves?"

Mitchell said nothing.

"This is my island," Baldwin said with a pointed smile. "I'll have to insist on your cooperation." When Mitchell still said nothing, he added, "Captain, the citizens have been kind to you so far."

"Is that a threat?"

"Says the man with the gun," Baldwin said. "It is advice. The citizens are bound to hear that you threatened my life. If I can't assure them of your good character, they may turn hostile."

"Detective Paddington caught a vicious animal," Mitchell said, "but we need to contact London for further orders."

"And what do you expect me to do? I'm mayor of this island, not the world."

Mitchell frowned. He had a good forehead for it. " _You_ can't get a message off Archee?"

"It's pronounced Ark-eye," Baldwin said. "And why should I want to?"

Skylar reappeared and placed a whole garlic on Baldwin's desk.

"Take it, mayor," Mitchell said. "Now bite into it."

"And if I refuse?" Baldwin asked.

"I stab that chair leg through your heart."

"Hey!" Paddington shouted.

Mitchell turned slowly. "Yes, detective?"

Now that Mitchell was looking at him, Paddington found it much harder to stand his ground. Was Mitchell bluffing? Surely he wouldn't _actually_ stab the mayor in his own office, in the presence of a police officer...

Would he?

And if he did, how would the citizens react? There would be no staring from street corners; they'd kill the Team, and probably Paddington for summoning them.

"Just... think about what you're doing," Paddington said.

Mitchell paused, searching Paddington's face, and apparently found what he was looking for. "You're right. Forget orders; it's safest just to kill every werewolf we find."

Paddington saw it in his eyes: Mitchell knew Lisa was his girlfriend. But how? What else had he worked out?

Those were questions for later. Right now, if Baldwin didn't comply, Mitchell would execute Lisa to prove how serious he was.

Paddington turned to the mayor. "Bite it. Sir."

For a moment Baldwin watched both Mitchell and Paddington, perhaps judging whether they were serious, then he bit into the clove and crunched. Tears leaked out of his eyes. Paddington felt his stomach turn with every bite; what would the mayor say of all this? When the Team left Archi, would Paddington be shipped off with them? He'd as good as betrayed the island, first by bringing the Mainlanders and now by siding with them.

Who did he have left to betray? He was running out of friends.

"Do I hab doo swawwow?" Baldwin asked. Drool dribbled down his chin.

When Mitchell shook his head, Baldwin spat the garlic into the wastepaper basket and dabbed his mouth with a tailored handkerchief. "May we put that unpleasantness behind us?" he asked, again acting as if nothing had happened.

Mitchell nodded and lowered his gun. Paddington did his best not to collapse with relief. It was okay! Everyone was still alive, thanks to Baldwin! Paddington thought he finally understood how politics worked. You didn't need to be smart, you needed to be _fearless_ : to go above and beyond; to do what your opponent would not; to befriend everyone; and most importantly, to never admit that any demand was unreasonable.

"Good," Baldwin said. "Now get the fuck off my island."

Or not.

# Chapter Ten: Two Good Reasons to Hide an Island

Lisa wrapped the blanket tighter around her and closed her eyes. Maybe if she went to sleep all this would be a bad dream. She might wake up at home. Or in Scotland. Hell, she'd even prefer to be back down that hole in Richard's field, alone with the delusion that Jim loved her.

But all she had was this cold reality.

As she lay on the creaky wire bed in the dark station waiting for sleep to claim her, Lisa's mind replayed frozen images, memories of the wolf and afterward.

Hunger, gnawing at her constantly.

Pacing her back yard, tortured by the wind-borne smell of sheep.

The cold horror after she'd eaten. The guilty walk home.

Washing the blood from her fur in the freezing river.

Hiding from Jim as he stood beside the _Mangifera Vita_ sapling, sure that if he saw her like this she'd lose him forever.

The terror of seeing Richard in the field. The human instinct to threaten overriding the wolf's better judgement to flee.

Waking human in the pit, scared and scarred and naked. Trying to climb out. Mud and dirt. Cradling her bleeding wrist. Crying.

Jim, staring down at her like she'd cut out his heart.

The Team's doctor asking her, amidst apologies, to strip down so he could examine her. The leader holding his rifle, watching.

Feeling like a _thing_ to be investigated, less than human. Stand, bend, cough, sit. Good girl.

The doctor, leaving with a sample of her blood. The leader, pausing at the door to say, "You're with the detective, aren't you?" and smile.

Breaking down, alone.

Footsteps cut through her reverie, which was probably for the best. She had plenty more sad memories from the last few days, but dwelling on them didn't make her feel any better. Since these were likely to be her final days, she'd rather they were as happy as she could make them.

She opened her eyes and sat up on the sagging bed. Was the Team back already? Were these her last breaths? She breathed deep.

A shape moved in the dark of the station. The wolf would be able to see who it was. And _smell_ it. Stupid human senses.

"Who's that?" she asked. She didn't expect an answer, but one came in a voice she didn't quite recognise.

"Your knight in shining armour," he said.

A key turned in the lock and the cell's door swung open. A torch landed on the bed beside her and Lisa shone it on her rescuer.

"Quentin?" she asked.

But... he'd been brought up as a Proper Archian. Befriending Jim was the only blemish on his otherwise-spotless civic record. On her list of possible rescuers, Quentin was... absent. The only person less likely to take her side was Andrea.

"Jim sent me," he said, looking around the dark, empty station. "Quick. Before someone sees me."

* * *

Through the mayor's window, Paddington saw the Team emerge onto the street and repeat their routine of aiming guns at everything, mostly the fountain. Baldwin guided Paddington away with a gentle hand. "Your friends have a number of interesting ideas. Are they always so..."

"Trigger-happy?" Paddington said.

"I was going to say 'enthusiastic'. Boys and their toys. And girls and their garlic. What was that about?"

"I'll ask them." Not that there was much point; so far all their information had been wrong.

"Don't bother," Baldwin said. "I've endured worse in judging pies at the Church of Idryo's annual fair. Gladys, may the Three-God bless her, is very inventive in her use of sprouts."

Paddington nodded politely, staring at the mayor's smile. It was the same as the duke's, with a disconcerting edge of tooth over the bottom lip. When Baldwin had removed his dentures, Paddington had seen two long teeth on the bottom row as well.

"Tell me of Mitchell," Baldwin said. "Will he bring press?"

"He's not interested in publicity, sir, but he'll have to write reports." Whatever magic had kept Archi off the maps would fail once Mitchell filed his reports.

"I'll let Adonis know, not that he doesn't already." Baldwin waved a hand to dismiss Paddington.

As he walked back downstairs, an idea niggled at Paddington's mind: the mayor was a relatively new position, created a hundred years ago to take over some of the duke's duties. The wardrobe, the office, the teeth, were all homages to Adonis.

Traits that had immediately shouted "vampire" to the Team, a term Paddington had never heard. Baldwin wasn't a vampire, but... what about Adonis? If the duke didn't want anyone knowing he was a vampire, the best way to keep his secret would be to cut his subjects off from outside communication and travel. Create an aura of fear toward those who knew the truth.

Which was exactly what he'd done.

The Embargo, the technophobia, the severe anti-Mainland sentiments... all ensured that no one could find out the truth and that in the unlikely event that someone arrived who did – say, some paranormal investigators – they'd be distrusted and despised and their warnings viewed as abuse.

Honestly, Paddington couldn't help but admire the way Adonis had completely controlled the Archian consciousness. One could almost say "manipulated".

On the upside, that was one mystery solved. Archi was weird because its ruler had something to hide. Tick that one off the list. Now it was just the werewolves, finding out what vampires were, keeping his girlfriend alive, and getting rid of the Team.

Easy.

Paddington emerged into the chilly night and met the barrels of seven rifles.

"All good, detective?" Mitchell stepped away from the statue of Idryo's Champion and lowered his weapon, which was always a relief.

"Fine."

Mitchell grinned. "Dandy. First thing tomorrow I'll talk to your duke about the radio blackout, but right now I want to check on our prisoner."

If Mitchell was going to try to kill his girlfriend, Paddington at least wanted him to acknowledge that she was a real person. "She has a name, you know," Paddington said.

"I'll be sure to learn it. Let's move."

They climbed into the police van and putted away. Why did Mitchell want to see Lisa _now_? Did he suspect Paddington? What would happen when they found Lisa gone? Or what if Quentin was still there, keys in hand?

From what Paddington had seen so far, it would involve executions.

Paddington jumped at a loud banging just behind his head and nearly ploughed the overweight van into a tree. As he wrestled the vehicle under control, Mitchell opened the flap to the cell at the back, where McGregor was slamming his hand against the divider. "Go back! That church!" he yelled over the cries of discomfort. The back of the van hadn't been designed to fit seven; Archi didn't have crimes that big.

After circling the block, Paddington parked in front of the Church of Idryo and opened the back doors. McGregor ran straight to the entrance. The others clamoured out, stretched their spines, and stared up at the tall spires.

"What's this?" McGregor asked, pointing at a set of black symbols beside the double-doors.

"It's graffiti," Paddington said. "They'll clean it off in a day or two."

There was an awkward silence in which Paddington assumed he'd missed something important. "Don't you have graffiti where you come from?" he asked.

"Not in ancient Greek!" McGregor said.

Worry tunnelled up Paddington's spine and nested in his neck. Add that one to the list. "In what?"

"Ancient Greek, one of the oldest written languages." McGregor looked hopefully at Mitchell, who looked less hopeful and more weary.

"You're sure?" Mitchell asked.

"Positive." McGregor pulled a notepad out of a black pocket and copied the text. "Roughly translated, uh... 'Demons are people too'."

"Detective," Mitchell said, "any idea who's defacing your religious institutions with daft proverbs written in dead languages?"

Paddington hated the graffiti: he always felt he should recognise the handwriting. "No."

"Probably just some kids who're using it as their tag," Skylar said.

"No, it's been around since I was a kid, maybe longer," Paddington said. "And it's always different; it's not the same thing over and over."

"There's more?" McGregor sounded hungry.

"Sorry; we tend to clean it off," Paddington said. "But if you like this, you should see the Book of Three."

"What's that?"

Paddington remembered – vividly – Erato explaining how secret the Book was. "Probably nothing," he muttered. "Oh! There's the Tree in the city garden! Its carvings look like this."

The Team didn't seem to care. Most were shuffling their feet. Only Truman remained vigilant, staring at the nearby rooftops with a slight frown. Paddington saw nothing of interest there.

"Is this relevant to the case?" Mitchell asked McGregor.

"It's an anomaly," McGregor said.

"We've had our share of those already, thanks," Mitchell said.

"Sir, I can't know if it's relevant unless we check."

Mitchell sighed and closed his eyes. "Fine, but quickly."

They piled into the van and headed five minutes toward the centre of the island before unloading again at the edge of the Garden of Terpo. The Team stared up at the ten-foot stone walls with the same awe Paddington had as a child.

Inside there were no buildings and few paths. The trees were ancient and gnarled, twisting around themselves like a nest of wooden vipers. People came here for solitude and peace. There was no law prohibiting using the garden for picnics or football, but no one ever did. It wouldn't be right.

Paddington led them in. After a minute, Truman said, "There."

"They've been following us since the station," Mitchell said calmly.

Paddington stopped and turned around. "Who have?"

"Things in the trees," Truman said.

"Things? Like... werewolves?" Paddington asked.

"In the _trees_?" Mitchell asked him. He pointed and the four mutes left to investigate. "Don't they teach you anything on Archee?"

"It's pronounced Ark-eye," Paddington said. "And they teach us fine."

"Then why isn't it spelled Ark-eye?" Mitchell asked. "Another stupid tradition, or are you so inbred you can't even spell?"

Paddington was sick of this. "What's the matter, Jerry?" he asked. "Did you find spelling hard at school? Didn't mummy ever read to you?"

"I'm an orphan, thanks for asking," Mitchell said, stepping closer. "Didn't your daddy teach you any manners?"

"He died, just after I was born," Paddington yelled, sure that they were about to come to blows and that he'd come off second-best. Then Mitchell turned away and the night turned very cold. What had just happened? He never talked about his father. Or stood up to people.

Still, he felt... good.

The mutes had returned from checking the trees. "If anything was following us," Clarkson said, "it's probably halfway to Albuquerque by now."

"Stay on guard." Mitchell readjusted his grip of his rifle; he was breathing just as hard as Paddington. "Detective, lead on."

He did. The mutes left every minute or so to check the trees, from which came the occasional rustle of a branch or glimpse of a shape among the leaves, but they never found anything and it was too dark to be sure there was even anything to find.

Finally they arrived at the Tree. "Well, there it is," Paddington said. A usually redundant statement, this time it caused a series of short inhalations as each member considered stating the obvious, then lost his nerve. Finally Mitchell spoke out.

"That's what you call a tree, is it?"

"It's... tradition?" Paddington said. Honestly, he wasn't sure why it was called the Tree when it was obviously a nine-foot tall rock. Some things made so little sense he'd always just assumed that there was a very good reason for such nonsense.

"It's a rock, right?" Skylar asked. "I'm not missing something?"

McGregor approached the Tree and examined the obelisk's three faces. The area around it was dirt for ten feet in every direction, after which were trees – real trees, wooden ones – and shrubs.

Something rustled behind them. McGregor didn't notice, but the other seven pointed their guns at it. "Clarkson, Normson, check it out," Mitchell said.

The two men entered the foliage and soon all that could be seen of them were beams of white torchlight in the dark. Paddington approached McGregor. "Anything?"

"Absolutely." McGregor ran around to another side of the obelisk, then the third. "It's ancient Greek, same as the graffiti, carved deep into the rock. Looks like it's been here for hundreds of years."

The two soldiers returned from their search with an empty shrug.

"Doctor," Mitchell said, "any chance we can do this in daylight?"

McGregor covered his goatee with one hand and pointed to the top of the Tree with the other. "What are these runes?"

"That's the mark of Idryo," Paddington said, of the crescent bending down on both sides. He rounded the corner and saw another rune at the pinnacle, this one a left-to-down curl. "That one's Enanti, and the blank side is Tipote." They saw the third rune, this one a right-to-down curve. He was a bit surprised they didn't recognise them, but maybe theology wasn't a compulsory subject in Mainland schools.

"And who're they when they're at home?" Mitchell asked.

Paddington blinked. Was Mitchell serious?

Apparently, because he was still glaring.

"They're God," Paddington said.

"You guys have your own God?" Skylar asked.

"And _don't_ tell me it's tradition," Mitchell said.

Paddington wanted to ask why none of them had ever heard of the Three-God, but was distracted by the digital camera McGregor had pulled from one of the many pockets on his black flak jacket. It was barely the size of a wallet, and the flash was built-in! And when he took photos, they popped up on the little screen. No more developing fluid or dark rooms. In seconds, McGregor had captured all three sides of the obelisk and Mitchell was leading the way back to the van.

They heard no more rustling, but Paddington felt something watching them. He thought perhaps there were shapes on the rooftops as well, but they might have been weathervanes. They drove to the headquarters to collect a book to aid McGregor in his translation and then continued on to the station.

By the time they arrived, Paddington's nerves were shot from watching the skyline. He headed straight to the kettle, flicking the lights on as he went. "Anyone thirsty?"

"Got anything stronger than tea on this island?" Skylar asked as she dropped into a seat.

McGregor sat at Quentin's desk and bent over his camera. The others sat or leaned against any available surface.

"Detective!" Mitchell roared.

The Team were all on their feet again, some with groans but all with guns.

"What?" Paddington asked. Had they been followed here? Were they under attack?

"Why the fuck is this empty?" Mitchell's rifle pointed at the holding cell. "Who has access to the station at night?"

Paddington tried to keep his voice casual. And innocent. This was common knowledge. "Anyone, I suppose. The door isn't locked."

Mitchell glared, nostrils flared. " _What_?"

"There's no need," he said. "If you've got an emergency, you yell. Mobs are very good at stopping on-the-spot crimes."

"What about records, reports? Privacy?" Mitchell asked, horrified.

"Everyone already knows everything about everyone," Paddington said. He shrugged, trying to indicate that this was clearly Mitchell's fault. "If you were so concerned, why did you pull the guards from the door?"

"Because at that point the station was still staffed," Mitchell said.

But that argument didn't make sense. It was better to have twice the necessary guard than none at all. Mitchell wasn't the careless type; if he removed men from here, he _wanted_ them somewhere else – with him, when he confronted Mayor Baldwin. He'd wanted the mayor to see his full strength.

"By your mother, in fact," Mitchell continued. "Perhaps I should call her."

"Off you go," Paddington said. Behind him, the kettle shrieked and he shut off the stove. "Look, Lisa can't go far. There's no way off the island. We'll find her first thing tomorrow. Okay?"

Mitchell watched him, looking for deceit. Paddington hid his beneath a mask of a simple, small-town bobby. Since that was all Mitchell thought he was, he didn't have trouble believing it.

Mitchell turned to the Team. "In pairs, radio contact every fifteen minutes. Go."

"Wait!" McGregor said. "I've translated the characters on the... Tree." He placed a piece of paper on the bench beside the kettle. As the Team crowded in, Paddington squeezed his way out of the centre and read over Skylar's shoulder.

On the third night of the moon,

Three Brothers of Three Races

Reunite at creation's origin,

And commence her rebirth.

Three from one came,

And to one three shall return.

The words hung in the air a moment after reading. They drew Paddington back to his primary school days, topping the class in theology, moved by the language and the stories but lost by their meaning.

It was also another problem to add to the list.

"What the hell is this?" Mitchell asked.

"Seems like a, well, prophecy, sir," McGregor said.

"Aren't prophecies usually about the end of the world?" Truman asked.

They all stared at the paper again, with distrust.

"There's more, on the other side of the rock," McGregor said, placing another sheet beside the first.

The demon summons their destruction.

Though his mouth begets peace,

He decries Archi.

Death spreads across the globe.

"Another prophecy," Mitchell said, "which contradicts the first."

"Yes, it does," McGregor said. "I was expecting more, to be honest, but the third side of the obelisk is blank."

"It's probably on the sides of buildings," Mitchell said. "Thoughts detective?"

Paddington had several, none of which he wanted to tell Mitchell. He'd be in enough trouble because of the Mainlanders; he didn't need them storming the duke's mansion to steal the Book of Three. "We assumed the writing on the Tree was gibberish," he said, "decorative."

"We should investigate," Truman said.

"Really? Why's that?" Mitchell asked.

"Well... we have a werewolf."

"Which is hormones, right doc? Not the moon, not demons, not a _race_."

"Well, yes," McGregor said, "but whoever wrote this might not know that."

"Then their prophecies aren't worth a damn!" Mitchell said. He straightened his spine, drawing himself up to his full height and width. "We are not spending another second on this. We came for a werewolf, not vague prophecies and wannabe vampires. The end of the world can wait until they feel like being a bit more specific."

Mitchell waited until everyone had nodded, even Paddington.

"Good. Now go find me that bitch."

# Chapter Eleven: The Cure

Mitchell insisted that Paddington take him to Lisa's, so they climbed into Paddington's yellow Hillman and putted along the streets in tense silence. Their argument in the city garden kept replaying in his mind, as did Mitchell pointing a rifle at the mayor. How long before they came to blows? How was he supposed to trust this man?

But then, Mitchell seemed to prefer fear to trust.

"Here we are," Paddington said, parking and climbing out.

Mitchell prepared to kick down the locked door. Paddington nodded him aside and took the spare key from under the mat.

The front room was empty. Mitchell flicked the light on and checked the house through his rifle's sights. Without its usual smells of baking and spice, the house felt lifeless and cold. There were no signs that Lisa had returned here, because Paddington had told Quentin not to let her, and no clothes were missing, because Paddington had planned to collect some after ditching the Team, so the two of them went to leave.

As they made their way out the front gate, Clarkson made his way in. Paddington sent an inquisitive glance Mitchell's way and the Mainlander said, "In case she returns."

"No going through her stuff," Paddington shouted at Clarkson.

"But there may be clues in her drawers," Clarkson said. The front door slammed and Paddington assumed the conversation, and Lisa's privacy, was over. Pretty soon the Team would have solid evidence that he and Lisa were an item, but since there was nothing to do about it, Paddington climbed into his car.

Mitchell slid into the passenger's seat. "Your house next."

"What for?" Paddington asked.

"So I can eliminate you from our list of suspects."

That was a laugh. Mitchell suspected everyone.

As they drove, Paddington asked, "Do you realise you're in the prophecy?"

"You what?"

"You came here to beget peace – by stopping the werewolf – and you're constantly decrying Archi. And once you get in contact with your superiors, you'll certainly be able to summon destruction."

"Except I'm not a demon."

"Demons are people too," Paddington reminded him. "Seems the 'demon' is whoever's going to stop the Three Brothers... whoever _they_ are."

Mitchell nodded. "Congratulations, detective. You've just shown that your prophecy is vague enough to mean anything."

They arrived at Paddington's and entered. As Mitchell swept the front room with his rifle, he said, "That's the problem with people who readily believe. You invent a neat little truth that's comfortable to believe rather than honestly seeking real, hard truth."

Paddington shrugged. "And maybe you dismiss real truth out of hand in your hurry to search the next spot."

"Truth is Truth," Mitchell said. "You can't dismiss it, can't mistake it. If it's there, you know it." But Mitchell's voice didn't quite match his words. How long had he been searching without finding his truth? Was it better to believe without evidence, or to believe nothing at all?

Paddington followed Mitchell as the Mainlander checked each room of Paddington's house and, finding nothing – luckily not Lisa's laptop, hiding under his mattress – Mitchell left. Not that that meant someone wasn't still outside, watching him.

Somehow, Paddington doubted they'd be able keep up with his car all the way to Quentin's.

Paddington shoved the change of clothes Lisa had left in his wardrobe into a backpack and headed for the front door, flicking lights off as he went.

When he came to his front room, the light was already off. He sensed a dark shape right beside him.

"Gah!" Paddington said.

The dark shape lit a candle.

"...your grace," Paddington added.

Duke Adonis Andraste placed the candle on the dining table. He was dressed in a dark suit and polished shoes. Paddington doubted the duke owned casual wear, at least under an ordinary understanding of the term.

"I'm sorry, my lord, I didn't see you there," Paddington said.

"Rather the point," said the duke. "I need a word with you away from your new friends."

"About them, I—"

The duke waved him down. "You had noble intentions, but now that you see what people from the Mainland are really like you understand why we must expedite their departure."

Knowing what to look for, Paddington recognised why the duke's smile had upset him: the eyeteeth were elongated, like a carnivore's. He thought the ones in the bottom row were as well, but these were harder to spot by candlelight and he couldn't exactly ask Adonis to spit them out.

"How can I help, my lord?"

"You misunderstand," said the duke. "I do not _need_ help, but offer it." He sat at the table and motioned for Paddington to sit opposite. "I should apologise. Though I knew of the affliction, I was unaware it had spread to Miss Tanner."

Paddington stared into the slitted pupils and nodded his thanks at the apology. Not that there had actually been one.

"If you are firm of stomach," said the duke, "there is a cure."

"How do I save her?" he asked.

Never a man to be rushed, the duke paused for a few seconds before fixing Paddington's gaze and saying, "She must eat the heart of the werewolf that bit her."

"Raw?" Paddington asked.

"Pardon?"

"Does she have to eat it raw, or can it be cooked?"

"I..." The duke frowned. "Perhaps it is best not to take the chance."

Paddington nodded. It wasn't like they could try again if they got it wrong.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

"If you should succeed, then retesting Miss Tanner will show her to be human, these Mainlanders will believe it was all a hoax, and I shall allow them to contact their superiors."

Paddington had wanted a cure; well here it was. But murder?

The duke had reached the door, each footstep soundless. Paddington remembered the figures in the shadows and wondered whether Adonis was as graceful on branches and over rooftops.

"Oh," said the duke, "and do drop round for dinner tomorrow. I am most anxious to hear of our new... friends."

With a final sharp-toothed smile, the vampire disappeared into the night.

* * *

In the hour since being rescued, Lisa had spoken less than ten words. It wasn't that Quentin didn't try to talk to her – he did, always on with the latest gossip or small talk – it was that Lisa wanted some quiet to process what her life had become. Eventually Quentin went down to the pub and left her alone in his house.

Lisa made herself pasta and waited. There was little in the house for entertainment: no TV, no computer, just a radio so old it was technically a wireless. She found one of the few books that didn't have pictures and, two hours into it, heard the front door click and placed the hardcover spine-up on the side table. Someone stopped at the edge of the living room.

It was Jim.

He placed a backpack on the carpet, his long face paler than usual, the eyes deeper set and mouth drawn tight, a very different man to the one who'd taken her to see the Andrastes four nights ago. Or the one who'd glared at her from the top of Richard's trap that morning.

Had the Team followed him? Did they know he'd helped her escape? Was she to be taken to London for study? Had the order been given to kill her?

Was he going to obey?

Jim stared at her, drawing her in, but his expression remained wooden. Lisa waited him out. After all he'd done, she sure as hell wasn't making the first move.

"There's a cure," he said at last.

Was that his idea of comfort? To see her as a problem, like McGregor did: a disease, a mongrel. She'd seen the disgust in his eyes. It was over between them. Jim didn't want to be with her. He wanted to solve her.

She was nothing but a case to him now.

Lisa narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"For what you are. There's a cure."

"For what I am..." The words hung in the air as the clock sliced time between them. She got out of the chair and stepped forward. Jim backpedalled half a pace.

"And this makes it all better?" she asked. "We can pretend you didn't hand me over to be crucified?"

"To be what?"

"Focus, Jim!" Lisa snapped, stepping closer. This time he stood his ground. Lisa wondered whether she should punch him again. It had felt good the first time. "I spent twelve hours locked in a cell! My boyfriend nearly had me killed! You don't think we should _talk_ about that?"

Jim risked a glance up from the floor. "What can I say?"

"To make it all _better_?" Lisa asked. "To make me understand you, Jim? I don't _want_ to understand. I don't want to understand why my boyfriend hated the sight of me. I want you out of this house."

"I can fix it."

"Fix it? Fix me?" she asked, staring. "And what will that cost? Who else will you sacrifice because _you_ think it's the right thing to do? Dom? Your mother? Everyone?" Jim didn't say anything, which meant she was right on the money. He was only quiet when someone was already speaking his mind. "Jim, if you have to kill _anyone_ , you're not doing the right thing."

He nodded. "I didn't mean for thi—"

"Yes you did! You knew exactly what you were doing when you handed me over! You knew they wouldn't let me go, but you could live with it because you told yourself you had no choice, or that it was justice because of what I am. Get out."

"It's not like tha—"

"Don't lie to me, Jim!" She grabbed the hardback book off the table and pressed her fingers hard into it. As long as he stayed quiet, she might resist hurling it at his head.

After a minute of what looked like moping, Jim said, "You can't... leave the house. Mitchell will kill you on sight." His eyes had the same pleading for love they had fifteen years ago. The same desire to do right. The same ignorance of what "right" really meant.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll stay here."

"How can I prov—"

"You can't!" Lisa threw the book behind her so she wouldn't be tempted to swing it at him. "Trust has to be earned and I can't trust you. Ah!" She grabbed her left wrist, which felt like it had been torn open again. Blood seeped through yet another bandage.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"No I'm not all right!" She clamped a hand on her wrist and clenched her teeth at the pain. "I was shot. It fecking hurts. Maybe you'll get to find out one day. Soon, if you don't leave."

Jim hung his head and nodded. "I'm going. I just wanted to know you got out okay."

"I'm fine. I'm giddy," she said icily, and headed to the bathroom to check her arm. She heard the front door click, then an engine rev and splutter off down the road.

Alone in the bright white bathroom, Lisa allowed herself to break down again.

* * *

Paddington slammed his front door, checked for shapes in the shadows, then swore loudly. He stomped to the back room and grabbed everything he could find on the Beast of Gévaudan and threw them all into the bin.

What was he supposed to have said? He was here for her. He'd rescued her from the cell. He'd done everything he could since handing her over. Yes, he shouldn't have handed her over in the first place, but he'd admitted that. What more could he do?

Would she ever look at him the same? How long before they were back to normal? Or was that impossible? Had he ruined the best thing to ever happen to him?

Again.

Paddington took deep breaths and forced himself to calm down.

"Do you love her?" he asked, needing to make the question real. He wasn't sure how to answer, but in a deep way he always would love her. Without her, he didn't know what he was doing or who he was... and yet he'd handed her over. If he could do that to someone he loved, wasn't she better off without him? Was it best to stay away, for her sake?

He slammed his open palm into the table. He wanted to do more, to smash something or shout until he passed out, but that wasn't a long-term solution. Instead, he sat at the table and pulled Lisa's laptop toward him.

He had to get rid of Mitchell. How long before the Mainlander beat the truth out of someone? Before he found Quentin's, or a citizen admitted seeing something, or the Team had a stroke of good luck? To save Lisa, he had to lose Mitchell. To lose Mitchell, he had to kill Dominic.

"Can you kill Dominic?" Paddington asked the empty room. Could he look himself in the mirror afterwards? Who would stare back? And what of helping people? Of defending the innocent? What happened to that when the policeman was the slaughterer?

He booted up the computer and searched for werewolves again, as he had that afternoon, but stopped after a minute. Werewolves were no good: too many people said too many contradicting things. Instead, he looked up real wolves.

And even if he killed Dominic, cut his heart out, how would he convince Lisa to eat it? Killing Dominic wouldn't endear him to her. He'd become a monster in her eyes. Well, a worse monster.

"She'd never speak to you again," he said, debate closed.

There were other debates, though.

Like how did the duke know about Lisa's problem? The Andrastes hadn't been friendly with Lisa, so why was Adonis so keen to help her now? Or was he only helping her to get rid of Mitchell so Mitchell wouldn't find out about the Andrastes and start asking for more stakes?

Paddington opened a new window and looked up vampires.

How much did Adonis know? Surely the prophecy was in the Book of Three; why hadn't Adonis mentioned it? If Mitchell was the demon, wasn't getting him off Archi a bad idea? Or did Adonis want the prophecy to succeed? Was _that_ why Adonis wanted Paddington to cure Lisa? By killing Dom, he made the demon leave and saved the world.

"Doesn't matter. You're not killing Dominic." Saying it made it real. The silence understood: no matter what happened with the prophecy, Lisa had to come first; no matter what happened, murder was out. But he had to do _something_. Something to show Lisa that he loved her. That he would do anything for her. That she could trust him completely. That he was with her, no matter what.

One thought occurred.

"No, that's ridiculous," he told the screen. "How would that even help?"

The silence accused him of cowardice.

"It would make things worse. Besides, she'd never agree."

But the idea had found a home and Paddington couldn't evict it.

"Fine. But how?"

His finger clicked. His eyes read. His brain absorbed. But his thoughts were elsewhere, searching, and they found his answer.

"Dominic!"

# Chapter Twelve: On the Hunt

The night was gruelling. Most of the Team slept less than four hours and Mitchell slept none. There was no hint of Tanner and no one visited her house. When Mitchell arrived at the police station at eight o'clock, Sergeant Paddington was already at her desk, eyeing paperwork. Did she ever do anything else?

"Message for you," Mrs Paddington said, holding out a slip of paper. Mitchell took it.

Your communication problems are nothing to do with me and given your conduct toward Mayor Baldwin last night, I shall view your presence on my land as trespassing and respond accordingly.

Sincerely, Duke Andraste.

How had he pissed off this whole island? He was just doing his job; didn't they understand that? No matter; the duke was off limits for now. He'd leave confronting Andraste until they'd tried everything else or there was a mob chasing them with flaming torches.

Which would be about lunchtime, the way they were going.

Detective Constable Paddington arrived at nine o'clock, followed by a keg-shaped monkey in a police uniform that pushed past Mitchell and swept all of McGregor's books and equipment off his desk into the rubbish bin.

"Lovely," Mitchell said. "Very welcoming."

"You haven't exactly endeared yourself to our citizens." Dark rings surrounded Paddington's eyes: he'd probably spent the night wrestling with his conscience or fretting about whether Miss Tanner had been captured yet. Best up the pressure, see if he burst.

"We'd best find your girlfriend and go, then," Mitchell said.

"So you haven't found her yet?" Paddington asked, pouring himself a cup of tea.

"It's only a matter of time."

Paddington seemed calm, even cocky. Interesting. Had Tanner been smuggled off-island already?

"And I expect your _full_ cooperation, detective," Mitchell added.

"Of course." Paddington drank his tea. "We can't have an animal like that running loose. This time it was cows and sheep. Who's to say it won't be people next?"

"I completely agree. Which is why I ordered my men to shoot on sight and sort it out via autopsy."

"What?"

Mitchell waited. Would Paddington crack?

Paddington's mouth flapped open and shut. "What about stunning her?"

"Didn't bring darts," Mitchell said. "Can't contact London to stock up. And I can't risk her hurting anyone else."

After another second, Paddington sighed. "Well, you're the experts. I'll trust your judgement." He looked sincere, not that it mattered: Mitchell couldn't trust him. Not when he'd had both motive and opportunity to betray him.

Paddington finished his tea and placed the handmade mug beside the kettle. _World's Best Son_ was written artistically on the side and bits of it were cracked or worn smooth from many years of use. Not the mug Mitchell would have expected for a perfectionist poser like Paddington.

"I assume the others are already out looking for Lisa?" Paddington asked.

"They are," Mitchell said. The others were also asking the townspeople awkward questions about Paddington. Who were his close friends? Where would he hide Tanner? So far, all they'd learned was that the detective was almost as despised as the Team.

"Come on then," Paddington said.

Their first stop was the city market and its associated rumour mill. No one would answer Mitchell and few answered Paddington, which confirmed the Team's information: Paddington had no friends with whom to hide Tanner. Mitchell couldn't even imagine the sergeant helping her son out. She wasn't the maternal-instinct type. Not within the last decade, if the mug was anything to go by.

After three hours of fruitless questioning, they met up with the others for lunch. No one had any leads. Truman said they should follow up on the prophecy. Monkey-Constable Appleby said that helping Mainlanders find a Mainlander wasn't his job. Sergeant Paddington said her son must attend to his regular duties for a few hours and ignored all further discussion.

The Team set off again, widening their search from Lisa Tanner to anyone unexpectedly absent: somewhere was the werewolf that had bitten Tanner and they needed to catch it too.

Mitchell would. He'd find them both, even if he had to raze the whole island to do it.

* * *

Norm was a bit worried that he'd been forgotten about. He and Gladys had left Samuel's twelve days ago when Gladys's son had visited her house, and he'd expected that men with rifles would have found them and put them down by now. Surely someone had discovered his diary in Samuel's cellar and knew that there were zombies on the loose, so why weren't they doing anything? How could anyone _forget_ about a zombie horde?

And it really was a horde now. Gladys had converted a young couple on their trek to the abandoned milking shed they now called home. Since then, they'd converted another dozen or so: people on nature walks or kids out exploring or neighbours investigating noises at night. People who, if they'd kept their wits about them, could easily have escaped. Instead, they'd been frozen with horror until the zombies converted them.

Still, apart from those accidents, the society was coming along nicely. Half of the milking shed was used as a theatre, with nightly performances of The Bill, which was the only show everyone liked. The rest of the time it was used by anyone who wished to open a discussion. There was equality, peace, and freedom of thought here.

But for how much longer? There were too many cows here for them to remain hidden much longer. Soon, someone would notice the missing two-dozen ungulates and bring an end to the zombie society. They'd already converted one farmer who'd followed his herd right to them.

Still, the cattle or accidental discovery weren't his main problem. Norm's main problem was swaying in front of him: a recent convert who wasn't settling well into zombie life. At first he'd thought Sophie hadn't understood his arguments for human preservation, but now it seemed she'd understood perfectly. She just didn't agree.

_Please, Sophie, don't ruin this_ , Norm said. _We have a good thing here. The distractions of age, need, sight, sound, have all been eliminated. We're free to ponder the mysteries of the universe._

_And we kill people_ , Gladys put in, not willing to let Norm coat too much sugar on their existence.

_Or do we free them?_ Sophie asked. _I never thought this clearly in life. Who's to say it's bad, what happened to us?_

_You can't leave the shed_ , Norm said again, because he couldn't argue her on principles. He was enjoying himself a lot more as a zombie than he had as a human, but he didn't think that gave him licence to kill others so they could experience it. _If someone finds you, Sophie, they'll kill us_ _all_ _._

_That's what you say, old man_ , Sophie said.

_Brains are going to be awesome!_ Reg shouted.

Ah, Reg. Reg was... different. The attack on him had nearly been successful. The zombies attacking him had chipped off a section of his skull with their teeth. From the back, it was possible to see his brain.

_Look_ , Norm said reasonably, _we can't attack the city. It would be murder. Why can't you be more like Rowena and Dave?_

The group turned to the shed's open door. They couldn't see that far, but they knew what was there: outside, Rowena and Dave would be sitting in the middle of a group of cows, communing with the beasts and composing epic poems they luckily couldn't remember later on. Norm was sure that, if they'd had the coordination, they would have stripped naked by now, not that they could see or feel the difference.

_That's not real zombiism_ , Sophie said. _They're denying their needs and drives._

_They're dead!_ Norm said. _We're all dead! We don't have needs or drives._

Then what's the brainlust?

The brainlust isn't what being a zombie is about.

Sophie was still quite fresh, but Norm thought he saw a few wisps of black hair drift down as she shook her head. _It's sad, the way you refuse to change. We're not human, Norm. Cast aside your life and embrace your death._

_I'm doing that_ , Norm complained.

_No you're not. You think like a human. We're zombies: we'll never be complete until we've eaten brains. I can't pretend any more._ Sophie sighed and addressed the horde. _If you're like me, then join me._

Norm felt a number of eyes on him, waiting to follow his lead. Many times, he'd tried to explain that each zombie should think for itself. Everyone had agreed with him. Norm wasn't sure what to make of that.

Sophie turned to leave.

_Woo! Brains!_ Reg shouted.

By the time Sophie reached the shed door, nine zombies had joined her. They stepped into the evening light and began pushing their way through the cattle.

_Please don't do this!_ Norm shouted, trotting after them.

_Brains!_ Reg yelled, pointing at a cow. He put his teeth to its head. Even without clear vision, Norm knew Reg could never spread his jaw wide enough to crack the skull. In fact, his attempts to bite it were rather pathetic. He couldn't decide which direction to attack it from, and ended up just twisting his head from side to side.

_Reg!_ Sophie said. _Do you want to be a cattle zombie, or a man zombie?_

Reg released the cow. _Man zombie_ , he said quietly. The cow walked back to its herd, mildly annoyed but unharmed.

_That's right._ Sophie's white eyes turned to Norm. _Are you coming?_

When Norm said nothing, she staggered away under the afternoon sun.

Why couldn't she just stay put? Why did she have to ruin everything? The hunting parties Norm had feared hadn't found them, which meant they were free to live out their deaths in peace. And now Sophie would ruin all that by provoking the humans.

_What do we do, Norm?_ Gladys asked, taking Norm's remaining hand in a thick grip. It was as close as they could come to holding hands.

_We try to talk them out of it_ , he said. _And if we can't... then I suppose we die. Again._

* * *

Today, Dominic was in his garage. Specifically, he was in an old MG, his legs sticking out from underneath it as he lay on a gurney. There was no music on, so he must have heard the approaching footsteps, but he didn't roll out to see who it was.

"Mind if I have a word?" Paddington asked.

Dominic kicked against the ground, hoping to pass underneath the car and out the other side. Paddington stamped on the trolley between Dominic's legs, which sent the other end – the end with his head – up into the car's belly.

"Ooh. That sounded painful," Paddington said.

Realising he was beaten, Dominic wheeled himself out, one hand on his forehead. It wasn't bleeding, which was a good sign. "What do you want?" he asked.

"A quiet word." Paddington led Dominic into the office. It was a cramped affair, just big enough for the cheap desk, phone, two swivel chairs, and a filing cabinet. No names other than Dominic's were written on the blackboard roster for today. Good. They should have some time alone.

"Yeah, what do you want?" Dominic asked.

Paddington double-checked that no one had walked into the garage, wiped his face, took a deep breath, and said, "I need you to bite me."

"You're crazy, man!"

Dominic stood. Paddington pulled his police-issue pistol from behind his back and Dominic dropped back down. "Whoa, okay, let's both just calm down."

Paddington extended his left arm and pushed back the blood-stained sleeve to expose his wrist. "Do it," he said.

"No way," Dominic said. "You'll say I assaulted you or something."

Paddington brought the pistol closer to Dominic's scraggly face. "You're a werewolf, Dominic. I could present your corpse to my Mainland friends and not one of them would ask whether I could have brought you in alive. They'd say, 'Job well done.'

"Because it would be," Paddington continued. "My job is to cooperate with operatives of the law – which they are – but since I'm feeling merciful, I'll make you a deal, Dom. Bite me... and I won't have you killed and dissected."

Dominic squirmed on the squeaking chair. "I'm not comfortable with this whole vibe, so maybe I'll—"

"You'll what? Call your friends?" Paddington waved the gun in Dominic's face and watched his eyes follow it. Good. "How fast can you dial?"

Trapped in his chair, Dominic frantically searched the office for some way out. There was none; Paddington would have noticed it.

"I mean, if..." Dominic started.

"Dom..."

"Why don't—"

"Dom."

"Maybe y—"

"Dom!"

"It won't—" Dominic stopped, but the damage was done.

"It won't what?" Paddington pounced on the ill-spoken words. "Won't matter? Won't work? So... it's not biting." The internet was wrong, again. What a shock. "Then what is it?"

Beads of black sweat began to dribble down Dominic's red forehead. "I can't say."

Paddington didn't have time for this! He grabbed Dominic with one hand and pressed the gun barrel against his jaw. His finger tightened on the trigger. "How?" he asked, breathless.

"They'd kill me!" Dominic's eyes flashed toward the window, then back to Paddington. "Slowly," he added.

The grubby office had one small four-paned window. Through the grime, Paddington spotted a figure on the other side of the street, leaning against a lamppost. He'd been there when Paddington had arrived as well.

The other werewolves were watching Dominic.

Paddington released him and stepped back. How close had he come to squeezing the trigger? What was he doing here? Intimidation? Threats? This wasn't him.

Paddington made up his mind to go straight home and leave his gun there. He couldn't trust himself with it, even unloaded.

"Please don't come here again," Dominic whispered.

Paddington nodded. "I won't." He felt sick. "Have you... Is there a cure?"

Dominic shook his head slowly, like what Paddington was suggesting was daft. "It's not a disease. Not," he added quickly, "that I know what you're talking about."

Paddington tucked the pistol into the back of his trousers, under his long tan coat, and glanced at the window. "When they ask, I came to find out if you'd seen Lisa. You haven't. Got it?"

Dominic nodded and Paddington left, taking care not to look at the figure on the lamppost. Instead, he ran though the rest of his day: he had to fit in his normal duties, placate his mother, help the Team try to find Lisa, and maybe see if McGregor had made any more sense of the prophecy, all before dinner with the duke tonight.

Strangely, he didn't miss the boring old days at all.

* * *

"Order! Quiet, everyone! Shut up! For Tipote's sake, shut up!"

The hubbub died down and everyone took their seats. Mayor Baldwin banged his gavel once more, just for effect. The sun had set and three-hundred of Archi's most concerned citizens had filled the city hall to protest the Mainlanders in their midst.

"Thank you," Baldwin said. "We meet tonight to discuss the intruders in our town."

"Kill them!" someone yelled.

Baldwin shook his head. "The Mainland will simply send more."

"Kill _them_!" someone else yelled, to general agreement.

"Kind people, we are not in the habit of murder, are we?" He had to wait, but eventually there was reluctant agreement. "What we need, I think, is to expedite their departure."

This was met with mild confusion.

"That is, get them off Archi as fast as possible," he translated.

This raised a mild cheer.

"Which may involve helping them."

The cheer died.

"I understand," the mayor said, plunging on, "that they are looking for Miss Tanner. Once we hand her over, they should leave and take her with them."

The cheer was loud this time.

"All those in favour of finding and handing over Lisa Tanner?" Baldwin asked.

There was a near-unanimous, "Aye!"

"All opposed?"

"Blarg!"

The gargled call came from a dozen corpses staggering in the hall's main entrance. Cold, white eyes stared at the assembled citizens. Dead mouths opened to reveal rotting teeth. Pallid skin peeled off skeletal arms that strove for the nearest living being.

The meeting erupted into screams and panic. Men and women threw whatever was in their hands at the corpses, or beat their fists against them. The wooden fold-up chairs made hollow _whump_ sounds as they hit the zombies' flesh.

Baldwin stood at the podium, transfixed, as the dead sank their teeth into his citizens. Arms grappled with festering limbs and stumps. Chairs were shoved aside. Screams drowned every sound except the corpses' unearthly moans, which gnashed against Baldwin's spine from the inside.

The entire audience, all three hundred of them, ran for the stage. With the main entrance blocked, the only other exit was a single door at the back of the stage. Baldwin remembered someone complaining that the city hall would be a death trap if there was a fire.

The front row reached the stage and tried to clamber onto it, but the second row was pressed against them by the third row, which crushed most of the front row against the platform. Some managed to climb up, but many fell. From the podium, Baldwin heard ribs break as three hundred people viced the front row.

The crowd surged, arms outstretched and mouths screaming wide. From up here, they didn't seem all that different to the undead.

People at the back of the crowd disappeared. Splurts of blood fountained up. Screams loudened. Moments later the victims reappeared, fixed their dark gazes on the nearest human, and feasted.

That was enough to get Baldwin to move. He fought his way through the tide on the stage. Looking back, he saw the manic dead sweep through the people at the foot of the stage, rolling toward him, a wave of biting and blood and moans.

Baldwin needed to get to his office, activate the emergency zombie plan, but the stage was packed and the door had jammed after a foot, its hinges rusted from years of neglect and disuse. Very slowly, the crowd squeezed through the gap and ran.

They were trapped. People shoved, but there was nowhere to go. The newly-infected zombies bit and grabbed, turned on their neighbours, brothers, wives, and children, a mad lust in their slowly-clouding eyes. The humans tore at hair, punched, and shoved others toward the dead.

The door was ten feet from Baldwin, but it might as well have been fifty; the humans were pressed together so tightly that they couldn't fight, couldn't dodge, couldn't run. Cattle for the slaughter.

At the back of the room, a few of the braver humans grabbed chairs or dashed around the maze of corpses toward the main doors. The decaying zombies – those with white eyes and peeling flesh – fell much easier than the newly-bitten. Their decomposing limbs dropped off, necks snapped, bones broke. They were weak, almost pathetically so. Maybe if everyone had stood up to them at first, they'd have had a chan—

Teeth pressed into Baldwin's left arm. He turned, swinging, and broke a young man's nose, but he was already covered in blood and didn't seem to notice.

Baldwin became acutely aware of the crowd around him. They were vividly, undeniably, _there_.

And so were their brains: a kaleidoscope of experiences and lives, of dreams and hopes, of fears and failures, of information and knowledge. He had to know what their lives tasted like.

Within him, like a geyser, burst a longing so powerful that ignoring it was as absurd as not breathing. Around him were the most delicious creations on Tipote's green earth, ripe and ready for the tasting, so Baldwin grabbed one. She struggled, but he was behind her so there wasn't much she could do.

Baldwin heard her scream, "Please! Mayor, please no!" as her fingers crawled for purchase. His teeth latched into her crown. The brain was just inside. Baldwin tasted blood and spat it out – rivers of ink, not food – and went back in for another go, then stopped.

The mayoral dentures were stuck in the back of the woman's head.

"Hon of a 'itch." Baldwin grabbed and reinserted them with one hand. He released the woman, unsure what he'd been thinking. Her brain was clearly unsatisfactory. He didn't want a zombie's brain; that was disgusting. He needed a brain more like...

His!

Baldwin grabbed the man and held him still.

_I'm sorry!_ someone shouted.

Baldwin dug into the skull with his dentures, which pushed awkwardly against his gums and fell onto the floor.

What's going on?

Maybe this one!

Forgive me!

Where were those cries coming from? They were close, bold, clear, and mostly behind him. Was that the zombies? But if they didn't want to attack, why did they?

Didn't matter. Not with so many delicious brains around him. Baldwin turned back to his prey, then shoved him away. He was spoiled now. Baldwin wanted a pristine brain.

Barely five minutes later, when the last human had been converted and Baldwin could no longer control his hands to pick up his teeth, the horde calmed down. Limbs lay abandoned on the ground by the stage. Blood formed a new coating on the floorboards, and many of the zombies had lost their footing and were flopping around like fish.

The horde slowly drifted to all corners of the hall. Some zombies tumbled from the stage, with sickening thuds and cracks; some of those didn't get back up. Most took the stairs, slowly. There had to be a hundred of them, maybe two hundred; it was hard to tell with everything out of focus.

Two of the decrepit zombies were arguing. The male was thin, fiftyish, bald, and missing his left arm. The female was younger and had more remaining muscle. Both had pallid skin where it wasn't covered in blood.

_What did I tell you?_ the man yelled.

_Yeah, fine. You knew that not_ _one_ _of us would get a brain, did you?_

_We never do! When are you going to get it through your thick skulls that_ _their_ _skulls are too thick to get through?_

The woman paused in thought. _We need a jackhammer._

What?

Woo! Brains!

_Shut up, Reg_ , the woman said.

_What's going on?_ Baldwin asked. He found he could talk perfectly well, despite lacking teeth.

_I'm Norm. You're all zombies_ , the man said. _Blame Sophie._

Yeah, blame me for being true to myself.

_Stay away from humans_ , Norm told the crowd.

_Don't listen_ , Sophie said. _Embrace your death. Come on, we're going to hunt for more brains!_

Baldwin thought this a gruesome thing to say: he didn't want to eat brains. The six zombies he'd converted were all unfortunate mistakes. He'd been swept up in the confusion.

_You know what we need?_ Sophie asked. _Babies._

_Sophie_ , Norm said, _not to put too fine a point on it, we males no longer have the drive, let alone the, uh, capacity to—_

_Ew, Norm. Not even if you were the last man ali... dead_. Sophie shuddered. Or she convulsed, it was hard to tell. _Babies have soft heads. We could bite through that._

_What?_ Norm shouted.

Woo! Babies!

# Chapter Thirteen: The First Brother

Paddington drove north. When he couldn't drive north any farther, he pushed the buzzer. The manor's gates swung inward and he crunched down the long drive to the duke's castle, parked, entered the already-opening door, and nodded to the butler behind it.

"Dining room?" he asked and threw the butler his bloodstained tan coat, which left him in the same suit he'd worn all day, the top button still undone.

"I know the way," he told the butler, then spotted his opening mouth and added, "No, no Lisa tonight. She wasn't feeling well."

As before, the dining room was empty. Was making his guests wait part of Adonis's strategy? A subtle suggestion that his time was so important that he was late even to appointments at his own home? That everyone else must operate on his schedule?

Once he'd checked that he was very alone, Paddington circled the table once, then stretched out on a chair, eyes closed. A few minutes later, by no discernable noise, he was aware of a presence watching him.

"I suppose it is too late to ask you to make yourself at home," said Adonis.

Paddington opened his eyes and took his feet off the chair beside him. "Busy day. Your grace."

"Yes, I have received a truly remarkable number of complaints."

The rest of the Andrastes filed in and took their seats, their hair and clothes immaculate. The butler set a silver tray in the centre of the long table.

"Have you had any luck with my... suggestion?" asked Adonis.

"Not as yet," Paddington said.

"Perhaps, detective, I did not stress how important that was?"

"Perhaps your grace should put more hours in my day," Paddington said. "I can't be everywhere. I could be out looking now, but you preferred to dine."

Adonis smiled. "Quite so. We must make time, doubly so when there is none." Adonis started eating his meat, so his family did likewise. Paddington was already finishing his vegetables.

"How much has Captain Mitchell pieced together?" asked Adonis.

"He knows Lisa is a werewolf but not how she became one. He's searching both for her and whoever bit her."

Adonis didn't correct Paddington's error about biting, so either Adonis knew less than he'd indicated – unlikely – or he thought Paddington knew less than he did and he was hoping to keep him in the dark.

Not a good sign.

"What will happen when Mitchell finds them?" asked Adonis.

Quite probably Adonis would kill them all, but Paddington doubted that was an acceptable answer, so he shovelled in another mouthful of food and made Adonis wait. "I don't know," he said at last.

The only sounds were the click of silver on china and soft chewing.

"They seemed very interested in the Tree," Paddington said.

There were some quick glances between siblings: the Andrastes knew about the prophecy. Adonis raised his sleek eyebrows, playing it cooler than his offspring. "Do they? And you, James?"

"I never gave it much thought. The Paddingtons aren't believers."

"The Brethertons are, your mother's side," said Adonis. "And you excelled at school."

That was only because he'd excelled at everything. Theology had been compulsory, even once English and mathematics wasn't. Many graduates went on to be lifelong church members, but never read so much as a menu.

"Perhaps no one's sufficiently answered my concerns," Paddington said.

"Perhaps." Adonis smiled. "Would you care to hear the tale of creation? It may illuminate current events." His meat devoured but vegetables untouched, Adonis placed his knife and fork together and began the tale.

"It started with Idryo. She gazed upon Themself – upon the Three-God – and saw the potential for more. 'From life: life,' as the Book says. She gathered a strand of Her hair, a strand of Enanti's, and a strand of Tipote's, and bound the three into the Braid of Time: the universe from creation to end.

"Enanti, of course, tried to destroy it, but Idryo declared creation to be the property of all three; not Enanti's to destroy. Even Tipote, fascinated by the universe though unconcerned about its fate, was part of its creation and therefore It had right to some of it.

"The argument raged – none can say how long, for what does 'time' mean where Gods dwell? – but there was no dissuading Enanti. Lacking the power to destroy creation, He instead commanded His third of it. Stars died out, planets fell out of orbits, and the universe tumbled toward entropy.

"Idryo, in Her wisdom, offered peace. The earth, largely forgotten during the Epoch of Debate, had become full with creatures of all types. Idryo had planned to craft a new being, modelled after Herself, to live forever as She does and rule over the beasts. To stay Enanti's anger, She offered to create beings for the other two.

"And this is how the Three Races were created. Idryo took the attributes of the greatest beast on earth and fused it with Her essence, creating a fast, independent, elegant being that existed forever on earth, and named her Woman. For Enanti She made another: slower, designed for society, modelled after the enemy of the greatest beast, to exist forever after death, and named him Man; he was the first of the 'werewolves'. For Tipote She created the third Race, to exist forever _in_ death, and named it That; the first of what we term 'zombies'.

"Of course, your girlfriend and Mr Winslow are the palest shadows of their former glory, but there you have it: creation laid bare." Adonis smiled that pointed smile.

"The story isn't finished." Paddington said. "Where did humans come from?"

"Ah, well... Idryo made these creatures in a land of great power and gave them every freedom save one."

"The Understanding Tree..." Paddington said.

Adonis nodded, clearly enjoying the lesson. "Each Race was told that it was unique from the others. For Woman and Man this was enough. However, the vile That sought to know the lives of the other two, to understand more than its share. Unable to reach the fruit itself, it instead tricked the Woman and Man into eating it. When they did, they became confused. They believed that they would live forever – as Woman was designed to – and that there was eternal life after death – Man's destiny – but also that death was the ultimate end and there was nothing beyond it – as it was for That.

"The Three-God, knowing of their sin, sent an angel to cast them out of the forest and sealed its mighty gates. Woman, Man, and That were deposited far from home with the promise that one day their descendents would dwell there again.

"In time, Woman and Man had children, in whom the attributes of each Three-God fought for control and power. As humans spread across the globe, the divine blood thinned – though I believe that on Archi exist the purest forms of those original creatures."

Among the great many flaws in this explanation, Paddington picked one. "If everyone came from the same two people, how could some descendents have purer blood than others?"

"Please, detective," said Adonis, in his soft bass rumble. "One does not discuss blood over dinner. Let us leave it that Woman, Man, and That each had a way to propagate their Race. And although all of Woman and Man's children were born human, some were more like one Race than the other two and more powerful if turned. If the term 'destiny' offends you, label it random genetic predisposition; they mean the same."

Paddington nodded. "Thank you, duke. I've never heard the story told so eloquently."

"It helps to know of two of the Races. The more pieces of the puzzle one has, the clearer the picture."

And the clearer one can see which pieces are missing, lost, or hidden.

Paddington smiled. "Indeed, sir, and on that topic I would like to say something." He stood, laid his napkin on his mostly-empty plate, and took up his water glass. "You have welcomed me so warmly, so very warmly – for this is all my fault. These Mainlanders are here because of me; Lisa is my girlfriend; and if I'd done my job right, I would have found Marion before she created a horde. Conall has cleaned up my mistake there, and I thank you for that too." He placed his hand over his heart. "Yet through my many failings, you trusted me and for that I am so thankful."

He raised his water glass in a toast to them, then placed it to his lips and drained it. The Andrastes did likewise. As Paddington sat back down, Adonis cleared his throat.

"Of course, your lying hasn't helped," Paddington added, as an afterthought. "And your secrets. Those are, well, less than excellent."

Melanthios toppled sideways from his chair, clutching his throat. Other Andrastes coughed like sandpaper. None could stand or run, but some managed not to collapse.

"For example, duke," Paddington continued, "you know I've seen all _three_ Races, you just didn't think I'd recognise you."

The clatter of glasses and crockery and raspy breathing forced Paddington to raise his voice. "Fantastic thing, the internet. Lots of lies, but if you know where to look... Magic!"

He smiled. Adonis stared back, red-faced.

"You see, vampires are like werewolves: too many myths to know what's real. Yes you're tall and slender, pale-skinned, dignified, aloof – all the usual indicators – but policemen don't deal in appearance, they deal in facts. So I considered what I _knew_. First, my girlfriend doesn't become some evil half-human creature; she becomes a wolf. One hundred percent, from wet muzzle to fluffy tail.

"Second, I thought of what I knew of _you_. One, your teeth: carnivorous. Two, your daughters aren't monogamous; they'll bed anyone. Three, your eyes: I forget what you called it, but the common name is 'cat-eye syndrome'. And four... none of you touched your vegetables."

By now all of the Andrastes had fallen to the floor. Most had already lost consciousness, but Adonis was scratching his way toward the butler's bell. Paddington crouched in front of him, blocking his way, and flicked Adonis's hand off his mud-stained shoes. "You were right, Adonis. I'm too good a policeman for simple tricks. Rather than twist the facts to fit the rumour, I found out what fit my facts and it wasn't a vampire. It was a kitty-cat."

Adonis's head jerked up in surprise. His hands tugged at Paddington's trousers.

"You know," Paddington said, "until last night I had no idea that cats had sacrificed their intestinal tract to decrease weight and increase speed. I had no idea that, since their livers are so poor at detoxification, they get ill from eating plant matter or anything even slightly toxic. It doesn't even have to be poison. It could be wine, or vegetables... or aspirin."

Paddington withdrew from his pocket an empty plastic baggie of the white powder he'd tipped into everyone's water glass when he'd been alone in the dining room at the start of the night.

"This shouldn't be a lethal dose," Paddington said. "Come morning you'll be fine."

Paddington stepped over Erato – who was trying to lie seductively – and entered the hallways. He worked through the labyrinth by memory and on the third try he found Adonis's private library.

The walls were lined with ancient texts and hunting trophies: mostly deer, with a few cattle and what looked like a buffalo, but Paddington had eyes only for the display case in the room's centre. He grabbed a tome from the bookcase and smashed the glass with it.

Paddington tipped the broken glass off the Book of Three, then tucked it under his arm and ran back into the corridors. After a few twists he felt he was going in the right direction. Probably. Yes, the final turn was just up ther—

A door opened to his right and a figure stepped out. Paddington raised the Book to protect his neck, then lowered it when he recognised who was there.

"'Ello, Jim," the figure said.

"Richard?"

"Nope."

"Thomas, sorry."

"What's going on?" Thomas asked.

Why was Thomas Brown here? And why was he wearing a suit and tie? The presence of his many freckles and dull stare were somehow reassuring.

Paddington glanced around. How long before one of the Andrastes induced vomiting or the butler came to check on them?

"We're escaping," Paddington said. He grabbed Thomas's hand and dragged him toward the front door. "Come on."

"Why are we escaping, Jim?"

"Because..." Paddington tried to think of a reason that didn't involve explaining what a vampire was or telling Thomas that Lisa had devoured one of his Barbaras.

"Because they're imprisoning you," Paddington said.

"The duke said I was his guest."

"Only until you try to leave."

"I don't want to leave," Thomas said, digging his heels into the plush carpet. "Them young ladies were right kind to me."

"Anything they promised you was a lie."

"And I should trust a Mainland-lover, should I? A man who can't keep his woman on a leash?"

Paddington found he had pinned Thomas's throat to the wall with the Book of Three. " _What?_ "

Thomas struggled against Paddington's grip. "Richard said your girl was in his field, starkers."

Paddington released him. His mouth was very dry, all of a sudden. "She's... not been feeling well."

"Not surprised, sleeping on the grass with nought but 'er hair on."

"What?"

"Hair..." Thomas said, pointing to his straw-coloured mop. "What's got in your goat tonight?"

"Nothing. I mean, you're not safe here."

"Sure I am. The duke's daughters have been making sure of that." Thomas's bushy eyebrows leapt up. "They said they'd be back after dinner and, well, there'd be some fairly strong sinuations."

"They're going to kill you!" Paddington didn't know if it was true, but it sounded compelling. It would have compelled him, anyway.

"Jim, I'm not _that_ old."

"Thomas, these aren't good people!" Paddington whispered as loudly as he dared.

Thomas stepped away. "Watch your language, young Jim! O' course they're not good. Them's a _better_ class of people."

Paddington had a sudden revelation of what it had been like for Lisa five days ago. "Thomas, they've—"

"They've what?" Thomas sighed. "I don't know about you young people today."

Thomas turned back and walked for his room. What else could Paddington say? Unless he spent an hour explaining the situation, Thomas wouldn't understand. Even then, he may need diagrams.

Plus, Paddington didn't have any idea why the Andrastes actually wanted the old farmer. Maybe they really did mean him well.

A bell tolled in the silence. The butler would be in the dining room in seconds, and probably at the front door with a shotgun shortly after that. Paddington didn't have time to chase down stubborn farmers.

With a final glance at Thomas, Paddington legged it for the door.

# Chapter Fourteen: The Book of Three

McGregor was in heaven. Late last night Paddington had arrived at the station with a book written in Greek as ancient as the Tree. After that McGregor had collected some books from the headquarters and been taken to another abandoned house – dubbed the hideout – and been left to study.

Skylar had been assigned as his protector, which was nice. She and Truman didn't treat him like he was always in the way, which the others all did, but right now he'd rather have Truman: it had become rather hard to concentrate since Skylar had removed her heavy black flak jacket. Sure, she still had the singlet, combat trousers, and steel-capped boots, but... she was definitely more female when there weren't grenades and flares between his eyes and her chest.

McGregor forced himself back to the page, but his mind kept adding adjectives to the word "chest". He needed to focus. The Book was important and he needed to translate it. He'd survived on coffee so far, but now the sun was coming up and that was bad because it meant night was over and he hadn't slept.

And how was it that Skylar looked as perky as ever?

Oh God, why did he have to think of _that_ adjective?

* * *

Paddington spent the night in an abandoned house, terrified that the vampires would recover from his poisoning and hunt him down. Who knew how they might sense him? Maybe they could smell him. Or see his blood from a street away.

When the sun finally rose, Paddington breathed a sigh of relief. Vampires couldn't get around in the daytime. Hopefully. The candlelight in the duke's manor certainly suggested that _that_ part of the myth was accurate. He slept a little after dawn, then headed to the police station to see how Mitchell's night had gone.

Both Quentin and Andrea were on their phones. There must have been a crime wave overnight. Or Adonis had called to arrange Paddington's execution for treason.

Five of the Supernatural Help and Investigation Team were also there, looking edgy. Mitchell looked furious. "Why the shitting hell didn't you tell us there were _zombies_ on this island?" he yelled.

Paddington looked around for help, or even context. Quentin obliged. "Seems a bunch of them attacked a city meeting last night and now there's a..." He paused to check his dictionary. "...a horde of zombies."

"Why didn't you mention it?" Mitchell demanded.

"It slipped my mind," Paddington said.

"The _zombie horde_ slipped your mind?"

"There was only one, and that was a week ago, and since then I learned my girlfriend is a werewolf and the man running my home is a vampire! Yes it slipped my bloody mind that there was a single zombie out there!" Paddington turned to his mother. "Didn't Conall deal with this?"

"I informed Adonis as soon as you left Samuel Winslow's," Andrea said, placing one hand over the receiver. "He said he'd take care of it. Maybe Conall missed one during the cleanup."

The penny dropped: Adonis had been in charge of cleaning up the zombies. Adonis, the vampire. The vampire who required a zombie outbreak for his prophecy to succeed. _He_ had been in charge of killing the zombies? Fantastic.

" _One_?" Mitchell shouted at Andrea. "You said the calls mentioned hundreds!"

"You needn't shout," she said. "I'm right here."

"Yes, sitting there like nothing's happened!"

"Someone needs to man the phones," Andrea said calmly. Paddington suspected his mother was annoying Mitchell on purpose, not that he blamed her.

"And did the vampires slip your mind too?" Mitchell asked, rounding on Paddington.

"I told you, I wasn't sure what they were until last night," he said.

"Yes, when you robbed them! Did you think we _needed_ another enemy, detective?"

"You need that Book if you're going to stop the prophecy."

"Bollocks to your prophecy. What about tonight? Should we expect the figures that have been watching us from the trees to stop watching and start attacking?"

"I don't know," Paddington admitted. He _had_ known they couldn't trust Adonis, that Adonis was holding back what they needed, so he'd taken it. He couldn't know what the consequences would be.

"In the meantime, sir," Truman said, stepping between them, "shouldn't we be stopping the zombies? Isn't that, basically, our job description, sir?"

That was a promising idea. If the Mainlanders were occupied controlling these zombies, no one was looking for Lisa. For a while, at least, she should be safe.

One problem down. Seventeen to go.

"Thank you, Truman," Mitchell said, still glaring at Paddington. "But I'm not in the habit of marching into a war zone I know bugger all about."

"Sir, it's zombies," the American said. "You shoot them in the head."

"Yeah, and werewolves change at the full moon," Mitchell said sarcastically. "Now perhaps we can get some _facts_."

"Well," Quentin said, standing, "I'm off."

"Off on your rounds, I suppose?" Mitchell asked.

"I thought I might drop by the bakery." Quentin hitched his thumbs into his belt. "They've got these really nice buns in there on Fridays, with jam and cinnamon. But they always sell out before lunch, so you have to get in quick. After that I might take a stroll down south and see if I can stop the zombies from killing everyone. If there's time."

"Quentin," Paddington said, "you're not serious?" He'd never pictured Quentin as the fighting sort. He was probably stronger than Paddington, but it was hard to spot muscle beneath flab. Even if he were a perfect physical specimen, he'd still be one man against an entire horde. That was suicide.

"Not about the bakery," Quentin said. He strapped his helmet on and Paddington waited. If the Team wasn't watching, they probably would have hugged: with hundreds of zombies on the loose, odds were he'd never see Quentin again. At least, not alive.

"Watch your back," Paddington said. "And keep your distance. And don't let them bite you!"

Quentin rolled his eyes. "Yes mother. Can I go play now?" He stepped past Paddington.

"And try not to die!" Paddington called after him.

The front door swung shut. Outside, an engine revved to life and faded away. Paddington wished it would come back; Quentin was the closest thing he had to a friend. Now that he was gone and Lisa was in hiding, Paddington was alone with his _new_ "friends".

"Detective," Mitchell said, "tell me about these zombies. How do we stop them?"

Paddington remembered Marion's corpse in Samuel Winslow's cellar. "Shoot them in the head. That keeps them down."

That was how it had started: with Marion. But how had Marion started? Where had the first zombie come from? Maybe understanding that would be another piece of the Big Picture.

"We should talk to Ian," Paddington said.

"Who the hell is Ian?" Mitchell asked.

"He was dating the first zombie. Before she was a zombie, obviously. We thought he might have killed her. Even if he doesn't know about zombies, a mortician's as good a place to start as any when dealing with the dead."

"Right. Detective, you're with me."

As Paddington drove them south, Mitchell filled him in: apparently the zombies were clustered around the south-west, but spreading. A few people had escaped last night's town meeting uninfected, but fewer thought to go back and stop the undead. Most, it seemed, had left a message on the police station's answering machine and gone to bed. Someone else's problem.

And still Mitchell spoke as if Archi existed only to annoy him. Paddington was getting sick of it. He'd babysat the Mainlander all of yesterday and discovered a complete absence of personal skills. It wasn't that Mitchell didn't engage in small talk; it was that he refused to acknowledge its existence and eventually it went away.

The streets were quiet, the shops closed. Most people were staying indoors, perhaps praying that the zombies didn't reach them or else working silently, not sure what was happening. No official statement had been made over the wireless and most Archians were happy to believe the situation was under control until told differently. The dead silence on the streets would have told them it wasn't under control, but most people were inside with the blinds drawn, trying not to see it.

"You still don't believe in the prophecy, do you?" Paddington asked.

"No."

"Even though we've got three Races now?"

"Even if your prophecy's true, the mission's the same: kill every monster I see."

"Doesn't it throw up questions about the nature and accuracy of prophecy?" Paddington asked. "For someone whose job is to investigate the supernatural, you don't seem to want to investigate anything."

"I'm not in this job for the aliens," Mitchell said. "I've had three years in charge of this lot. Most of them are rejects from other units, dumped in some forgotten Team so they can't do any more damage. I've trained them hard, got them in shape, done the best I can with them."

No wonder Mitchell was so grim. He saw his life as pointless; preparation for a day that he believed could never come. "But why train them if you didn't think they'd see action?" Paddington asked.

"Doing my bit to protect stupid little people like you, detective."

"But why?"

"Because those are my orders. Because I'm not a coward."

"We're here." Paddington jumped out of the van before the discussion could become an argument.

Against the cottage's right wall swelled another building, like a giant tumour. In the garden was a sign: "Ian Athanasius, Mortician. All welcome". Paddington knocked on the front door and, when there was no answer, Mitchell kicked it in.

The house appeared deserted. They moved through its cramped rooms, Mitchell swinging his rifle around. The lights were off and there was no sound, but in the back room a sallow man with greasy black hair was trying to undo the top bolt of the back door.

"Freeze!" Mitchell shouted, rifle aimed. He nodded to Paddington. "Detective, do your thing. And buy a gun, for God's sake."

"No," Paddington said. "Hello Ian. I thought we'd have a little chat about Marion."

Ian abandoned his escape attempt and stood with drooping arms beside the door. At the mention of Marion, fear snaked through the mortician's face: the fear of the past freshly stirred.

"So..." Paddington said, filling the space between Ian and Mitchell, "why did you kill her?"

"I told you a month ago, I didn't!"

Paddington sighed. They didn't have time for games, not with zombies on the loose. "You see this man behind me? Well he's crazy."

"This is just good cop bad cop," Ian said. A single bead of sweat dribbled down his long forehead.

"Not _just_ , it's also true," Paddington said. "Yesterday I had to stop him stabbing the mayor in the heart with a chair leg; he wouldn't think twice about killing you. In fact," Paddington turned to Mitchell, "could you put the safety back on that, please? And not point it at his head?"

Grudgingly, Mitchell adjusted his gun's aim.

"So," Paddington continued, "it really is in your best interests to help _me_ , Ian, because otherwise I'll leave the room." He stared into Ian's eyes until he was sure the mortician understood him. "I need to know how you killed Marion, because I think she started all of this."

"I didn't— What's he doing?"

"Hm?" Paddington glanced back at Mitchell. "He's attaching a bayonet to his rifle, Ian."

"Why?"

"I imagine he wants to stab something."

"It was an accident!" Ian said. "We were talking, and she... said some things, and... I hit her with an ashtray."

So she was dead. Paddington had suspected, but they'd never found it or the body, so Marion was only listed as missing. And she went missing a lot, usually to turn up a few days later in the bedroom of one of Archi's young men.

"What then?" Paddington asked.

"I hid her in Mister Henderson's coffin and covered her with flowers." To his credit, Ian appeared ashamed of this. Paddington had expected him to be colder.

"You didn't check the caskets?" Mitchell asked Paddington.

"Not the ones in use!" Paddington said. "What flower?" A month ago he wouldn't have asked, but his time with Lisa had given him a rudimentary interest in plants. Or an interest in her that he could express via plants.

"Angel's trumpet," Ian said. "It was her favourite."

" _Angel's_ trumpet?" Paddington asked. Was he serious?

"What's angel's trumpet?" Mitchell asked.

"More commonly known as devil's trumpet or hell's bells," Paddington said. The devil's trumpet had heralded a zombie. How appropriate.

Mitchell rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you think a _plant's_ responsible for creating all those zombies?"

"No," Paddington said. First the prophecy on the Tree; then the Andrastes who didn't eat their vegetables; now plants again... Paddington felt another piece of the puzzle slip into place. "Just the first one, Marion." After that, one zombie could create another...

Paddington clapped Ian on the back and smiled. "This is your lucky day. You've just volunteered to fight the hordes of the undead."

"I have?" Ian asked.

"And, in honour of your bravery – assuming you _are_ brave – I'll forget everything you just told me. Am I understood?" Paddington asked.

Ian looked uncertain.

"Because if not, Mitchell still has that bayonet..."

* * *

Ian's fighting spirit roused, they left the mortuary and Mitchell directed them toward the hideout so they could check on McGregor's progress translating the Book of Three. As he put it, "Might as well check on all your useless dead ends at once."

Paddington had had more than enough of the Mainlander, and was out of the van and inside the hideout almost before Mitchell had unbuckled his seatbelt.

Skylar, formerly leaning against a wall, stood and aimed her rifle at Paddington, then lowered it and clicked the safety back on when she recognised him. She'd let her dark hair out of its usual ponytail and it cascaded around her shoulders.

"You should always wear your hair down," Paddington said. She shot him a look of daggers, so he added, "What? I'm spoken for."

"I thought she was missing..." Skylar said.

Paddington shrugged. "She's still my girlfriend."

"She's a werewolf."

"And she's still my girlfriend," he said. Mitchell arrived, so Paddington asked, "Anything interesting, doctor?"

McGregor blinked heavily. It didn't look like he'd slept in the twelve hours since receiving the Book, and the absence of dishes or wrappers indicated he hadn't eaten either. But he _had_ covered the table with translations and notes.

"Too much," McGregor said. "You couldn't have stolen a thinner book, could you?"

"Next time the world's ending, I'll steal you something with pictures," Paddington promised.

"Every time Idryo does anything, Enanti's right behind Her trying to destroy it. There's thousands of prophecies, always in pairs, with later ones contingent on earlier ones, and there's lots of talk of Three Races, Three Brothers, Three Births, Three Ends, Three Everythings!"

"They certainly like their threes, the Three-God," Mitchell said, taking Skylar's spot on the wall.

McGregor glanced at him nervously. "I think I've worked out 'the third night of the moon' at least. We had a _new_ moon last night, so the prophecy should come true tomorrow night."

The Book of Three was very thick and there was only one McGregor. "That doesn't give us a lot of time," Paddington said.

"No. Especially since I still don't know which Birth gives rise to which Race. Or what the births _are_! I did find— Where did I put it? Ah, here it is." McGregor held up a piece of paper like a victory flag. "'The Three Births are come from the three vital fluids.' Whatever _they_ are. I swear, this prophecy is deliberately convoluted!"

"Anything on how to kill them?" Mitchell asked. "Specifically the zombies?"

"The Book is stories, not instructions. The only bit about killing is the Three Ends; the only ways you can kill the Three Brothers."

"What Three Brothers?" Mitchell asked, rubbing his forehead.

McGregor shuffled through his notes for the right sheaf of paper. "The ones in the prophecy on the Tree. The 'Three from one came, and to one three shall return'."

"The ones the _demon_ is supposed to stop," Paddington added.

"As far as I can tell," McGregor said, "they're like, uh, leaders of the Three Races."

"So there's an über-werewolf running around as well?" Mitchell asked. "Just what we need."

"I think I know who they are," Paddington said. McGregor looked up with shock and Mitchell with annoyance, like he'd been holding out on them again, so Paddington qualified. "At least, the Browns fit the 'Three from one' criterion. They're identical triplets."

"Monozygotic?" McGregor's bearded mouth fell open. "Three people from one egg..."

"And... what?" Mitchell asked. "They're going to return to one egg?"

"Who knows?" McGregor admitted. "We're on an island run by vampires; anything's possible."

"Great." Mitchell turned to Paddington. "And would these Browns try to destroy the world?"

"Deliberately? I doubt it," Paddington said. "But they might well destroy it by accident. Even if they didn't, Adonis would force them."

McGregor nodded into the Book. "I say we get hold of one Brother, just in case. Whatever the prophecy means, it can't happen if we have one of them."

"Shouldn't we take all of them?" Paddington asked.

"No!" McGregor said. "Don't you watch films? If we get all the Brothers in one place we'll probably fulfil the prophecy, and if we tell them about it they'll think it's their destiny and fulfil it for no good reason. One's enough."

"The eldest, Thomas, is with the duke," Paddington said. "Richard's closer to us than Harold."

"What makes you think this is worth our time?" Mitchell asked. He hadn't moved, and didn't look like he was going to.

"Because they might not be infected yet," Paddington said. "Even if you don't think they're going to end the world or become über, you could save their lives. Protect a couple of stupid little people." Mitchell still looked undecided, so Paddington switched tactics. "Plus, Adonis wouldn't want you to. You can throw a spanner in the works of the vampire who trapped you here."

"Fine." Mitchell nodded at McGregor. "Doctor, grab whatever you'll need for your exam. No point protecting Richard if he's already infected, is there?"

The four of them took the police van to Richard's farm. It took some time to convince Richard that he was in danger – mostly because Richard kept asking about Lisa and leering – but eventually he said goodbye to his cattle and they proceeded to the station.

When they arrived, Andrea had gone. Thompson, Peterson, Normson, and Clarkson were standing guard at the interview room door, though Paddington wasn't sure what they were guarding it against. Truman, presumably, because he was the only other one there.

"Where's mumsie?" Mitchell asked, laying his rifle on her desk.

"She left to deal with the zombies," Truman said.

Paddington stopped. His mother had gone into the fighting. He hadn't even said goodbye to her. Would he ever see her again? Probably; he'd be in the thick of the fighting himself soon enough.

But would it _be_ soon enough? Or would he be too late?

"Never seen the inside of the station before," said Richard. "This gonna take long? Only my girls get lonely if I leave 'em."

Paddington pulled himself back to now. "It's for your protection," he said, and led Richard into the interview room. Mitchell followed him. McGregor stayed outside and set up some sciency gear on Paddington's desk.

"What do you know about the Three-God?" Mitchell asked.

Richard eyed the Mainlander, then shrugged. "Only what I heard as a boy. Haven't been in a church in thirty years, though. What's all this about?"

"A prophecy," Mitchell said, "that you and your brothers are going to destroy the world."

"I didn't think that greenhouse gas thing was as bad as all that," said Richard. "How big a difference can thirty cows make? Well, twenty-nine now that I sold off Delores."

Paddington had a notepad out, but hadn't written anything in it yet. He had a feeling he wouldn't need to. Richard was a Brown, after all. "Richard, did you have any contact with the creature in your field?"

"No," he said. "Well, I put a bullet in it, but that was from a distance. I'm a crack shot, you see. How's this for my protection, Jim?"

Paddington wasn't sure Richard needed protecting. He was a burly man, broad-shouldered and thick-armed. Combine that with being a crack shot and Richard would be very difficult to kill.

"What about foreign substances?" Paddington asked. "Have you encountered anything unusual lately?"

Richard shook his shaggy-haired head. "No."

"That's all for now," he said. Richard watched them go, grinning strangely. Probably thinking of his cows again.

"What were you looking for, detective?" Mitchell asked Paddington.

It wasn't worth telling Mitchell that he was looking for a method of infection – some way for Richard to become either a vampire, werewolf, or zombie – the Three Births, as McGregor had called them, so he just said, "I don't know."

"You don't know what you're looking for? Let me know if you find it, then."

"At least I'm trying! What are _you_ doing?"

McGregor, who'd been lurking a few feet away, approached. "Uh, captain, I had a thought about killing the zombies, but I'd need more information to confirm it."

The vein on Mitchell's neck was starting to stick out. That wasn't a good sign. "And how do you propose," Mitchell said, through his teeth, "we get more information?"

"You could just take... a... zombie?" McGregor trailed off.

"Not a bad idea," Skylar said. Mitchell glared at her; he'd probably forgotten she was there. Either that or he liked his women seen but not heard. She continued, "We need to know what we're fighting, sir. We could grab a zombie from the edge of the battle, clamp something over its mouth, and bring it back for McGregor to study. Better to rely on science than theology, eh sir?"

Paddington had been thinking about the Three Births, but the word "theology" burst in, reminding him of days stuck in classrooms hearing about all the old religious figures and their funny stories. He'd never heard anything about Three Births, but there _were_ three stories about bodily fluids. Surely they wouldn't be the three vital fluids the Book had mentioned. Would they?

Mitchell smiled at Skylar, suddenly and widely, baring his teeth. "Great idea. Off you go."

She hesitated. "You're not coming, sir?"

"Nope. This is your operation." He beamed. "Best of luck with the hordes of undead."

Paddington needed to get out of here before the idea slipped from his mind. Before he over-thought it or thought himself out of it. He pressed the van's keys into Skylar's hands and started away.

"Where do you think you're off to?" Mitchell asked. A single glance to Clarkson and the soldier blocked his path to the main door.

The real answer would probably only upset Mitchell, so Paddington improvised. Again. "I have work to do," he said without turning back. "Rather a lot, given the state of things."

"We'll see you later, yeah?" Mitchell said. It wasn't a question, so Paddington didn't respond. He had the impression there was no right answer anyway.

# Chapter Fifteen: It's Not Kidnapping if He's Already Dead

Lisa had finished all of Quentin's books. There weren't many and the picture books hadn't taken more than half an hour in total. She wanted to go home, see what was happening in the nursery without her, what plants needed tending. Would anyone have watered them since she'd been arrested?

Tyres squealed out the front; Lisa rose. She could be out the back door in seconds, but what was the point? If this was the Team, she might as well face her fate. She'd never outrun them.

"Lisa?" Jim called.

"Yes?" she said. Was he being followed? Why hadn't they established some kind of signal in case Mitchell forced her location out of him? His pleas of loyalty were all well and good, but how would they fare against torture?

Jim burst into the living room. He was wearing his coat again, but hadn't washed it. Her blood still stained the left sleeve. What was he trying to say? That he'd conquered the werewolf? Or that it was safe to touch; that he needn't fear her?

Before she could ask him, Jim grabbed her arms – hard – and Lisa shoved him away. "Damn it, Jim!" Fresh blood soaked through her bandage.

Why didn't he ever think before acting? Lisa stormed to the bathroom and began unwinding the bandage as Jim fussed in the cabinet and found her a fresh one.

"What's so important?" she asked.

"I need your help," he said.

"With what?" Lisa dropped the old bandage in the bin and examined her wound over the sink. The bullet had chipped a piece off the outside of her wrist bone and taken with it a finger's width of skin. It would be nice when the Team were gone and she could get it looked at by a doctor.

"What can you tell me about devil's trumpet?" Jim started pacing.

"Common name of _Datura Stramonium_ , a weed in the nightshade family."

"What does it do?"

"Grows... produces flowers." What was he looking for?

"What are its effects on people?"

Grimacing, Lisa placed an antibacterial gauze pad on the divot and wrapped the bandage around it, wondering whether to ask him what this was about. She could ask, but he wouldn't tell her until he was ready anyway. It was easier to just go along, for now.

"In small doses, visual or auditory hallucinations; in larger ones it will completely disconnect you from reality. Also rapid heartbeat, hypertension, choreoathetosis—"

"What?" Jim asked. He was still pacing.

"Involuntary movements," she said. "And hyperthermia, seizures, coma; even death." Lisa stopped. Oh gods. "You haven't _taken_ it, have you?" she asked.

"No. Why would you think that?"

"Because you're all jittery."

"Sorry." Jim left the bathroom to pace the living room instead. Lisa followed.

"What's going on?"

"Could it..." He hesitated. "Could it make someone a zombie?"

Lisa laughed, then noticed he wasn't laughing and put on a mock-serious face. "No Jim," she said. "Only meteorites or voodoo can do that."

His particularly blank expression reminded Lisa about Duke Andraste's strict horror censorship. Archi TV was all bunnies and sunshine. No horror stories.

"Why should devil's trumpet make someone a zombie?" she asked.

Jim spoke, but not to her. "If you were just past the brink of death – cold, lifeless, heart stopped but not yet brain-dead – your body might still respond to stimuli. Something touching the skin might send messages for the body to raise its temperature again, for the heart to beat faster – or beat again – the mind to dream... It explains the staggering gait, the mental impairment..."

"But only on a living creature," Lisa said. "Zombies are dead. That's part of the definition. Most of it, actually." Then, because this conversation seemed to be lacking common sense, she added, "Also it's _impossible_."

"Yesterday morning you had a tail, Lisa," Jim said, staring into space.

There wasn't much she could say to that. It was an impossible world lately, but at least Jim seemed to have a map. Or he was drawing one as he went.

"What's this all about?" she asked.

"A new theory," Jim said. His eyes scanned the floor as if reading. Was this glimmer of hope for her, or did it have nothing to do with her? "How well do you remember the morality tales?"

"I..." That was another question from nowhere. She supposed it made sense to him. Hopefully. "Fine I suppose, but _you_ were always top of theology class."

Jim nodded. "What are the three vital fluids?"

Vital fluids... she didn't remember the phrase, but all the morality tales contained fluids. "You mean like when Zenobia kept Bion from dying of cold in the deep winter using her... unconventional heat preservation method?"

Jim nodded again.

"I remember everyone giggling at it," Lisa said. She suspected the teachers would have left that particular story out of the syllabus if they could have, not that kids hadn't heard it years before they studied it. "Or when Beathan shared his eternal life with Enid by mixing their bloods?"

One of Jim's hands had drifted over his mouth and he nodded for her to finish.

"Or when the Water of Life ran dry, so Morrigan quenched the thirst of Phocas by spitting into her cup and having her drink?"

Jim winced. "I never liked that one."

"That's because they always cast you as Phocas."

It had been quite funny, really. The yearly drama productions always concluded with Jim, wearing a dress and wig, dragging his feet across the stage and drinking a cup of spit. Apparently his classmates had volunteered him every year, saying it had become tradition. Every year he'd smiled a little less when Lisa had asked him about it.

Since she still had no idea, Lisa asked, "What's going on?"

"Oh, I forgot!" he said. "I worked out why you didn't like the Andrastes. They're vampires."

Lisa wished Jim could keep his crazy ideas to one per conversation. "That's nice. And why do you think that, Jim?"

"They have the basic physiology of a cat including the preference for attacking at night, I'd guess, since I haven't been torn limb from limb yet."

"Jim, don't say that!" she yelled. Images of a cow and a sheep fleeing for their lives flashed through her mind. Blood and bones and guts. Tastes.

For once, Jim realised that what he'd said was offensive. "Sorry," he said. He ran his hands through his hair and sat down, but he couldn't keep still. "You're right, cats don't tear limb from limb. They attack the jugular – which may have been where the vampire neck-biting image came from..." He spotted the disgusted look on her face and stopped again. "Sorry."

"Why would the duke want you dead at all?"

"Last night I sort of... drugged and robbed him."

Lisa stared. Was he serious? "You?"

Jim swallowed and flicked his head to the side in a little shrug. "Right. Thanks for that uplifting assessment of my abilities."

Lisa smiled. "Well... last time you were all 'Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.'"

"That was before," Jim said, jaw set and eyes steady. He'd stopped fidgeting now and was, instead, completely still.

Lisa stopped smiling. You didn't smile at that expression: it was danger and fury and righteousness. Lisa was glad it was on her side.

"How goes the search for a cure?" she asked.

The determined jaw wavered. "Ah, yes," Jim said. "There was a slight hiccup when I realised Adonis was probably lying through his pointed teeth about it all."

So, there was no cure for what she was? Where did that leave her? Hunted, still. At best she might escape to the Mainland, but once someone saw her bullet wound there'd be police interviews which would lead back to the Team.

Wherever she turned, Mitchell found her.

"What's this about?" Why couldn't they go back to talking about their school days? So much nicer than contemplating her demise or recalling the taste of sheep. "The stories, I mean, not the vampires."

"I think I've worked something out." Again he was on his feet, barely able to contain his excitement. "I have to go, I'm sorry," he said.

Lisa nodded. Where did this leave them? She still wasn't sure she could trust him, but she _was_ sure he wouldn't betray her again; how did that work? Jim saved her from deciding whether to kiss him farewell by ducking into the bathroom.

"When you said you had to go," she told the door, "that isn't what I thought you meant."

* * *

The fighting wasn't going well: the zombies were just too good at slaughtering the humans.

_Please, turn back!_ Norm shouted to another dozen-strong group of zombies limping past. Norm was around the corner from the front lines, which was as close as he could come to the humans without risking the brainlust.

The zombies disappeared around the corner and Norm listened for the pops of gunfire. There had been less recently; the humans must have run out of bullets. What were they fighting with now? Pitchforks and fists? No wonder the horde was advancing north by the minute.

_Any luck?_ Gladys asked, lumbering up. She'd been guarding the next street over.

Not really. Most of them are young and impressionable. They're convinced they need brains to be proper zombies.

_It's the same all over_. Gladys's head drooped and she released a heavy sigh. Norm wished they could find a nice barn and live out their deaths away from the violence, but she'd never go while there were still humans to save.

_Stay strong_ , Norm said. _Every zombie stopped is a zombie who can save others._

I suppose s—oh!

Gladys disappeared. Norm looked down and found her on the ground, which happened a lot. Before he could ask if she was all right this time, a number of fast-moving, black-wearing shapes pinned his arms and clamped something around his neck. Norm wasn't really interested in what it was.

He was far more interested in the shapes' brains. Fresh, strong brains. He lunged toward one, but it hit him in the face with a piece of cardboard and the others fussed quickly to fix it in place.

Even with his mouth bound, Norm tried to bite. He couldn't help it; the brains were right there! How could he _not_ try to get at them? Part of him knew he'd never bite through the cardboard, but he also knew he'd never bite through a skull. It didn't stop him trying.

_Norm! Norm, no!_ Gladys's voice got fainter and fainter, but Norm was so busy nipping at the humans he barely even realised that he was being dragged away from her.

* * *

Truman sighed. Why were they still stuck at the station? Yesterday, Captain Mitchell had been in favour of killing a woman because she wasn't one-hundred percent human, but today he wouldn't let them stop a horde of zombies? Sure, the zombies _might_ be fast or strong or able to smell humans from a mile away, but it was their job to stop them.

But orders were orders and Truman stood at his post beside the station's interview room. When Skylar got back, they'd have more information on their enemy. Enough, hopefully, for Mitchell to authorise action; Truman was sick of guarding these islanders.

The interview room door opened and McGregor exited, placed his black bag on a desk, and yawned.

"What's the verdict, doctor?" Mitchell asked.

"Richard displays none of Miss Tanner's symptoms: the enlarged heart, improved hearing, hormones... all absent. As far as I can tell, he's human. I could do a blood test to be positive."

"Don't bother." Mitchell returned to the sergeant's desk. He'd had McGregor reroute incoming calls to the southern station because the constant ringing had annoyed him.

If it were up to Truman, the Team would have manned the phones themselves.

McGregor slumped into a seat, picked up his pen, and continued translating the Book of Three. Truman stopped by his side. "This prophecy," he said. "It's definitely about the end of the world?"

McGregor didn't look up. "The world as we know it. 'Rebirth' means the three races overrun all of mankind."

Truman nodded. "And you're _sure_ it's going to happen?"

"Unless we find this demon and convince him to decry Archi then yes, it will. There's always two prophecies, each stopping the other; they never both fail."

"But the other prophecy talks about death spreading across the world," Truman said. "If one of them always succeeds, aren't we just choosing _how_ we die?"

"No." McGregor looked up with bleary red eyes. When was the last time the doctor had slept? Or eaten? "The Book regards humans as already possessing death, because they once ate from the Understanding Tree. Stopping the rebirth will leave us in our 'dead' state. Hopefully."

"Hopefully?"

"Hopefully the spreading death is metaphorical," McGregor said. "That said, there _is_ a horde of zombies outside, so it could be literal. If even a single zombie got off Archi..." He didn't finish.

"Then we'd better find the demon," Truman said.

"Hello!" Mitchell said, waving. When Truman stared at him blankly, Mitchell added, "The detective says I'm your demon, so you can call off the search."

Truman looked at the Book in McGregor's hands. The pages were yellowing and crinkly, the ink browning. "And this Book isn't a copy or a fake?" he asked loud enough for Mitchell to hear. Did the captain need the vampires to knock on his door before he accepted this prophecy was a real danger?

"The writing, paper, and binding are all authentic."

The station's front doors burst open. Truman's first thought was of zombies and he whipped his L85 around and flicked off the safety, but it was only Clarkson. "Well that was shit."

"Stop complaining," Peterson said. "You got your fair share."

"I swear I got more than you!"

"Would you two shut up?" Skylar shouted from outside. "You've been bickering like little old ladies all the way back."

"Did you see when I shot the fat one?" Thompson asked, sighting along an invisible gun as his real one hung by a strap around his neck. "Straight through the head."

"And out the other side," Normson said. "You nearly hit Sergeant Paddington."

"Where'd she get that sword?" Clarkson asked. "That was sweet."

"I'll get you one for your birthday," Mitchell said, cutting through the jubilance. "Success?"

Skylar pulled on the long-poled animal snare she was holding and dragged a one-armed zombie through the doors. His eyes were pure white and his lone arm groped toward whoever was closest, but the stick kept him out of biting range. Rope was wrapped around his head, holding the corner of a cardboard ice cream container over his jaw and muffling his many moans. The shirt hanging off his emaciated, decomposing body was covered in black blood, grime, and dirt. He stank of death, decay, and cow.

"Yes sir," Skylar said.

The zombie thrashed and tried to bite the humans around him. He wouldn't be able to, even if he got free of the snare, but Truman kept his rifle aimed just in case.

Mitchell nodded McGregor toward the zombie. "Off you go."

"You couldn't find one with two arms?" McGregor asked. Then, seeing Skylar's look, he added, "Not that it matters. He'll be fine. Let's take him to headquarters."

Clarkson frowned. "You're going to translate him?"

"Not the hideout, the headquarters – where my scientific equipment is. I moved to the _hideout_ so the vampires wouldn't find the Book of Three—"

"We don't actually care, doctor," Mitchell said. "Skylar, take McGregor wherever he likes and make sure the zombie doesn't bite him." He put a hand on McGregor's shoulder. " _You_ are not to remove that gag for any reason."

McGregor nodded, so Mitchell turned to Skylar.

"And _you_ are to shoot him if he does."

"The zombie..." Skylar clarified.

"Him too," Mitchell said.

# Chapter Sixteen: Who's a Good Boy, Then?

Fifteen minutes after leaving Lisa at Quentin's, Paddington stood in the bathroom of his house, staring at a steak knife and the bloody bandage he'd stolen from the bin in Quentin's bathroom.

He'd been over it in his mind again and again and it made sense: seeded in the stories he'd been told as a child were the Three Births: sex, blood, and saliva. He knew Lisa would say it was absurd to find answers there, but it fit. Plenty of diseases were transmitted by blood or sex. Even saliva was genetic material.

"Every story about zombies, werewolves, and vampires involves biting," he told the knife. "But zombies _definitely_ spread by bite." He had proof of that, both from Winslow's diary and his mother's reports. Between rants about dismembering the Mainlander who'd shot at her, Andrea had mentioned bites turning people rabid.

Paddington nodded and drew a breath. "That leaves blood and sex... and I'm not a werewolf already." He raised his eyebrows, out of options. "I guess that's that then."

Except it wasn't, because Lisa wouldn't have had contact with Dominic's blood... would she?

Not on purpose, certainly – Dominic knew what caused the change – but accidents happened. How much would it take? A single drop was enough for most diseases.

Not that this was a disease.

Still, Paddington hesitated before picking up the knife. This wasn't exactly science. What if he was stuck as a wolf, with no cure and eight Mainlanders on the hunt? Even if it worked as it should, he didn't know what triggered the change in males. If he became a wolf in front of Mitchell, the Mainlander would shoot him on sight and there would be no one to help Lisa.

And even if all went perfectly, this was just as likely to scare Lisa off as bring him closer to her. More likely, really.

There were a hundred good reasons not to do this.

Then he remembered Lisa, huddled in the corner of the interview room.

"Aah!"

The knife jumped from his hand by reflex and clattered into the sink. Paddington checked his forearm, found an inch-long red line, and pressed Lisa's bloodied bandage against it.

Too late now.

At first, the bandage was cold with old blood, but Paddington's blood soon warmed it. His cut was only a nick, but hopefully it would be enough for what he... what he...

Wuh...

A wave of black silk devoured the white tiles and Paddington found himself standing in pitch blackness. Underneath, all around, above were black as far as the eye could see – and he could see fine, there was just nothing to see here.

Wherever _here_ was.

Behind him boomed the clack of claws. Paddington turned, cautiously. A huge wolf regarded him, stalking slowly forward against the backdrop of infinity. It walked confidently on the nothingness. This was its domain and now it had prey. Sure gold eyes searched Paddington's wide brown ones.

The wolf charged.

Paddington couldn't run. He was too overawed to run. The wolf was glorious and he'd watch it run –the ripple of its dark brown and cream coat; the black ears pressed against its head; the white mouth open, tongue lolling out – even if it cost him his life.

Which it was probably about to.

The wolf leapt...

...and hit him in the chest. Energy surged through Paddington. Heat exploded, hit his extremities, rebounded, bounced around in him until it consumed his whole being. His heart slammed against his ribs like thunderclaps.

He landed on his back on the warm black ground and looked around for the wolf, but it was gone. He was alone in the dark, and the dark took him.

When the world rolled back – the real world, with fluorescent light above and cold tiles beneath him – it was sideways. The world wasn't usually sideways. What was going on? Had something happened to his house?

Oh. Nope. He was lying on his side. He blinked hard and raised his head. It throbbed. A few seconds of feeling around uncovered a lump where his head had hit the floor.

Did he have a concussion? Had it all been a hallucination?

Colour and space seemed insubstantial, far less real than the wolf in the dark place. Paddington stared at the bandage beside him, then checked his left wrist. Dark red was smeared across his arm, though whether the blood was his or Lisa's he wasn't sure. A mix of both, probably.

Dimly, Paddington suspected he was missing something important. He checked his watch then, since he didn't believe it, the sky out the window. It was darker. His watch was right: he'd been unconscious for nine hours. They'd had less than two days to prevent the end of the world and he'd slept through half of one! Had the Team tried to contact him? Would they be looking for him? What had happened with the zombies? How many lives had been lost?

No, these questions would have to wait. Mitchell had been unsupervised for most of the day; Paddington's first priority was to check that Mitchell hadn't killed anyone who hadn't already been dead.

Paddington stood and trudged to the kitchen to make lunch. Or, dinner.

Deep inside him, the great wolf lay down to watch.

* * *

By dusk, Richard Brown still hadn't revealed anything about the Three-God or his role in its plans and Mitchell was fed up with how readily Truman and McGregor accepted it. Apparently they only had twenty-four hours before the world came to an end, which was ridiculous.

At Truman's insistence, the Team had spent part of the afternoon sweeping the fringes of zombie-occupied territory, but their containment was feeble at best: the island was wide, its fortifications poor, and the zombies had the home-ground advantage. When the light started to fail, Mitchell deemed the risk too great and ordered everyone back to the northern police station. There had still been no word about the southern station helping contain the zombies, but if they were anything like Paddington that wasn't really a loss.

Speak of the devil, here was the detective now, newly returned from 'doing work'. The dark rings around his eyes were lighter than they'd been that morning. He'd been catching zees, not zombies, and he'd caught a few.

"How'd the investigating go?" Mitchell asked.

"Not well," Paddington said, dropping his bloodstained overcoat onto his chair. "Everywhere south of the Church of Enanti is lost. Quentin's constantly giving ground and every man they lose becomes another enemy."

And it wasn't like Paddington was helping any. "Bought a gun yet?" Mitchell asked.

"It's on my dresser."

"You might want to get it."

"I might not," Paddington said.

Before Mitchell could tell Paddington he was a naïve idiot, the lights went out. In seconds, six flashlights lanced through the darkness and concentrated on the doors and windows; every point of entry. There was no movement at any, yet.

But how quickly could a vampire move?

"No backup generators or emergency power?" Mitchell asked.

"No," Paddington said.

"Truman, Normson, check the power. The rest of you, lock windows and doors."

The Team members moved. Paddington stood uselessly in the middle of the room, but at least he was out of the way.

Mitchell approached the side door and strained to hear any noise other than his own breathing. Something moved in the foliage, but it was gone before he could point his light at it.

"Anything?" Paddington asked.

"Any ways in other than the front and side doors?" Mitchell asked.

Paddington shook his head.

"No service hatches? Ridiculous air conditioning ducts? Secret tunnels for tradition's sake?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

At least they wouldn't have to worry about sneak attacks, then. They had enough people to hold the station until sunrise against anything but an army.

Truman and Normson returned from outside. "Fuses are missing," Truman said.

"See anything?" Mitchell went to lock the front door, realised it didn't even have a lock, and wedged a chair under its handle instead.

"No," Truman said, "but I heard movement."

"I thought I saw a tail at one stage," Normson said.

Not vampires, then. A different beastie. "Any natural wolves on this island, detective?" Mitchell asked.

Paddington blinked as six torches shone on him. "There's rumours of wild dogs."

Mitchell nodded. "It's werewolves. Detective, get us torches or candles or anything that produces light. Anything that can be used as a weapon, too. Normson, give the detective a gun."

"I really don't want one," Paddington said.

"I really don't care," Mitchell said, as Normson pressed his sidearm into Paddington's hand. "The rest of you, watch the doors."

If they were dealing with mongrels, what could they expect? No advanced tactics, at least. Mitchell keyed his radio. "McGregor, how do we fight a pack of werewolves?"

"I don't know," the doctor said. "Depends whether they're minds are more human or more wolf. I'd have to see them to be sure."

"Stay where you are," he said. "And Skylar, you are _not_ to come rescue us, is that understood?"

There was a short pause, then a curt female voice said, "Yes sir."

"If they kill us all, you two find a way off Archee, get to London, and have them torch this whole island. Confirm."

"Orders confirmed."

Mitchell sat on the sergeant's desk and laid his rifle beside him. "Since we have time," he said into his radio, "what have you learned about your guest?"

"Who? Oh, the zombie! He's great fun. Always nipping." McGregor sounded a bit too enthusiastic for Mitchell's liking. Had he been sleeping? No, that wasn't McGregor's style, especially when he had a fascinating new specimen. Sleep deprivation, maybe. Or he was being fuelled by the excitement of dissecting a zombie.

"How do we kill them? Or, re-kill them?" Mitchell asked.

"However you like. They're not dead yet."

That was ridiculous: they were clearly not only dead, but decaying. If McGregor couldn't see the obvious, they couldn't trust anything he said.

"He's a zombie," Mitchell said. "That means he's dead."

"Then he's not a zombie," McGregor said.

Across the station, Normson keyed his radio. "He's dead. I checked for a heartbeat."

"His heartbeat is very weak and shallow, about fifteen beats per minute, but it's there. I only found it once I was sure it would be there."

"His skin is falling off," Normson continued, as Mitchell tried to interrupt.

Again McGregor had an answer almost before Normson had finished speaking. "He has multiple lesions, but they're from his leprosy."

"Leprosy?" Mitchell asked. It was bad enough they were trapped in a dark station and surrounded by werewolves; now the zombies were diseased? How infectious were they? Was his Team compromised already?

"That's where the skin discolouration and the red lumps come from," McGregor said. "Also, his 'decomposition' is really tissue deterioration, probably a result of the loss of tactile sensation."

"Okay." Normson shifted his weight on the constable's desk and stretched. "What about the spasms and the swaying?"

"Multiple sclerosis," McGregor said.

"The groaning?"

"Multiple sclerosis."

Normson clicked his fingers. "What about the hunger for brains?"

"Either cognitive impairment from the multiple sclerosis or an unrelated psychosis," McGregor said.

"Ah ha!" Normson said. "You can't explain why his eyes don't have pupils!"

"His pupils are hidden behind his cataracts."

Normson sagged a bit, defeated. "Zombies don't bleed..."

"His blood is clotting inside his body, which combined with the lowered heart rate means you're right, they don't bleed."

That was enough science for one day. "Right," Mitchell said. "If you're done poking it, put that zombie out of its misery. We'll meet you later."

"Sir," McGregor said.

In the silence, the station seemed darker, the tick of the clock louder, the scrape of boots on threadbare carpet grating; each man alone with the knowledge that the zombies were still alive.

Not that it mattered to Mitchell. It wasn't like he'd never killed someone before. For the others, though, Mitchell suspected the news hit hard.

Every zombie they'd shot on patrol was another count of murder.

And so they remained for two hours. From within gnawed doubts; from without came clawing at the doors, growling, howling. They tried radioing Constable Appleby, Sergeant Paddington, or the other police station. No one responded. The southern station would be closed for the night anyway.

"Anything?" Mitchell asked as Truman returned from checking outside again.

The American shrugged. "Shadows on the edge of my vision, sinister creeping sensation up my spine. You know, the usual."

"What are they waiting for?" Mitchell mused.

"What are they _here_ for?" Paddington asked. Until now, he'd been content to sit at his desk in the middle of the room and stay quiet, which had been a nice change.

"What?" Mitchell asked.

"They must want something." he mused. "Not any of you, because it would have been easier to grab you today, when you were out in pairs... so what is it?"

"You want to ask them? Step outside."

A wolf howled, close by, and others joined in from all around the station – at least half a dozen. Mitchell had to admit, that sound got him on edge.

Unhappy silence settled on them. One man guarded each door, his L85s casting a beam of light at its centre; the others had extinguished their rifle lights to preserve the batteries.

"Any news, Jim?" asked a rounded, dull voice from the back of the room.

"Nothing new, Richard," Paddington called back. "The thing that killed Betsy and its friends are still out there."

"I reckon I can take 'em," said Richard.

"Take them?" Mitchell asked. "It's a pack of werewolves! What are you going to do, kill their leader and take over as alpha male?" He rubbed his face with both hands. Why was he here? Why had he said yes to this mission? It was supposed to be quick, simple; now they were protecting a farmer from a pack of werewolves so he couldn't fulfil a prophecy to destroy the world.

Next time, Mitchell would napalm the place from the air.

"Is it safe to go to the toilet?" Paddington asked.

"Knock yourself out," Mitchell said.

Paddington wound his way to the bathroom at the back of the station. Another fifteen minutes of this and Mitchell would put everyone on rosters. Three could guard while the other three slept.

Then flesh slammed against wood. Six rifles spun to face the front door as it flew inward and a pink humanoid figure disappeared off to the side. Mitchell spun off the desk and adopted a firing position.

Through the open doors stared the hungry void of the night.

Another bang, this one at the side door. Their rifles spun to it.

Too late, Mitchell spotted the feint: four werewolves darted in the momentarily-unguarded main doors.

Mitchell brought his L85 to bear on one, but it hid behind the sergeant's desk. He saw another grey flash behind the constable's desk, but it, too, moved before he could fire.

Why weren't the wolves picking them off? Thompson was screamed about tails, Clarkson still wasn't on his feet, and Peterson and Normson were both alone: all easy targets. Only Mitchell and Truman – back to back in the centre – were a genuine threat, and even they were having trouble tracking their targets.

There were at least six, streaks of white and dark grey that looked just like real wolves: they moved on all fours and had a slim physique, not the muscled half-human werewolf Mitchell had seen in films.

Then, as one, the werewolves burst from their covers and disappeared outside. After a few worried seconds, Truman crossed to the doorway and looked out.

"Anything?" Mitchell asked.

"Two cars getting away," Truman said. "We'd never catch up." He returned and plucked his Stetson off the ground. "What was that about?"

"Maybe they're retarded," Clarkson said.

Mitchell had seen sloppy attacks before, uncoordinated strikes, bad decisions. That wasn't one of them. "Whatever they came to do, they did it," he said. "Who's hurt?"

The Team checked themselves. No bites, scratches, not so much as a bruise.

"Where's Paddington?" Truman asked.

When no one replied, Mitchell said, "Normson and Thompson, front door. Clarkson and Peterson, side door. Truman, with me."

Rifle ready, Mitchell kicked in the bathroom door. Normson's sidearm was abandoned in its centre. A light breeze blew in the open window. Wait, no. The window was _gone_ – someone had removed the glass. It was still six feet above the ground, though, and tiny. Someone _might_ get in it, but they'd never get a struggling Paddington out through it.

"He's gone..." Truman said. The words rang with "He's dead".

"Move," Mitchell said. He had to focus them on something. A new mission, an objective.

Clarkson waved them over to the side door. "There's two sets of footprints here, one dragging along the ground."

So that was it. The wolves had come for Paddington, had waited for him to walk into their trap, and had dragged him out past six highly-trained soldiers without any of them noticing.

And these were just the mutts. What would fighting vampires be like?

"Screw this," Clarkson said. "Let's kill some zombies."

Right now, Mitchell couldn't think of anything he'd rather do than shoot something. "What a good idea."

"Really?"

"We'll get Harold Brown," he said. "The detective said he wouldn't leave his pub come hell or high water. If he's human, we protect him. If not, we put an end to him and every other undead bastard we find."

" _Really_ really?" Clarkson asked.

Mitchell was fed up with this place and its people and its stupid monsters. If they couldn't hold the station against a pack of mongrels, they'd be as good as dead when the vampires leapt out of their trees and attacked them, but right now he didn't care.

"Let's kill some fucking undead," he said.

"Sir, what about Paddington?" Truman asked.

"Do _you_ know where they've gone?" Mitchell asked. "No? Then leave him." Mitchell slapped a fresh magazine into his L85; he'd barely fired the old, but the action felt good. Solid. "Thompson, Peterson, guard Richard. If the werewolves come back, shoot Richard first."

"Sir?" Peterson asked.

"They need him alive for their prophecy and I'm in a take-no-chances mood. The rest of you, let's go."

# Chapter Seventeen: Alpha and Omega

Paddington had opened the door to the station's bathroom and found himself face-to-face with a naked man. Before he could cry out, the man clamped duct tape over his mouth, then knocked the gun from his hand and twisted his hand up behind his back. Liquid heat coursed along his arm and chest and Paddington went wherever he was pushed, which was out past the panicking Team and into the boot of a car.

Eventually the car shuddered to a halt and footsteps circled around to the boot. Paddington managed a brief look at the stars before two figures blocked his view and dragged him into a house. He couldn't see the number and didn't recognise the street. He could smell the sea, not that that meant much on an island.

When one of his three captors moved to open the house's front door, Paddington made a dash for freedom. It didn't work. His kidnappers weren't as strong or well-trained as the Team, but each of them was bigger and a better brawler than him.

In the house's light, Paddington recognised the men. They'd surrounded him yesterday, fired questions at him, and run off. The only one missing from the group was Dominic.

He was brought down a sturdy stairwell into a concrete basement, where his jacket was removed and he was handcuffed to a wooden chair. One of his captors tore the tape off his mouth.

"Ah, detective," said a smooth voice. Its owner stood atop the stairs, silhouetted against the light. "You should have left well enough alone."

"Yes, you're very creepy," Paddington said. "Now step out of the shadows and reveal your master plan."

The bulky figure descended the stairs with agonising slowness. Paddington used the time to look around him. Three men in bathrobes waited at the sides of the room; the ringleader and his three goons coming down the stairs were also in robes, which seemed an odd choice for a uniform.

Finally their leader stepped into the harsh pool of light. It was Conall, Chief Constable of the Archi Police. Two of his followers slipped off their robes. For a moment they stood naked, tensing on the spot as if ready to burst onto a sporting field. Was unsettling him was part of their plan? Then they started changing. Thick white and grey fur spread across their shoulders, down their chests, and onto their faces, which lengthened inelegantly.

They dropped onto the concrete to the cracking and snapping of bones. Muscles shifted to accommodate a new structure. Tails sprouted.

In seconds, Conall was flanked by two grey wolves.

Which meant that the five remaining humans were, in all likelihood, five werewolves who could change form at will. And Paddington was tied to a chair.

"But it's not _my_ plan," Conall continued. "We all belong to the great mystery of the Three-God."

"I have problems with mysteries," Paddington said. "Your coming to the station tonight, for example. You weren't after me; I'd been alone – and unconscious – all afternoon. So why the hours of waiting?"

"For the thrill of the hunt." Conall sat on the chair opposite him, a consummate politician: Paddington could read nothing from him. Was he lying? Was he enjoying this? How did he manage to look frightening in a yellow bathrobe?

"Why show Mitchell what to look for?" Paddington asked. "He was after one werewolf; now he'll be after your whole pack. Besides, one good shot and you'd have lost a member... I'm not worth that risk."

What else was at the station? Of course! The Book of Three. McGregor might have left it there. That was worth risking the pack. Paddington was probably a bonus.

"So," Paddington said, "you have what you came for. What now?"

"Now we solve some mysteries," Conall said. "Starting with how you became a wolf."

Paddington glanced down at himself. "I'm not." The two furry animals sitting beside Conall were wolves, though. Paddington kept his eyes off them, both because their existence was unsettling and because he didn't want them attacking him for looking at them the wrong way.

"A _werewolf_ ," Conall said, "if you'd prefer that vulgar term."

"Well, it's accurate," Paddington said, preparing to speak at length. Every moment he talked was a moment they weren't torturing him. "Were-wolf, man-wolf. Especially accurate in this case, since the 'were' means 'man' – not 'human' but 'male'... which we all are." Actually, that was suspicious. Not a single female. Maybe they were upstairs, tending to the pups and baking bone-shaped cookies.

Also suspicious was that each of these men – even Conall – was known for his temper. They were all aggressive, public-disturbance types, the first to stand up for a friend by swinging a chair.

Conall smiled; something predatory leaked into his human face. "True. Lisa Tanner is not, but she was an accident. Whereas you... you must have stolen her blood to become what you are. Did you want to know what it feels like?" He smiled again, a greasy smile to match his hair. "Will, show him what it feels like."

One of the wolves leapt his front paws onto Paddington's lap. Surprising weight pressed down on his legs. The wolf's eyes were orange and his muzzle was long enough that if Will decided to bite him in the face, Paddington doubted he could avoid it. Not that he wouldn't try like hell.

"The Three-God," Paddington said, tearing his eyes from the wolf to Conall. "Are you a believer?"

"I have read all of their Holy Texts."

"And the original? The Book of Three?"

"No copies still exist." Conall's tone indicated all other opinions were blasphemy. Which meant they hadn't taken the Book from the station... Interesting.

"But there were three once," Paddington said. The wolf on his lap flared his nostrils. Paddington tried to ignore him. "All slightly different. I don't know about the other two, but Adonis had one of them."

"'Had' one?" Conall asked.

Paddington had to give him credit for picking up on the tense. "So you _are_ a half-decent policeman?" Paddington asked. "Interesting reading, but I'm sure it's no different to the public version."

Conall hesitated, maybe weighing whether to reveal his ignorance and weakness, but since hesitating had already done that, he asked, "What did it say?"

"That if the Brown triplets will destroy the world."

"In those words?"

"You know these ancient prophecies, all vague and archaic; I think the term was 'bring her to rebirth'."

Conall smiled and spoke to the basement in general. "The Day of Rebirth, when the Races return to their original glory!"

Paddington felt a chill as the tide of the conversation turned and splashed him in the privates. "Ah. You're in favour of this?"

"We have waited generations."

"But you don't know what's going to happen!" Paddington said. "You might be surpassed, redundant." Paddington searched for smaller words. "Yesterday's news. Useless."

Curious and worried glances increased around Paddington, but Conall had no part in them. He locked eyes with Paddington and shook his head. "This needn't be murder, detective, but if you try to manipulate my pack again, it will be. Understood?"

The wolf on his lap shifted his weight and panted happily. Paddington nodded.

"Now, your girlfriend," Conall said. "We cannot allow a female wolf. They're uncontrollable."

"The change can be averted."

"'Averted' is not foolproof." Conall crouched beside Paddington. "For millennia, wolves have been carefully chosen for their lineage and their proven loyalty. Accidents happen, of course. When they do, the offending wolf is encouraged to be more careful and we discuss what should be done with the pup. Most are welcomed into the pack."

Paddington was sweating, both from the wolf's body heat and the fear of what would happen when Conall stopped talking. Surely if they were about to welcome him to the club, he wouldn't be tied to a chair.

Still, he'd read about werewolves that were the protectors of villages. Hopefully there was truth in those stories. This pack certainly wasn't bloodthirsty.

That didn't mean they _wouldn't_ kill him; they just wouldn't enjoy it.

"However," Conall said, "now we have two strays, and one of them is unable to control her change."

"That's not her fault."

"Nevertheless, one mistake while out shopping and there'll be organised hunts. We cannot accept risks. Those we cannot trust, we cannot allow."

"I won't help you find her," Paddington said. Let them try anything; he wouldn't tell them.

"We know where she is," Conall said.

Chills tingled along Paddington's sweat patches like lightning. They were going to kill Lisa. They were going to kill Lisa and he was tied to a chair. Paddington rocked against the restraints, but the handcuffs held him tight. The wolf on his lap climbed down and waited for him to finish thrashing. When he did, Conall continued.

"Usually, the punishment for deliberately siring another wolf without permission is death."

"You hurt her and I'll—"

"We're not talking about Lisa! We're talking about _you_." Conall smoothed his beard with one hand and sat back on his chair. "You sired yourself. But since you didn't know our rules, it hardly seems fair to punish you as sire."

Paddington sagged forward. What was all this talk for? Why did it take so long to reach the point? Why couldn't he just go back to a few weeks ago? A few days? "So... what, then?"

"The pup," Conall said, "is either destroyed or accepted into the pack. Your ancestors are fine Archi stock, James. There's no reason you couldn't join us."

Paddington looked up from the concrete to glare at Conall. "And all I have to do is let you kill Lisa?"

Conall raised a bushy eyebrow. "You say that like you could stop us."

"I have a problem sitting around while people commit _murder_."

"You have a lot of problems, but right now sitting isn't one of them." Conall reached forward and shook the arm of Paddington's chair. The handcuffs rattled against it.

Paddington had had enough of talking and waiting: if they were going to kill him, he'd give them a damn good reason. Maybe it would even make a difference. Not to him, not to Lisa, but to the next person.

"How many people do you suppose have died this week because of you?" he asked.

The smile on Conall's lips died and left a bitter taste. "What?"

"By not investigating Norman Winslow's disappearance like you were supposed to and not killing the zombies when there was only a handful of them. There's so much blood in the streets you could drown in it!"

"I had orders," Conall snapped, before he could stop himself.

"There it is!" Paddington said, gathering steam. "The mighty wolves are thugs for hire, sniffer dogs and attack dogs and patrol dogs, _obeying_. Do you wear a collar under that uniform?"

Conall punched him. Paddington's head snapped back with the impact and his mouth dropped open, spilling blood down the front of his shirt. His tongue investigated his bottom lip and found where his top canine had pierced it. The irony was not lost on him.

"Lone wolves don't last long in the wild," Conall said grimly.

"Neither do pets," Paddington replied.

"Curt, keep him alive." Conall walked away. "The Brothers can determine whether he sees the glory of the new world."

Conall stalked up the stairs. The two wolves followed, then the humans. Somewhere nearby, a tap dripped onto concrete. It reached a count of ten before Paddington felt hot breath on his neck, then cold steel.

"You're boned now," Curt whispered.

Paddington concentrated on the figure lurking at the top of the stairs and tried very hard not to say something that would get him stabbed.

* * *

Truman spent the drive to headquarters silently considering what the werewolves might be doing to Paddington. On roofs and in trees, he spotted the familiar shapes of their night-time watchers, but now their presence felt malicious. The werewolf attack had proved the Team wasn't safe and yet, watch was all they did. The van wasn't stopped or fired upon, no one sliced their tyres or landed on the roof. As with the previous two nights, the figures merely watched them.

When the Team entered the headquarters, Skylar waved her gun at them, but she was struggling to keep her eyes open. McGregor, on the other hand, buzzed. He flittered around the large front room, seemingly performing three tasks at once.

Skylar nodded at him. "He found some herb in the garden and made a drink out of it."

McGregor scrawled something on one of the many pieces of paper that crowded every surface. He still hadn't noticed his four teammates, so Mitchell blocked his way to the sideboard.

McGregor bumped into him, looked up, and spoke at twice his usual brisk pace. "Hey Jerry excuse me!" McGregor plucked a mug from the sideboard. "Here, try this tea I made. Really peps you up!"

Mitchell shoved the mug away. "Skylar. We're going."

"Where?" McGregor asked.

"To rescue or kill Harold Brown. I don't care which."

"Through the zombies?" McGregor asked. "But they're still alive."

"Not for long."

"Their condition might be manageable, even curable. This isn't _exactly_ leprosy or multiple sclerosis – the onset is too fast and the effects far too pronounced – but they're perfect subjects to further medical knowledge. New vaccines, cures! Who knows what we could learn from them?"

"Not me," Mitchell admitted. "All I know is they're between me and my goal."

"But they aren't in their right minds!" McGregor's hazel eyes were wide and searching for some compassion from the captain.

Mitchell stepped closer. "Their wrong minds want to eat me, doctor, so they get no mercy. When something tries to kill me, I _do_ kill it, and I expect you all to do the same."

Mitchell stared at McGregor until the shorter man nodded. They left him a single magazine of ammo for his L85 – as if the doctor actually knew how to use it – and took the rest.

Truman was the last to leave. He didn't have anything soothing to tell McGregor, but he laid a compassionate hand on the doctor's shoulder to indicate that if they could just get through this, get off this island, everything would be all right.

That was when he'd heard it: a small moan, almost lonely.

McGregor froze. Truman stared at him. Why was their zombie still alive? McGregor had been ordered to kill it. Why hadn't he? Because it was alive? That wouldn't fly with Mitchell, not in his current mood, and neither would whatever medical reason McGregor came up with.

If Truman had time and could have silenced the bullet, he would have spared McGregor dealing with the zombie... but he didn't have the time and a gunshot would alert Mitchell.

Truman lingered another moment. At the door, he gave McGregor a serious nod toward the zombie's room: deal with it. It would be traumatic, but not half as traumatic as dealing with Mitchell.

The drive south was silent. Truman tried to ready himself for the battle ahead, which would have been easier if he still thought of the zombies as mindless corpses. They were mindless, obviously, but they were also alive and McGregor was right: that made a difference.

Mitchell stopped the van at an abandoned barricade. Four zombies were visible, spread out and ambling around the streets. Mitchell gunned them down before Truman had even checked his gear. If these were the front lines, then the zombies had taken another mile north and east while the Team had been trapped in the station.

"What's the plan, sir?" Skylar asked.

"Quick extraction," Mitchell said. "Out before the zombies notice. I don't want to be swarmed by a thousand undead Archeeans."

"Hell," Truman said. "There aren't that many, are there?" The island housed nearly ten thousand people, according to Paddington. Would one-tenth of the population have fallen? More than a tenth of the _land_ had been overrun, but surely the people had evacuated.

"Let's find out," Mitchell said, walking off. Truman shared an uneasy glance with the others. Mitchell was usually determined, but today was different. As if something inside him had snapped and he thought killing everything in front of him was the cure.

Still, he was doing something to stop the prophecy, so that was a step in the right direction.

The Team took up positions behind Mitchell and rounded the corner. The market was overrun. Fifty zombies clambered at stalls that were now a hastily-constructed fort. What must it feel like inside? Surrounded by growls, unable to fight, knowing that eventually a zombie would break through and eat you alive.

Mitchell fired single shots as he crossed the open space, blowing apart skull after skull. The zombies noticed the new food source and hobbled toward them, yelling. Skylar, Normson, and Clarkson dealt with them. Truman picked off those still attacking the fort.

When the area was clear, the Team lowered their rifles. "We landed here," Skylar said. She sounded hollow. "Two days ago..."

"They tried to kill us then too," Clarkson said. He walked over to the fort and banged on it. "You can come out. They're gone."

"How do I know you're not one of them?" someone asked from inside.

Clarkson rolled his eyes. "You got me. I was hired by the zombies to lure you out of this impenetrable fortress you've built." He called over his shoulder, "I don't think they're falling for it!"

"Brains!" Normson yelled back. Skylar punched him in the stomach. Truman couldn't even muster up that much emotion. This whole situation made him feel sick, empty.

Clarkson turned to the fort. "They say you're much smarter than the last group, who were delicious."

"You two! Stop pissing about!" Mitchell said.

The fort opened with the clank and rattle of metal and half a dozen Archians emerged holding gardening implements and covered with blood. They stood with their shoulders curled inward and moved their heads in quick motions, like chickens. Their clothes were torn from battle; their faces and hands were scraped and bruised.

The tubby constable – Appleby – was there, his uniform shabby and crinkled. Beside him was a stern old woman with dark brown hair tied in a tight bun and a sabre whose blade glistened in the moonlight like liquid rubies. Sergeant Paddington looked like she'd aged ten years in as many hours.

"Thanks," Appleby said. "We were, uh..."

"Screwed?" Mitchell said. "Don't bite off more than you can chew."

"It was even numbers when we started." Appleby's eyes were ringed with black, which made his podgy face look like a wide skull.

"How many between here and the _Bleeding Heck_?" Mitchell asked.

"A few hundred."

"Any of your people?"

"Not any more," Appleby said, glaring. "That was them trying to eat us."

If Mitchell cared, he hid it extremely well. "Get yourself a thick jacket."

"I'm not cold."

"It'll stop the bites getting through," Mitchell said. "While you're at it, retrieve food, water, and weapons from any houses belonging to zombies."

"Any more advice for the stupid peasants?" Appleby asked.

"Yes. Aim for the head."

Appleby pointed at one of Mitchell's kills. The woman had a neat hole between her eyebrows. "I went to school with her!" Appleby said. "She was in the year above me!"

"Then she's lived a year longer than you're likely to at this rate," Mitchell said unflinchingly. "Start using your brain. Yours isn't much of a meal, but it's all you hav—"

"Where's my son?" the sergeant asked.

This time, Mitchell didn't snap back, he looked away. Eventually Skylar broke the tension by firing a single shot. "Sorry," she said. "It was still moving."

"Werewolves attacked the station," Mitchell said. "He was taken."

"I see." Sergeant Paddington's knuckles turned white on the sabre's handle. "And you're out _here_?"

Mitchell stepped forward, forcing her to move the sabre aside or stab him. She surprised Truman by doing the former.

"You're not my mother, Missus Paddington," Mitchell said, "so don't tell me what to do. If you know how to locate a pack of werewolves, I'm all ears; otherwise we have your stupid backwards island to save. If you don't mind."

# Chapter Eighteen: Slaughter

In the dark of the station, Richard sat on the sergeant's desk, picking at his teeth, and glanced up when six humans in bathrobes burst in on him. "'Ello boys," he said. "About time you got back."

Conall Quinn stepped forward cautiously. "I'm sorry we couldn't free you earlier, my lord."

"That's all right. I've emaciated myself," said Richard, nodding behind him. The bars on the station's only cell were bent far apart. One corpse lay beneath a trail of blood; the other beneath Richard's feet. Most of it, anyway.

Richard stood, shook his shoulders, and felt the hair sprout across them. Again he felt his skin stretch like rubber as his whole body swelled up and out. His jaw lengthened and his legs twisted. His hands grew long nails, joints snapped and became claws. Richard stood upright, his denim overalls pressed tight against bulging muscles and dark brown hair.

The humans watched him for a moment. Even the largest of them was tiny and small beside him. Then they shrugged out of their bathrobes and started jumping up and down on the spot, breathing heavy, making angry faces, and generally acting like they had to gear themselves up for something. A few let out brief grunts and yells. Bones creaked and joints popped and the humans dropped onto their hands and knees and became wolves.

They smelled weak.

Richard stalked out the station's front door, his padded feet landing with quiet _clomp_ s as he crossed the parking lot and entered the streets, where he grabbed at the road with his front claws and kicked off with his back legs, moving in long bounds more like pounces than a run.

The others stumbled behind, but Richard didn't wait for them. If they couldn't keep up with the new world, they'd be left behind.

Scents floated on the wind. Man. Talcum powder. Gun oil. A street ahead. Richard grinned – and he had so much more mouth to grin _with_ – and leapt all the faster. Behind, the wolves darted into side streets. Cowards. Why should _they_ move aside for a human?

The man rounded the corner and dropped his shotgun in fright.

Richard landed on the old man's chest with all fours, rode him to the ground, and tore out his throat. It tasted right: the humans would all fall before him. He'd wipe away the stupid little people and remake the world, just like that prophecy the Mainlanders had kept talking about.

He raised his furry head and stared around for another challenge, but the street was empty. Huffing, Richard bounded off the corpse and continued toward his farm. When he reached it, he climbed a fencepost and waited, licking his bloodied claws and feeling the gentle wind through his hair.

Conall arrived first and dropped onto the ground. Richard watched the body contort and most of the fur disappear back into the pink skin. After a few seconds, the change was complete and Conall lay on his back, eyes closed, sucking air deep into his human lungs.

After a minute, and another two humans almost passing out beside him, Conall said, "Richard... They'll investigate... his death."

"And?" asked Richard. It came out "Arnd?" through his wolfish head, but Richard didn't change back. He didn't think he ever would. "D'you fear them?"

"It wouldn't have taken long to go around," Conall said.

"They should fear _you_."

Did Conall expect them to creep around like mongrels? That wasn't how Richard was running this pack.

"We have orders to stay out of sight," Conall said. "From the duke."

Richard sprang off the fence and landed in front of Conall: a foot taller, thick-muscled and drooling. The Mainlanders had talked about the duke being a vampire, whatever that was. They hadn't sounded impressed. Richard wasn't either. "You think I take orders from the likes of _him_?" asked Richard. "It's time this pack had some _real_ leadership."

Conall nodded into Richard's open maw. After another moment to be sure it wasn't a trick, Richard turned to walk back toward the fence.

Then, in one smooth motion, he spun and leapt straight at Conall, mouth wide and snarling. The human was already jumping aside. He landed on his squishy pink flesh then, as panic took over, managed to turn from man to wolf with all the grace of a calf being born.

They circled.

Richard eyed Conall, looking for weaknesses, seeing plenty. Conall stared back, not daring to break eye contact. None of the others came to his aid; perhaps Conall had always been a poor leader.

Richard changed direction and circled the other way. Conall mirrored him. Richard leapt, crossing the ten feet between them in one bound. Conall met him in the air, tooth to tooth, and tumbled down onto all fours. Richard stood steady on his hind legs, grabbed the wolf with both hands, and tossed him aside.

There was a whimper as Conall landed, but he rolled up in time to dodge a swipe of Richard's claws and even managed to bite Richard's hand. Richard knocked him sideways with his other arm. This time, Conall stayed down. Thick cuts on his muzzle soaked Conall's face with blood.

The wolf twitched but didn't stand. Richard was at him again in one jump, but Conall snapped upward, biting, spraying blood. His teeth opened and shut over and again, biting like a crazed thing, sometimes even catching Richard on the arm or leg. Richard opened his mouth, wider and wider, lunged forward, and bit down on Conall's whole muzzle.

Conall screamed. And Richard swallowed his screams.

In an endless second, eye to eye, Conall realised he was beaten. That nothing could save him. That all there was left for him was pain and death.

Richard growled a laugh and bit harder. Conall shrieked and swiped at Richard with his paws. Blood streamed down Conall's face into his thick fur. His back feet scrambled for the earth, but Richard held him off the ground by his face.

Then Richard bit through Conall's muzzle and spat it away. The wolf dropped, furry head cracking onto the dirt. His face ended with a bloody stump.

Before Conall could scream, Richard's monstrous foot came down on his neck with a satisfying _crtch_.

The pack all jumped. Richard heard gasps and sobs and saw the older members clench their muscles or begin to shake, or stare anywhere but at their old alpha. Many gazed out over the field; Richard's ladies were particularly vocal tonight.

After a minute, one of the humans cleared his throat. "Boss... what next?"

The former farmer stepped off Conall's neck and padded toward the still-open fence, raised his snout, and sniffed deeply at the uncooked beef. The herd's terror smelled good.

"I'm hungry," said Richard.

* * *

He wasn't a killer. Really. He wasn't. He didn't even step on spiders. Not big ones, anyway. Little ones, sure, so long as he couldn't see their guts. But not the big ones.

McGregor gripped the rifle harder. It was an awkward thing: too big, and funny-shaped, and he was sure it was going to be loud as well.

He wasn't a fighter. He read books. He translated. He put liquids in beakers and let them bubble and analysed the result.

He did _not_ execute zombies. That was what the other seven guys were for.

And yet... that look Truman had given him before he'd left had clearly indicated that shooting this zombie would be far less dangerous than Mitchell finding out he _hadn't_ shot this zombie.

Which was why he was going to shoot this zombie.

Just... open the door, walk in, and shoot it in the face.

It wasn't like it had much to live for. It probably wasn't even conscious. It was hard to be sure without an MRI, but it seemed to be only dimly aware of its surroundings.

It was like a bug: reacting, not thinking.

McGregor clutched the rifle in one hand and put his other hand on the doorknob. He took a deep breath. Quick. Painless. That was the way. Like a bandaid.

But... what had this zombie done to _him_? Nothing, really. It hadn't bitten him. Hadn't attacked; not successfully, anyway. And it had been a good test subject. Hadn't complained. Hadn't really squirmed, even, once he'd worked out to distract it with Skylar's head.

And because of this zombie, McGregor thought he'd found the origin of all diseases. Surely that earned it a reprieve.

Surely it didn't deserve execution.

On the whole, McGregor didn't hold _any_ grudge against the zombie on the other side of the door. And yet he was supposed to go in there and kill it?

Well, Mitchell could just... he could just... he could stuff that, was what he could do. He could get one of his thugs to do it. Normson enjoyed pointlessly hurting things. Let Normson do it.

McGregor dumped his rifle on the table, grabbed the Book of Three, and left the headquarters. He'd go to the hideout. That's what he'd do. He'd go there and he'd do what he was supposed to do. What he was born to do.

He'd translate.

* * *

It was hard not to tremble with a blade pressed against his neck, but if he trembled the blade was more likely to cut him. So Paddington focussed on the top of the stairs, at the man lurking there, and not on the knife, which was now slicing patterns into his shirt.

"Don't kill him!" shouted the man atop the stairs.

"Don't tell me what to do!" Curt yelled back.

Paddington took a stab in the dark before Curt took one in the light. "Dom!"

The silhouette jittered at the sound of his name and, busted, pulled the door shut and trudged down the stairs. He looked substantially worse than he had two days ago and he'd been, well, mangy then. Now his long hair was greasy and his eyes were skittish. How long had he been living in fear of Conall's punishment?

"So," Paddington said, "why are you two my guardians?"

"It had to be someone," Curt said. His face was deep, his long hair black, his beard untrimmed. Despite being the youngest of the pack, his reputation was the loudest. He was violent, impressionable, and anxious to impress. Bad combination.

"Someone, yes, but why you? Is it punishment?"

"Quiet." Curt emphasised his point with that of his knife.

"I know why he doesn't trust Dom..." Paddington continued quickly.

That got Curt's attention. "Something you want to say, Dom?"

"No," Dominic said.

Curt stepped toward him. Stalked, almost. "You're awful nervous for an innocent man."

"You've got a knife!"

"Did Conall even tell you what the Brothers will do?" Paddington asked, feeling that he was once more gaining momentum...

Curt turned, wonder in his eyes. "They will restore the glory of our Race."

...and once more Paddington's momentum slammed him into a brick wall.

"And I've had enough of your filth!" Curt shouted.

"You prefer it simple, Curt?" Paddington asked. "Sit, stay, guard?"

Curt brought the knife close. Paddington closed his eyes and waited for the killing strike. Instead he heard the tinkling of buttons on concrete, then cold air blasted his belly. Paddington sucked in deep breaths. He was alive. Still tied to a chair, yes, but uninjured.

"A bit thin, aren't you?" Curt asked him. He'd put the knife away, but Paddington doubted that was a good sign. "A bit weak." He slammed a fist into Paddington's ribs. Paddington clenched his teeth and stomach to keep from crying out.

"This'll toughen you up," Curt said.

Another jab: playful, warming up. Paddington gasped against the pain, then strained against the cuffs. They were solid. He wasn't the first person they'd dragged down here.

Or dragged out?

Curt flexed his fingers, then stepped in and accompanied his words with punches. "Lone... wolves... need... to be... tough!"

The world blacked down then reappeared.

Curt grinned. Paddington fought unconsciousness to glare back. He'd put up with this every day of his life: be tough, be quiet, stop thinking, do as you're told. Right now he didn't care that he was tied to a chair or that Curt might kill him, he wouldn't do what they wanted. He wouldn't pass out. He wouldn't go quietly. Paddington saw red.

"Tough, both of you," Curt said, "Pansy Paddington and Terrible Tanner."

That did it. Paddington was past seeing red. He now saw a pale yellow.

"And speaking of your girlfr..." Curt stopped and stared.

Paddington's peripheral vision expanded. Dominic became visible, standing hunched by the stairs, but almost two-dimensional. Also, his flesh was yellow and his dark blue jacket had turned a dull violet.

James Paddington's shrinking, furry hands slipped easily out of the handcuffs and shirt. He landed on the concrete on all fours. Fur spread thick across his back and legs, covering the cellar's chill. His fingers withdrew and wrist bones fused soundlessly. His arms simply became legs, as if this were the most natural and obvious thing in the world. Free of his trousers, his tail curled around until it touched the fur on his back. One ear turned to zero in on Dominic's whispered "Holy shit."

In front of him, another wolf stood on an abandoned bathrobe, his dark ears flat against the side of his head, staring. James stood tall, fur bristling, and revealed his front teeth.

His captor sized him up: this was no newly-turned pup who didn't know his tail from a hole in the ground. This was a wolf, bigger than Curt and clearly dangerous. Behind gold eyes churned the brain of a policeman and a wolf in perfect unity. And this new wolf was, in an undeniable way, far more Wolf than Curt was. And Curt knew it.

And James knew that Curt knew it.

Right on cue, Curt dropped to the ground, rolled onto his back, and pulled his paws in toward himself, exposing his chest and neck in submission.

James turned to Dominic. Fear poured off the human in waves and only strengthened as James approached. Dominic followed his gaze to the door at the top of the stairs. "Do you want to go out, bo... detective?" Dominic asked. In seconds he'd opened the door and was pressing himself against the wall as James trotted past him into Conall's kitchen. So many smells! Plastic. Steel. Lino. Wood. Water. Deodorant. Sweat.

Six humans had passed through here. Their scents lingered in the air and had been stamped into the ground with every step. At the base of the door was a worn wolfydoor.

Outside, the wind whipped against him but James wasn't cold. His coat was thick and snug. He wanted to stretch his neck out and howl up at the stars, but doing so would attract the attention of the other wolves. Or Adonis. Or Mitchell.

James suspected they'd be less than understanding.

Not that James understood it himself, not consciously, but he didn't dwell on that. He was a wolf, and he knew what to do. His eyes worked better in the low light than his human eyes had – everything was brighter than it should have been, especially with the moon hiding behind heavy clouds – but his eyes weren't how he planned to navigate.

His nose was, and it felt supercharged. Two-hundred-and-twenty million scent-sensitive cells detected salt water close to the east and south, acrid smoke and the stink of decay far west, and minutes-old car emissions leading north.

James went north at a trot. Now that the wolves knew where James stood – against them, on all four legs – Lisa wasn't safe. Again.

The scenery took a while to get used to: the once-green trees and shrubs that lined the streets were stale yellows and whites. Before, he couldn't tell one from the other; now he could differentiate them by _smell_. They were amazing. He'd have to ask Lisa their names.

He ran, long nose cutting through the wind with little resistance. Not like being a human, with all the aerodynamics of a parachute. And those horrible, constricting clothes.

Now he ran free, ears turning this way and that toward his homeland as he'd never heard it before: the roar of the ocean, the clip of claws on cobbles, the—

There was another wolf across the street! Keeping pace with him! James stopped and faced it. The other wolf stopped too. The wind blew it straight toward him, but it had no scent.

The detective in him prodded that he'd missed something important, but the wolf was too concerned with this new threat to listen.

James approached, and so did the other wolf. He paused, and the other did too. And there still wasn't any smell! As James broke eye contact to check for other wolves – for an ambush – he spotted a shimmer and realised what the detective in him had worked out: the other wolf was his reflection in the shop's window.

The sides of his muzzle and cheeks were creamy, but from the eyes up his fur was flecks of black and dark grey. There were touches of brown too, near the ears. He had a complete contingent of whiskers and, when he opened his maw, a long mouthful of teeth. The fur on his body was a mingling of dark brown, white, and blacks.

Turning from the glass, James set off again, more quickly. He kept to the edge of the street, ready to dart into cover if needed. The thought of regular people filled him with trepidation. They shouldn't, he knew: no one would be mounting any search parties for a wolf, not with a third of the island swarming with the undead.

Ahead, the smell of Conall's car – one of few recently – continued straight. That was odd: Quentin's was closer by veering right. Surely Conall would know that. Didn't matter.

James left the scent of the car and ran right, toward Lisa.

* * *

Zombies didn't understand surrender, retreat, or disablement. One, its legs gone, dragged itself toward the ten civilians in their little fort by the arms. Even as Truman watched, a civilian was bitten, dropped his hoe, and launched himself at the man next to him. Screams cut through the roars of hunger.

"You know the drill," Mitchell said. The Team spread out, picked targets, and ended them. Truman felt sorry for the blood-soaked zombies: they really didn't stand a chance. The Team had automatic rifles that fired at six hundred and fifty rounds a minute; the zombies had teeth. Even if a zombie got within biting range – which was unlikely – the Team were strong, fast, and well-trained. And their rifles had bayonets on the end.

Truman spotted a small girl in a yellow floral dress lumbering among the horde, lower than the others, unnoticed, weaving and bumping her way through their legs toward the survivors, her head half caved in. Truman squeezed the trigger and moved on to the next target as quickly as he could.

He took down two men in stained suits, a produce seller, and a woman holding an umbrella, and tried to ignore how their blood formed new constellations in the air before splatting on the cobbles.

"Hey!" Normson shouted. "That one was mine—"

"Behind!" Truman called. Two feet behind Normson, a fresh female zombie – barely decayed – reached out with a broken arm. Her clothes and face were, of course, wet with blood.

"She likes you," Clarkson said.

Normson spun, rifle ready to fire, then paused. Was he frightened? Truman started strafing around for a clear shot, but knew he wouldn't make it in time. What was Normson doing?

Then he realised: Normson was holding his gun out, waiting for the zombie to impale herself on his bayonet. She wouldn't stop or dodge; she'd plough into it, her dead eyes locked on him. She'd kill herself. All Normson had to do was wait.

It wasn't mercy. It wasn't kindness. It wasn't respectful. It was sick, and lazy, and disgusting.

Truman turned away, but he still heard the _ktck_ of bone from her forced suicide, the jangle as Normson shook her off his blade, and the hollow rattle as the zombie's corpse hit the cobblestones.

"Not my type," Normson said.

"Too fresh?" Clarkson asked.

"Too forward. There's no challenge."

Skylar shoved Normson. "How can you be such an arse?"

No one replied, but Truman knew that right now they needed any levity they could get, no matter how tasteless. Anything so you didn't think about what you'd just done to a little girl in a yellow dress.

His gaze fell back to the fifty bullet-ridden corpses that, minutes ago, had been alive – according to the Doctor McGregor. Could they have been contained? Quarantined? Saved? Certainly not with Mitchell in charge.

"Aim for the head," Mitchell shouted as he passed the two survivors.

Truman fell into step beside him. "Why don't you ever tell them the zombies aren't dead?"

"How would that help?"

Mitchell lengthened his stride. Truman let him go. The situation was grim enough without Mitchell's dead-blank stare.

Around the next corner, at the far end of the street, was the _Bleeding Heck_ : a tall, one-storey building of oak and stone. A horde of at least fifty crowded around the front door. From the roof, something thin and lithe swung down, kicked in the door, and then disappeared upward and let the zombies rush in. Truman's guess was vampire. It explained why the duke hadn't attacked them yet tonight: he was too busy readying his prophecy for fulfilment.

White light inside the pub – muzzle flashes – illuminated shapes against the drawn curtains, accompanied a second later by their _boom_ s.

And between the Team and the _Heck_ , a hundred decaying Archians stood in lines. In formation. Waiting for them.

A zombie in the front row spotted them, yelled, and lumbered forward. The horde limped and staggered after him, mouths open and fingers reaching in anticipation. Then the ground beneath the horde exploded with a sharp _bang_ and lingering smoke. There was no elegant plume of fire, only dirt and bits of zombie spraying in every direction.

The grenade's pin tinkled serenely on the cobbles and Mitchell regarded his Team with cold black eyes. "Unleash hell."

# Chapter Nineteen: The Third Brother

Five minutes ago, Harold and his four loyalest patrons had been sitting in the dark, quiet bar – as they had done all night and all day before it – while the zombies wandered by outside without so much as looking at the _Heck_.

Fifty seconds ago, someone outside had whistled and the pub had been surrounded with figures bumping against the windows. Figures shuffling round in ragged clothes.

Five seconds ago, the front and side doors had flown off their hinges and knocked aside the furniture Harold had put there as a barricade. Who had alerted the zombies to them? Who'd destroyed his lovely fortications? Why? Did someone want him dead?

Harold welcomed the zombies with round after round of shotgun fire. Bits of old friends splattered against the dark walls. The friends themselves slumped against the floor and those behind tripped on them.

"What's happening, boys?" he called out.

"Fuckload of corpses!"

"Language, father."

Harold grabbed shotgun shells off the counter of the bar and got three of them in the gun before he lost his nerve and raised the shotgun. To his left, someone tossed a flaming spirit onto a group of zombies, not that it stopped them coming forward. They fell after a bit, but those behind stepped on them or fell onto the ever-growing heap. Like a bonfire. A walking bonfire.

The bar filled with dark smoke and the stink of cooking meat. Blinking through his tears and gasping for breath, Harold put his three shells into the nearest three zombies, but five took their places.

"Away from the bar!" Harold shouted. "Against the wall!"

The five Archians got as far from the bar as they could, which was to put their backs against the shelves of spirits. Glasses and bottles tumbled off higher racks as they stumbled backward. Harold felt something smash on his shoulder and glanced down to find it had been the Church of Tipote's triple-distilled "Brawler" whiskey, damn near the most alcoholic – and expensive – thing in the bar.

Down beside him, the padre was bleeding from the head. Another bottle had hit him.

There was no time to help him, though. Harold grabbed the box of shells off the counter and reloaded his shotgun. The padre got to his knees, then his feet, so at least he wasn't dead.

Unlike the other hundred people in the pub. Harold had never seen it so busy. Pity they weren't buying.

Undead faces with dead white eyes moaned for his flesh. Their arms reached over the counter, but none were smart enough to climb onto the bar itself.

Harold pumped the shotgun and fired again into the mass of bodies. Six flaking and red-blotched hands pulled the barrel out of his hands, dropped the weapon, and continued reaching for him.

This was the end. The absolute end. He should light the rest of the damn spirits and burn them all. The other fires had been stamped out by the zombies in their rush to reach him, but if he threw three or four in quick succession... that would be it. The whole bar would go up.

Harold reached for the whiskey.

Someone grabbed his arm. Harold pushed him away.

"We have to, father. It's—" He didn't bother finishing. No point. There was a bite-shaped tear in the father's cassock.

Harold grabbed the pastor's arms and wrestled. "Come on! It's me! It's Harold! You remember me! Every Sunday, nine o'clock, double whiskey, regular as you like!"

The Church of Tipote's minister opened his mouth. "Blarg!"

Harold shoved him away as hard as he could. The father's legs bicycled upward as he slipped on the wet floor.

"No!" Harold reached out.

The pastor hit the hardwood headfirst. Harold heard the _cack_ as his skull split open, saw the thick dark blood that ran through the spirits on the floor like oil through water.

Harold stepped cautiously toward him, as if this might all be a joke. It must be. It couldn't really be happening. Couldn't b—

Five dead arms grabbed Harold and hauled him, screaming, onto the bar.

* * *

James _ran_.

He'd been running for twenty minutes and the city just sped by. The wind swept through his thick fur and his long tongue lolled out the side of his maw. The few times he saw other people, he didn't break stride and they didn't approach him. They were probably as keen to avoid the metre-tall wolf as he was to avoid their pitchforks.

He rounded another corner, enjoying the effortless motion of his legs. Running as a wolf was so much more natural than as a human. He wasn't sure he remembered how to stop, but he _was_ sure he didn't want to. Ever. He consumed the road, pulling himself along it, a streak of furry lightni—

There were two young women in the street ahead. And, oh Three-God, he knew them! Denise was dating Quentin. And Rose had been in his year at school! And was, also, dating Quentin.

Four legs skidded to a stop and James looked for a place to hide. Alley! He darted in, but his terror was mounting and as his exhilaration faded, it took the wolf with it.

The two women stopped at the alley's entrance. "Hand me that torch."

James's limbs stretched, his nose receded, his fur withdrew. In seconds it was the human, Paddington, that sat completely naked in the alleyway.

"Who's that?" one of the women asked.

The torch beam found him, so Paddington waved a hand. "Just me," he said, then ran his tongue against his teeth a couple of times. It felt wrong: too fat and short. Weird.

"Where're your clothes, Jim?" Rose asked.

Something was still wrong with his vision. What was it? Didn't matter right now; _their_ sight was fine, and if it was following the beam of their torch...

Paddington sat against the wall as modestly as he could. "Oh, you know how it is," he said. "I was just taking a midnight stroll. Bit warm, thought I'd lose a few layers..."

Paddington realised what was wrong with his vision: colours were vibrant again and everything was darker: skin was pink, not yellow, and he couldn't see the buildings across the street any more.

"We'll, uh, let you get back to your stroll," Rose said, pulling at Denise's arm.

"I like the new look, by the way."

"Denise!"

"I was talking about the hair."

"Oh."

As the women disappeared, giggling to themselves, Paddington rested his head against the stone. All sorts of rumours would start about him now, assuming the world existed after tomorrow night.

Paddington gave himself another minute to gather courage, then peered out of the alley. It was empty, so he dashed into the street, keeping a very careful lookout and staying close to the walls.

It just wasn't the same. He missed the scents of the plants and the ocean. He still caught a few odours, but the world was so much duller.

And his skin was completely unsuited to this temperature.

Paddington slipped around the back of Quentin's house, on guard for wolves or signs of a struggle. There were none. He reached the back yard and spotted Lisa in the living room, sitting on the sofa in a pair of worn jeans and an olive woollen jumper, staring forlornly at the book in her hands. She was safe! There was no sign of Conall. It must have been a bluff: the wolves didn't know where she was.

Unless they'd followed him... No, he'd have known if anyone was behind him. She was okay! Paddington threw open the back door and ran in, wanting to hug her and shout for joy.

Lisa dropped her book. "Jim! Where are your clothes?" She jumped out of her chair and stepped away from him. "And what happened to your chest?"

Paddington looked down, expecting fur, but there was just his normal body – well, his human body – with a large purple bruise in the centre. He was still too full of adrenaline to really feel it. "Oh, that's from the torture," he said.

"The _torture_?"

Paddington's legs carried him back and forth across the room. "The wolves found me and one of them beat me and I became a wolf and _you should have told me how it feels_!"

It wasn't until Lisa leaned away from him that Paddington considered his presence might be a bit overpowering. But he couldn't help it; the rush of being the wolf zinged around inside him, mixed with the terror of running the streets naked and the joy of finding her safe.

"The wind, the sounds, the smells!" He sighed. "I miss the smells..."

"Stop, stop!" Lisa closed the space between them and held his arms to stop him moving. "Jim, you're gibbering like an idiot and completely naked."

"So? You've seen me naked before."

"James!" She waited until he was looking right at her. "Put on a bathrobe. Sit down. And then – and _only_ then – tell me what the hell is going on."

Paddington nodded and drew deep breaths. She was right, of course. This was a lot at once. One step at a time. Absolutely. He found a clean bathrobe in the bathroom, spotted his reflection in the mirror, and shouted. Lisa was at the doorway in a second. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Why didn't you tell me I'd grown a beard?" he asked.

The lower half of his face, usually smooth and official was covered in a fortnight's growth of beard.

Lisa blinked, shocked. "It's your face," she said. "I thought you knew."

"I guess I just didn't notice that my chin wasn't cold."

Lisa left. Paddington leaned away from his reflection and washed his grubby hands. A couple of pebbles were stuck in them, but he got them out after a minute and wandered back to the living room, where Lisa was staring into space, a glass of whiskey in her hand. He sat on the other end of the couch so he wouldn't crowd her.

"Start at the beginning," she said. Paddington had the feeling she was building up to slapping him. "How did you become a werewolf?"

"I... stole your bandage earlier today."

Half-lidded blue orbs stared into him.

"Wolves sire by blood," he said. "Somehow, you must have come into contact with Dominic's. Anyway, I took your bandage and... sired myself."

Lisa took a long drink of whiskey. Paddington let the silence continue; did she feel angry? Betrayed? Used? Did she feel nothing for him?

"I thought you hated what I am," she said.

Paddington found that his mouth had just been waiting for the right question. "Not enough."

Lisa finished her whiskey and got up for another. "What about Adonis's grand cure?"

"You didn't want it."

"So you infected _yourself_?"

"I want to be with you." And Paddington realised it was that simple.

"Are you really that naïve?" Lisa faced him. "Jim, you don't get the girl by doing something idiotic, even if it is romantic as hell." She drained the glass and refilled it. "You get the girl when the girl _lets_ you get her, when you've built a trusting relationship, when you act like a sensible adult." Lisa sat back on the couch. "So, the torture?"

Paddington recounted the attack on the station, his abduction, Curt's attack, and his escape from Conall's house. "And then..." Paddington said, "I was a wolf, had his instincts, but I was still me. I was human and wolf, all together, like they were the same thing."

Lisa was reading him, searching for any untruth, deceit, malice, her face tight. "The first time I was a wolf," she said, "I was trapped inside my house. I couldn't open the cupboard to get to my food. By the second day, I got so desperate that I climbed onto the kitchen counter, opened the window-latch with my teeth, and tumbled out onto the side path. I was terrified and confused and suddenly I saw a cow with my nose; the wolf that you love so much took over."

Paddington knew that feeling – of running so fast you were only barely connected with the ground; of chasing a smell; of hearing the night clear and strong.

"I was too hungry to care about anything other than meat," Lisa said. "Once the wolf had feasted, I realised what I'd done... could remember tearing out her throat. Feeling her flesh come off in my teeth. Being a wolf filled me with horror, Jim, not pride. But it's nice that you've found the silver lining on the cloud that's pissing on the rest of us."

Through everything, Paddington realised he'd never considered her position. He'd thought of the wolf and how to catch it, he'd thought of Lisa keeping secrets from him, but he'd never thought of the two together. Of what human morality made of a wolf's instincts.

Lisa drained her drink again. "First thing I did after a long shower was head down to the _Heck_ and try to drink it away."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't think."

Lisa laid a callused hand on his bruised chest. "No, you often don't. But at least your heart's in the right place for once."

"Yeah," he said, "with you."

She removed her hand and Paddington saw doubt flicker across her face. She wasn't ready to forgive him yet, but at least there was a "yet".

"Aren't you scared?" she asked.

"Of what?"

"I spent a month terrified that you'd wake up in bed next to a monster."

Paddington took her hand. She didn't pull it away. "I'd bet my life you'd have recognised me."

"You might get the opportunity," she said.

"Only if the pack doesn't find us first, or the— What do you know about the zombies?"

Lisa smiled sweetly. "Yes... Did you not feel the need to mention them, dear?"

"Slipped my mind?" he tried, wincing. He'd meant to warn her, but then they'd starting talking about wolves.

Lisa's stare made him very uncomfortable, which he suspected was the intention. "When our lives aren't in danger," she said, "you and I are going to have a long conversation about communication." She waited until he nodded, then said, "The radio's updating their progress, but there's no organised defence. Everyone's waiting for the authorities to fix it. Word is the undead are as far as the _Heck_."

"Right," Paddington said, thinking furiously. Quentin's house lay only a touch north of there, but a fair way east. "When they reach the Church of Tipote, get out of here."

"Why not go now?"

"You're safe here. Adonis, Conall, Mitchell; none of them know where you a—"

"Jim!" Lisa snapped. "I'm sick of being a prisoner! According to you, the duke's too busy with his prophecy to bother with me and no one's going to turn me over to Mitchell except you."

Yesterday, that might have devastated him. Tonight he could shrug it off. "Just... let me talk to Mitchell," he said. "Maybe he has a plan. Well, a better plan than his usual 'Kill everything'."

"And how will you explain your escape?"

"With... lies." Paddington stood to go. Honestly, he shouldn't have spent this long with Lisa: the city was overrun with the undead, his mother was out of radio contact, and who knew what was happening with the prophecy?

"Wait," Lisa said. "You said the others controlled their change... Can you?"

Closing his eyes, Paddington sought the all-black space inside him, but now there was something in there with the wolf: a basket, a place the wolf chose to dwell until Paddington wanted him or... what had happened last time? He'd lost his temper and the wolf had taken charge. Adrenaline, testosterone, fury. Rage had called the wolf.

And yet, he didn't think he needed the rage any more.

Paddington opened his eyes. "Yes."

"You could be it right now?" she asked, with hints of worry.

"I'm not an 'it'," Paddington said. "And yes."

"Change."

"What if I'm an uncontrollable monster?"

"Hold on." Lisa ran to Quentin's bedroom and emerged with a shotgun. "Okay."

"Is that necessary?" he asked.

"I have trust issues," she said flatly.

Paddington rubbed a hand along his beard. What did he have to lose? Well, apart from his life.

Lisa watched, judging him moment by moment, trying to trust him.

Paddington undid the robe, uncomfortable stripping in front of someone holding a gun. Was this how it had felt when McGregor had examined Lisa? Feeling the cold stares? Squirming.

Paddington closed his eyes and whistled in that internal place. The wolf, lying on his bed, cocked his head to the side and Paddington shook the idea away. You didn't call the wolf.

You just were the wolf.

Paddington's eyes snapped open. Red and green drained from the room. He smelled vanilla, tea in Lisa's discarded cup, whiskey, and the stale odours of Quentin's cheap aftershave and greasy food. His muzzle stretched out in front of his eyes. The room felt warmer, held in that thick furry hug.

James's ears zeroed in on Lisa's sharp intake of breath. One hand covered her mouth. The other slowly placed the gun on the ground. Then, as if frightened she might scare him off, Lisa slowly knelt and extended her hand.

Lisa's eyes looked the same: still that clear, crisp blue, widened in amazement. James walked forward until her palm was against his cheek. Her fingers touched gently at first, then more confidently, running down his body.

"Jim?"

He pressed closer, stretching his neck forward, and flicked his tongue out. She tasted like sweet tea and cheap whiskey and bad lasagne.

"Agh!" Lisa wiped her mouth then tried to mock-glare at him through the tears in her eyes. "I take it that's a 'yes'?"

* * *

In a hail of bullets and grenades, the lines of zombies left to guard the _Bleeding Heck_ died. None came close to biting the Team, but they did delay them long enough for the shotgun blasts inside the pub to stop and a fresh horde to spill out, spot the potential meal, and hurl themselves at it. Truman tried to find Harold Brown amidst the zombies and, later, among the dead. He wasn't there.

Did that mean he'd beaten them back? Had he driven them from the pub? Had he been killed? Any of those situations stopped the prophecy and were, technically, a win for them, but Truman knew it wouldn't be that easy. Not on this island.

There were no sounds close by, just the distant gunfire and screams that had been Archi's soundscape for the past day.

Mitchell keyed his radio. "Thompson, report."

Silence. Truman felt a creeping sensation up his spine, like spiders crawling. Too much had gone wrong already today for that silence to be harmless.

"Thompson. Peterson. You there?"

More silence. Silence that sneered at them.

"The station," Mitchell said, "double time."

The streets were clear of zombies for now. Corpses lay on the cobbles like absurd and misshapen speed humps: limbs twisted behind heads or under backs, legs bent under bodies or spread wide. Was McGregor right? Was their condition curable? How many had Truman killed today? Did that make him a mass-murderer?

As if in answer, a zombie horde roared from their right. There were forty of them, moving as a single unit out of a side street and locking their white eyes on the Team.

"Sidearms only," Mitchell said. "Conserve primary ammunition."

Truman stared along his pistol at the Archians.

"Fire at will," Mitchell said dully, going through the motions. Another day another dollar. Did he even care that these zombies had been people once? That they might be again?

The Team's first barrage knocked out four zombies. As they lined up their second targets, the zombies lumbered into a run. The Team fired. And fired. And fired. And soon there were only two zombies left, battling their uncooperative muscles. Mitchell shot them both and slapped a fresh magazine into his pistol. "Moving."

In a line, they jogged on. The police van was ahead, but the spiders in his spine told Truman they wouldn't reach it. A single glance to the roofline proved them right. There was a shape there. There had been shapes following them all night, keeping an eye on them. So far, their fears that the vampires would attack them as retribution for Paddington's theft had been unfounded.

But this wasn't a vampire. It stood too stiff and ragged bits of flesh and torn clothing blew freely in the breeze.

The zombie's head hung on a forty-five degree angle. Bone protruded through the hole in his neck. His skin peeled from what looked like weeks of decomposition. His open mouth displayed yellowed, blackened, and missing teeth as it opened impossibly wide and bellowed, spraying great gobs of spit.

The answering growl came from every alley and house to the south. Five rifles leapt to hands and spun toward the dozens of emerging zombies.

"Harold's mine," Mitchell said. "Cover me."

The Team dropped onto their knees, facing out like points on a compass. Mitchell stood in the middle and opened fire on the figure swaying on the rooftop: Harold Brown.

Gunfire ripped through the yells.

Truman downed three targets before glancing toward Harold. Mitchell's bullets found their mark, but passed into Brown without effect: no blood splatters, no cries of pain. Holes remained where the bullets hit, but Harold Brown didn't fall. Truman wasn't even sure he noticed.

"Target mine!" Mitchell called.

Before they could, Harold had launched himself off the roof. He landed twenty feet from them, already sprinting and screaming so loud that Truman thought his ears were bleeding.

Ignoring the sound, he steadied his aim and fired.

The bullet hit Harold in the forehead and the zombie toppled forward and hit the ground flat on his face with a _cack_. His body flopped end over end before coming to a rest ten feet from the Team.

With the other zombies disposed of, the humans waited. For what, Truman wasn't sure, but he still didn't feel right. Glass scraped against cobblestones as Normson crept toward Harold.

Then there was noise. The Team spun to face it, but the noise was everywhere. It was inside his head: a guttural laugh drowning in fluid, sniggering at his thoughts.

Harold Brown leapt up and cannoned into the Team, sending them sprawling. When Truman rolled upright, Harold had Normson as a human shield.

Mitchell came up firing. Harold took each shot in the face, staggering back, but kept his grip on Normson. Truman flanked right and, aiming around the flailing Normson, let fly a volley of rifle fire.

Still Harold laughed. His white eyes found Mitchell's and held them just long enough for everyone to realise what was about to happen, to realise they couldn't stop it, to realise that they would be next... and then Harold bit through Normson's skull.

Red ran in torrents down Normson's uniform; Harold stared at the sky with a grotesque smile, the lower half of his face painted with brain matter.

"Van!" Mitchell shouted.

The Team sprinted. No one turned to fire at Harold; there was no point. He wasn't sick, he was dead. How did you kill a dead man? And if they couldn't kill him, how could they stop the prophecy?

Mitchell was revving the engine by the time Truman leapt in beside him. Harold hadn't pursued them; merely watched, holding Normson idly in one hand. As the van lumbered forward, Harold hurled the corpse like a grenade.

Normson landed on the van's roof and slid down the windscreen, his dead eyes accusing them through the glass. The top half of his head was gone. Just gone.

Mitchell activated the windscreen wipers, which was enough to start the corpse sliding off the car. The van bounced twice as Normson passed under its wheels and Truman watched his friend's broken body shrink in the side mirror.

"Nothing's following," Skylar said from the back of the van.

Mitchell left the wipers running until the windshield was clean of blood, found a straightish stretch of road, and pushed the grinding engine to breaking point.

Harold had let them go. Why? Because he knew he'd won?

Buildings flashed past. Mitchell didn't brake for intersections, roundabouts, or most corners. Screeching rubber announced their first stop: the northern police station.

The front door was open and inside it was dark. Truman flicked the switch and for a moment the sudden light made it too bright to see. Too much information: the sergeant's desk, the detective's desk, the bent bars of the cell, the blood on the walls.

And two bodies beneath thick red streaks.

# Chapter Twenty: How the Other Half Lives

Paddington felt better. He'd shaved off the beard, washed, and even found some hand-me-down clothes that had been too small for Quentin but still looked like parachutes on him. Ten minutes of furious pumping resurrected Quentin's old bicycle and, having run out of excuses, Paddington said goodbye to Lisa, clamped Quentin's old hiking boots onto the pedals, and left. The bike creaked and groaned and seemed to take forever.

He wanted to _run_ to the Team's headquarters, to feel the wind through his fur again, but doubted he could explain the associated nudity.

It was nearly two a.m. when he opened the front door, fully expecting Skylar to shove a rifle in his face, but there was no one there. The house was dark. Paddington grabbed a flashlight off the table rather than risk the overhead bulbs: the wolves were still out there, as were vampires. And zombies, but they weren't this far north. Yet.

"Hello?" he called.

No answer. A rifle lay abandoned on McGregor's notes like a giant paperweight. Most of McGregor's writings were technical or scientific – DNA sequences or lists of symptoms – but Paddington found a page he understood.

Three Ends:

Heart, Head, Fire.

End related to Race? Werewolves lose physical form, therefore heart? Or fire, consuming all physicality? Zombies lose minds – brain? Does that leave the fire for Vampires?

Heart, head, and fire all feature in vampire myths. Zombies it's always heads. Werewolves always heart. Where's fire go?

Why can't this stupid prophecy just make sense??

Paddington didn't remember stories about Three Ends from school, but Adonis would hardly publicise how to stop a prophecy he wanted fulfilled.

There was a thump from deeper in the house. Paddington froze.

"Hello?" he asked.

Another thump.

Paddington followed the thumps to a bedroom door. Had McGregor locked himself in? Had the vampires found him? Was Paddington walking into a trap?

He wished he could smell who was inside.

With a final breath, Paddington threw the door open and brandished the flashlight like a weapon. A few feet away, a very skinny zombie stared at him expectantly, then raised his remaining arm and opened his rotting mouth. "Bla," he said. _Hi._

"Uh..." Paddington took a moment to absorb the fact that McGregor hadn't killed the zombie as ordered. Mitchell would be furious when he found out, but Paddington understood the doctor's hesitation.

Paddington took another moment to absorb the fact that the zombie wasn't trying to attack him. And that he had part of an ice cream container tied to the lower half of his rotting face. And had spoken with two voices simultaneously.

When all these moments had passed, the zombie emitted another low moan. The words _Are you all right?_ arrived at Paddington's ears at the same time. _Hello?_

"How are you talking?" Paddington asked. He couldn't help himself.

"Glurg!" _The usual way._ The zombie peered at him with glassy eyes. _Who are you?_

"Detective Constable Paddington," he said automatically. Why was the zombie talking? How? Could they all do this?

"Blarg." Nice to meet you. I'm Norm. How recently were you converted?

"Converted?"

Bitten.

"I wasn't."

_Pull the other one_ , Norm chuckled. Well, the words that arrived in Paddington's mind sounded like a chuckle. The other voice – the gurgling noises that Paddington heard with his ears and which matched the zombie's mouth – went "Blugh".

If you weren't dead I'd be eating your brain.

"And I'd be hitting you with this," Paddington said, lowering the torch. The shifting light highlighted the once-white shirt now dark brown with blood, the rakish physique, the skull-like face. Norm looked like a walking skeleton.

_Hold on,_ _Paddington?_ The zombie let out a yell. _Jim Paddington? The technophilic copper that's dating the Mainlander!_

Something connected in Paddington's mind. "Wait, _Norm_? Norman Winslow?" he asked. "I was assigned to find you!"

Honestly, he wasn't sure why he was still surprised. Of _course_ the man he'd been assigned to find a week ago, a man he'd since forgotten about, had turned up again. After all, his new girlfriend – who was actually a werewolf – had eaten livestock belonging to two brothers who were part of a prophecy that the duke – a vampire – wanted fulfilled. So why shouldn't the Mainlanders that Paddington had called to catch said werewolf – one of whom was _in_ the prophecy – why shouldn't their randomly-selected test subject be, of the thousands of zombies on Archi, the very _one_ whose disappearance and infection Paddington had investigated?

It was almost like fate...

No, actually, it was _exactly_ like fate.

Congratulations, you found me, Norm said. Now, can you tell me what I'm doing here? Some people grabbed me. I apologised for trying to eat their brains, but I don't think they heard me.

"Do you realise you're moaning?"

Norm sighed and staggered over to the edge of the room. _I know, I'm complaining again. And I was doing so well._

"No, really," Paddington said. "You're shouting things like 'Blarg' and 'Gak'. Your mouth doesn't match the words you're saying."

That might explain why no one's responded to me.

"And what do you mean you were doing so well?"

Oh, I haven't converted anyone since the hall, which doesn't count because everyone was doing it.

"If everyone jumped off a cliff, would you do it?" Paddington said, then feared he was turning into his mother. His mother... what had happened to her? She wasn't responding to her radio; neither was Quentin. Were they both dead? Bitten? Converted? Were they, like Norm, now screaming apologies their victims couldn't understand?

_No point jumping off cliffs_ , Norm said. _I'm already dead._

Paddington hesitated, not sure whether his news was bad or good. It was definitely awkward. "You're still alive," Paddington said, "just very sick. A long drop would definitely kill you."

Norm stared at Paddington, then at the wall, then at the floor. _Well... shit. Someone should have told me that a month ago._ His head wobbled up. _How many humans are left?_

"About six thousand."

_We've converted a third of Archi_? Norm shook his head in dismay. Probably. _Can you stop us?_

"I don't think so. All the best fighters have already been bitten," Paddington said, pleasantly surprised that the zombies wanted the humans to win. It was nice to have someone on his side for once. Especially the enemy.

Can I help?

"Why are you fighting if you don't want to win?"

_When you see a human, the brainlust takes over. You lose control until the humans are dead or converted._ Norm frowned with his rotting, skinny face. _Wait, if you're not a zombie, why don't I want your brain?_

"Maybe I've got the wrong sort of brain," Paddington thought aloud.

What?

"Nothing." Now wasn't the time to explain that, technically, Paddington wasn't human anymore.

_Well_ , Norm said in a let's-make-the-best-of-it tone, _I don't suppose you'd like to release me?_

Honestly, Paddington would. Norm seemed like a good sort, but... "I think you fall under the category of 'a danger to the community'."

I just want to be home again.

"Home?" Paddington asked. Zombies... getting on with their lives?

You think just because I'm dead, or undead, I can't have friends? You think I don't have wants?

"Apart from brains?"

_That was a cheap shot_. Norm glared at him. Mostly.

Paddington couldn't exactly release him here, but there might be another option. "Maybe you _can_ help," Paddington said. "There's a prophecy about Three Brothers – the Brown brothers. If one of my friends can't stop it, tomorrow night the zombies will spread across the world."

You can't let us do that!

"If I let you go, can you stop your people attacking?"

No. But I might be able to stop them from going to fight in the first place.

With a deep breath, Paddington stepped closer to the zombie. And again. He moved in until the stench of living decay choked even his weak human nose. The zombie was content to stand still. Honestly, one of them wasn't much of a problem. Even Paddington could handle one zombie. Especially a one-armed one.

"Okay," he said. "Lead the way."

Norm nodded, sort of. Paddington stepped aside and followed, never taking his eyes off Norm. It wasn't that Paddington didn't trust him, it was that he couldn't. Zombies tried to kill you. It was what they did. And yet he was walking toward _more_ zombies. He was leading a zombie to all the other zombies. By himself. Unarmed. Was he insane?

Probably. But he'd never felt more alive.

As they walked, Paddington asked Norm about the attack on Samuel, how he became a zombie, all the loose ends he hadn't solved yet. Norm answered willingly, but stressed that every conversion was unintentional.

After twenty minutes of walking, they saw their first human.

"Blaaargh!" Norm yelled. _Copper! Stop me!_ His staggering feet pulled him awkwardly toward the young girl who had stopped, crying, at the entrance to the street ten feet away.

"How?"

Grab my arm or something!

Paddington grabbed Norm's right arm, though he tried to avoid the red blotches and lesions. It was like holding a skeleton, all bone and loose skin. Then, with a loud crack, Paddington stumbled back a step and stared with shock at his prize.

"Norm, I've still got your arm!"

Stop me, you useless arse!

Paddington dropped the limb and ran in front of Norm. How to stop the zombie? He didn't want to get close to the mouth, even with the ice cream container in place. The shoulders? No: Norm only had one, and it was probably the next bit that would fall off.

_Hurry!_ Norm shouted.

Paddington planted his feet and extended one arm at chest height. Norm lurched into it at full speed, but Paddington held him there easily. Norm's one remaining half-arm reached out toward the girl in the pink dress.

"There you are!" A woman scooped the girl into her arms, then froze when she saw Norm.

Paddington turned and smiled at her. "Nothing to see here, ma'am," he said.

The woman's mouth flapped, then she ran off. As soon as they'd gone, Norm's gargles drained to silence.

Thank you.

"Sorry about your arm." Paddington nodded at the severed limb a few feet away.

Norm hefted shoulders up and let them drop down again. Bits of skin fell free. _It's not like I use them._

"You're not angry?"

What would that achieve?

The zombie was making far too much sense, so Paddington changed topic. "I was the only thing between you and her. Why didn't you try to bite _me_?" Actually, was it wise to give an enemy tactical advice?

You're not food.

"Lucky me." They started walking again. "You weren't very difficult to stop."

_Try stopping a hundred_ , Norm said, lumbering next to him. _Speaking of which, you really should get something to kill us with._

"You know," Paddington said, "people keep telling me that."

* * *

Before they started off again, Norm very, very slowly extended his stump of an arm and turned a wobbly circle while staring up at the moon and stars. He couldn't see any stars, and the moon was nothing but a blob, but he felt better for knowing they were up there. He was free again, free to make his own decisions.

Norm started away on shaky legs. He was a long way from the plump human he'd been. His last meal had been at his father's house thirty-three days ago. The new zombie, Jim, could probably count Norm's ribs through his shirt.

Made him wonder, would he waste away until he lacked the muscle to raise his arms? Then... would he die, or would he remain forever an inch from death?

So long as there were interesting people around him, Norm didn't mind.

They'd walked for about another hour, Norm guessed, when Jim stopped at an abandoned car. There were a few around. People tended to drive toward the front lines and then either run or stagger away from them.

Jim opened the drive's door. "Keys are in the ignition," he said.

_Good for a quick getaway_ , Norm said.

"Good for us."

Jim managed, after a while, to bend Norm into an appropriate shape to lie across the back seat, then drove them through the abandoned streets. "So what is it about brains?" Jim asked. He'd clearly been thinking about asking for a while. "Why not crave... arms, or cattle, or socks?"

_I don't know. Why do you crave food?_ Norm asked. Brains were a boring topic. _So what's this prophecy?_

Jim relayed what he knew, which wasn't a lot, and what he guessed, which was. As he did, they started passing zombies on the streets. None ran over to the car or banged on the windows, taken by the brainlust; young Jim clearly wasn't a zombie like Norm. His voice didn't arrive in Norm's mind like the others, it came through his ears. And he wasn't decaying, or losing motor control, and he didn't have the brainlust.

Was he a new kind of zombie? Did he have something to do with the prophecy?

_Any leads on the demon?_ Norm asked. _Because I'd like to shake the hand of the man who's going to save the world._

Jim sighed. "Norm, if you met him you wouldn't shake his hand, you'd try to eat it. And _then_ where will we be?"

That was a fair point. Jim parked the car and helped Norm out of the back. They were deep in zombie territory now. In fact... that was the city hall, where the massacre had happened. Zombies drifted toward it, as did some cows, and Norm joined the flow. Jim waited near the car. For a moment Norm thought Jim would get back in it and drive off, which was the sensible thing to do if he really wasn't a zombie.

Then he shut the door and ran after Norm.

Inside the old hall, zombies tried their best to sit on seats. Many failed, spewing chairs and breaking bones that would never heal.

"Oh Three-God," Jim said.

_What?_ Norm asked.

"Where do I start? The blood? The unburied bodies? The smell?" Jim shook his head. "I've seen corpses before – mostly animal carcasses – but... these are people! Torn apart, left to rot, stuck to one another with their own blood!"

You get used to it.

"I don't want to!" Jim yelled.

What did Jim expect them to do? The zombies could hardly give them a proper burial. Also, why were burials considered "proper"? What was improper about letting them stay here, where they'd died? What difference did it make? They were just meat.

_Ah, Norm!_ someone said. _How are you?_

Norm turned to find Mayor Baldwin, minus his pointed dentures, not that they made a difference to how he talked these days.

_Fine_ , Norm said.

_Who's this?_ Baldwin stepped forward and squinted at Jim, who stepped back and looked toward the door.

_This is Jim Paddington_ , Norm said.

_So it is. You're not here to arrest us for loitering, are you, detective?_ Baldwin laughed.

"Try murder," Jim said, with a long glance at the stage.

Baldwin raised his hairless eyebrows. _He's a right laugh._

_Give him a break, he's still in denial_ , Norm said.

Well, there's a place for him. The council could use a policeman.

Jim nodded, but now he wasn't staring anywhere. "The zombies have a government... Of course they do."

_We didn't when I left_ , Norm said. What had changed? Why?

People need organising, Norm, and now I've got the Law on my side.

"So no other policemen have been... uh... zombified?" Jim asked, snapping out of wherever he'd been.

_None from the southern station_ , Baldwin said. _Rumour is that Sergeant Paddington and Constable Appleby are doing a good job leading the resistance, but the only reports we can get are the screams of those already taken by the brainlust_.

That seemed to satisfy Jim for the moment. At the front, a few zombies lumbered onstage and commenced the nightly performance of The Bill.

Norm swept his head heavily toward the door. _Come on_.

"You have a drama club..." Jim said, pointing back.

Norm was getting a bit sick of Jim's perpetual surprise. _So? Did you think we'd all be senseless, mindless drones?_

"Well, yes."

Zombist.

* * *

As the sun cast its first glorious golden rays across Archi, Quentin slumped to the ground, drained. He'd just planted an axe in Denise's face and in a second he'd have to steady her head with his boot so he could pull it out again.

Beside him, Sergeant Paddington finished off Rose and savoured the seconds before the next wave of zombies reached them.

"Constable, up!" Andrea shouted.

Straining muscles that had begged for sleep eight hours ago, Quentin rose. The only other person with them, the only _one_ to have faced the zombies, was Ian Athanasius. Honestly, Quentin used to think he was a murdering bastard, but now Ian struck him as one of the few good people left.

"Sarge, I can't," Quentin said, leaning heavily on the makeshift fort.

"There's only fifteen of them, constable."

"Come on, Quent," Ian said. "It'll be like that group an hour ago."

Except it hadn't been an hour ago. More like four, and there'd been ten humans fighting then. Where were they now, those that had fled? Saving their families? Useless, short-sighted idea. Unless something drastic happened, the zombies would own the island in hours. They already had the southern half.

Which meant they'd overrun his house. He couldn't go home.

Not that he'd considered it anyway. With no organised resistance, it was up to him and Andrea to stand what ground they could. God knew where Jim was. Quentin wanted to damn him for not being there, but he also hoped Jim was far away – on the Mainland, maybe. He'd probably love it there, Enanti bless him.

The wall of zombies was thirty feet away. Quentin settled a silent curse on Chief Constable Quinn – wherever he was – pulled the fire axe out of Denise's head, and grabbed a shotgun. Ian reloaded his pistol, his shovel in the crook of his arm. Andrea clutched that sabre she'd brought from home. Family heirloom, apparently. Still... bloody effective.

When the zombies were close enough, Quentin and Ian fired. They'd stopped with complicated attack strategies ages ago. When your opponent ran at you in a straight line, you aimed along said line and fired until you ran out of ammunition, which happened after Quentin's third blast. He tossed the shotgun into the horde – dropping things risked him slipping on them later – and grabbed his axe.

At first, as always, the zombies headed straight for ramshackle fort of tables and fruit stalls and huddled around the closest side. Axe and shovel and sword hacked at arms and heads and zombies toppled. The next line stepped on the fallen. Too many were attacking at once; another minute and the horde would surround the barricade and find the hole they'd left at the back for quick escapes.

"Fall away!" Quentin shouted. As undead friends yelled for his blood, Quentin staggered out of the fortress. He aimed his axe at their necks and reminded himself that they were already dead. Nothing going on in their heads, nothing to be done for them. They were just bloodthirsty beasts.

Quentin was five steps out of the barricade when he realised Andrea wasn't with Ian. She was back at the fort, trapped in a corner. The zombies had reached the exit with her still inside. The only way out was through the attackers. She'd never make it without being bitten.

"Get back Quentin!" Andrea swung the sabre like a mad thing. Limbs rained around her. Quentin stumbled a step toward the fray, the axe weighing a tonne in his hand, and struck down his mother's bridge partner.

"We both know how this ends!" Andrea shouted. The sabre was really flying now. With too many corpses around her to aim for individuals, Andrea struck wide and shallow. More zombies poured into the street from the far end, drawn by the noised or the smell of brains or whatever made them stumble where they did.

Quentin tried to think like Jim. He'd see some opportunity here. What did they have they could use? There was nothing except him.

That might do... He could draw most of them away using himself as bait and Andrea could fight her way through the stragglers...

He turned to her—

And saw a zombie close his on her left hand. Andrea convulsed and threw off her attacker, but in the moment of weakness others bit into her – the shoulders, the arms, the neck, the head. Andrea's fingers, already beginning to shake, locked around the sabre.

Quentin felt the axe fall from his hand as he lumbered away and around the corner. He shoved Ian onward and kept running, but they collapsed together less than a street away.

Andrea was dead. One of _them_.

On cue, a single zombie dragged his uncooperating legs onto the street, spotted them, and warbled something. They might have two minutes until the normal zombies reached them, but Andrea would cover the same distance in ten seconds. She'd be as strong and fast as a human, but as ruthless and bloodthirsty as a zombie. Once she rounded that corner, he was as good as dead.

More of the undead spilled onto the road, but Andrea wasn't among them. Quentin was sure he'd spot her. She, like he, was still in her police uniform rather than filthy rags.

Any second.

Any second now.

Still Andrea didn't appear. Not that it mattered: there were fifty zombies here and Quentin had dropped his only weapon. He didn't even have the energy to flee.

Ian trudged toward the horde. When he reached it, he walked backward, just out of reach, and slammed his shovel into their heads. They tended to fall after the second or third blow, but Quentin saw the shakes in Ian's arms: they'd tire.

Even if they didn't, Ian was beating friends and neighbours to death. Looking them in their hollow, vacant eyes while he did it. How long before he dropped the shovel and let them win? Because, deep down, maybe being one of Them was less horrifying. It couldn't be any worse.

To the sounds of zombie growls and distant gunfire, Quentin closed his eyes and lay down to sleep.

* * *

The morning's first rays illuminated the bustling marketplace; brought colour where before all had been drab and grey. Red zombie chins, pallid white flesh, bursting yellow sores, all were highlighted in the fresh dawn. Paddington drew a deep breath – through his mouth, to avoid the smell – and sent it out frosty, embracing the dawn.

Today the world would end.

_Fresh fruit!_ a storeowner called. _Open all night and all day! Fresh fruit, very fresh!_

Fascinated, Paddington examined the stock. "This isn't fresh."

What did you say, boy?

"This has gone soggy."

The thickset vendor placed his shaking hands on his hips. If it came to a fight, Paddington wasn't sure he could take him, but at least he could outrun him.

_Are you calling me a liar?_ the vendor asked.

Hesitantly, Paddington prodded a lemon with his finger. It oozed brown liquid. "Yes I am. Why are you even here?"

The storeman leaned against the counter. _Ah, well that's the Great Question, innit? The big one. Why are any of us here? Is it coincidence, chance, fate?_

"No, no." Paddington caught the vendor's eyes so there wouldn't be any confusion. "Why... are you trying... to sell... fruit?"

The vendor stared back with pure-white globes. _Because... people... are buying. If you're not, step aside, there's a queue forming._

Paddington looked around. There was, indeed, a sizeable line for the register, most of who were accidentally throwing fruit onto the ground as their muscles betrayed them. Paddington returned to Norm's side. "Does that make sense to you?"

No. It's noble that they don't want to kill, but they must know that it'll taste like bile, so why bother?

"Because they always used to," Paddington said, thinking aloud. "They always _used_ to buy fruit, so they're doing it now. They're following routine, pretending nothing's happened. I bet out there zombies are tilling fields, trying to milk cows... actions devoid of context. Just _doing_ , because they don't know how else to be."

Norm scoffed. _This lot'll want a mayor again, too. Can't accept the opportunities here. Just bloody sheep._

A cow passed them with a loud moo. It looked happy, somehow. "Speaking of animals," Paddington said, "what's with all the cows?"

_Why, you don't like cows either?_ Norm asked.

Though he tried to control it, Paddington knew his voice emerged strained. "You don't think it's odd that there are cows _everywhere_?"

_Cows need company. Maybe they didn't like all the cars before. But cows aside, what do you think?_ Norm looked around with satisfaction.

Paddington spotted ten bodies in the marketplace. He even recognised one of them. "You leave people to rot on the street," he said.

_Well, you have to step around_ _them_ _, granted, but otherwise very nice. Everyone's free to be himself._

"Maybe." Paddington looked back at the fruit seller. "But none of it means anything."

That depends on whether we're more than the sum of our actions.

Norm started off again and Paddington followed. He shouldn't stay much longer – shouldn't have stayed this long – but it was easy to get distracted when people stood on every street corner, bathed in blood, reciting poetry or arguing about whether eating brains was the essence of zombity or whether it was a distraction from which they should free themselves to better extend their minds.

They came to an elderly, emaciated female zombie who was shouting at a sizeable audience. The blood on her audience members was still wet: fresh converts.

_We must be strong during these crises_ , the woman said. Again Paddington heard a loud moan with his ears, but understood the words as intended. He'd have to ask McGregor how that worked. Was it telepathy? _Why should any rule?_ the zombie asked. _Every zombie is equal._

_Gladys!_ Norm shouted.

_Norm!_ Gladys stumbled off the pavement and wrapped her arms around Norm, shaking him. Norm pressed the stump of his left arm against her, the closest he could come to a hug. The act knocked the loosened ice cream container off Norm's chin to dangle around his neck and revealed his few remaining teeth in what may have been a smile.

_This is Norm_ , Gladys said to the crowd. _He is the first of us, a wise and just man. And who's this?_

Detective Jim Paddington.

A new convert?

"For the fiftieth time, I'm not a zombie," Paddington muttered, slightly off-put by Gladys's relationship with Norm. Could zombies...

Perhaps it was best not to complete that thought.

_But we can hear you_ , Gladys said, as if that settled the matter.

"Norm, how many times did I stop you from hurting someone?"

_Is this true?_ Gladys asked. Was that hope in her clouded eyes?

_Yes it's true_ , Norm said.

With that, the horde pressed in around him, hands reaching in.

In the darkness within him, the wolf was out of his basket and ready to jump, but first Paddington had to get out of Quentin's overlarge clothes...

After a few seconds, Paddington became aware that the zombies had stopped rushing and were now staring, confused. He readjusted his jacket and tried to relax.

_You truly don't share the brainlust?_ Gladys asked after an awkward moment.

Paddington looked around the circle of zombies. It was three or four deep in all directions. If he said the wrong thing here, he'd never leave the circle unbitten. What would he become then? Werezombie? Zombiewolf? Paddington really didn't want to find out. But what was the right thing to say?

Didn't matter. As his mother always said, tell the truth and let the liars sort each other out.

"No," Paddington said. "I don't have the brainlust because I'm not a z—"

_He is the Chosen One!_ one of the younger zombies shouted. Some of the undead crunched to the ground in a poor mockery of kneeling that probably broke both their legs.

_Stop that!_ Norm said, waving his stump at them. Whether this was an invitation for them to stand up or a threat Paddington wasn't sure. _What bloody chosen one?_

Well... uh...

You don't know, do you?

_There's always a Chosen One_ , another fresh zombie said, nodding. Or losing control of his neck. _One who will free us and lead us to the new life._

_I already did that!_ Norm yelled.

"Yes," Paddington said, hoping they'd believe it, "maybe Norm's your chosen one."

No. The Chosen One is special.

A cold silence fell over the horde: something known but unsaid. Paddington had seen enough of the puzzle to guess the shape of the missing piece. "Someone else... special... has been here, hasn't he?"

Gladys answered, her fingers toying clumsily at the hem of her torn dress. _Harold Brown came round, raising all sorts of hell. He took a bunch to the front lines. And he was... wrong._

"Wrong how?" Paddington asked. Thomas Brown was almost certainly a vampire by now; since Conall hadn't gone after Lisa, he must have gone to sire Richard; and now Harold was a zombie. The Three Brothers were ready. They needed to find that demon soon.

Or, they needed to convince him and his Team that the prophecy was a serious threat.

_He was too quick_ , Gladys said, _and too rotted, and he didn't care about this place. He bit through Sophie's head, just for being in his way._

There was horrified silence.

_He... bit through her_ _head_ _?_ Norm asked. _But why?_

"Because," Paddington said, "I think he actually _can_ taste people's thoughts. The brainlust makes you all _think_ you can, but that's just an instinct left over from the time when zombies were like him."

_But Harold can actually do it?_ Gladys asked, covering her mouth with a hand and, perhaps, wincing. It was hard to tell because one of her eyes was perennially bloodshot.

"That and more. If he's the original form of zombie then he's already dead..." That would make him tricky to kill.

_But you have come to save us from him!_ one of the youths shouted. More zombies arrived every second. Even other street preachers had joined their crowd.

Norm winced. The sagging skin on his bony face wrinkled like a pug. _That's not actually why Jim is here._

"Yes it is," Paddington said. When Norm looked at him in shock, he added, "Remember that prophecy I told you about? The end of the world? I'm against the idea."

The crowd began bowing. _He has come to save us! The zombie messiah!_

"No, I'm—"

He will challenge Harold and liberate us all!

"Shut up for—"

He is the perfect zombie!

"I'm not a bloody zombie!" Paddington yelled.

After a pregnant pause, Norm birthed the question, _Then what are you?_

"A wolf," he said.

The zombies cocked heads to one side and muttered to their neighbours.

_Yes_ , Norm said, _and my what a shiny coat you have._

"I don't care if you believe me. I'm a werewolf, the duke is a damn vampire, and the world's going to end very soon unless Mitchell can stop it. Just promise you'll do what you can against Harold."

_You can count on us, lord!_ shouted a zombie.

"Not you," Paddington told him. "You stay here until you're sane."

Paddington started away. The crowd parted as he approached, which was nice. He'd been afraid that they'd force him to stay, to become either their leader or their dinner, but he kept his head up and acted like nothing could stop him and nothing did. Maybe that was half the battle: look like you knew what you were doing and nobody saw otherwise.

There were shuffling, scraping footsteps behind him. Paddington found the crowd drifting after him like a comet's tail, Norm at the head.

Where are you going?

"To sleep, somewhere. I've had a long day." Heck, the last time he'd slept was when he'd sired himself, and that hardly counted as rest because his body was reconfiguring its own DNA. Since waking up, it had been all torture and terror.

They walked in silence. Behind them, the crowd broke apart and fell away. Paddington passed another pair of corpses. "Oh and Norm, eat something. Not brains; go and buy some fruit."

I don't like fruit now.

"I don't care how it tastes, eat it anyway."

Why?

"You see this?" Paddington pointed at a skeletal figure on the ground.

_That's Dave_ , Norm said. _He was one of the first..._

"There's no visible cause of death. No trauma, no gunshot wounds. He just keeled over, safe and far from the fighting." Paddington paused. "You don't feel hungry, do you Norm? Even after a month?"

No.

Paddington nodded at the corpse. "Neither did Dave."

# Chapter Twenty-One: Storming the Castle

After finding the bodies at the station, Mitchell located another abandoned house, set up a brief camp, and ordered his men to sleep until sunrise. In the dark, when his mind wasn't picturing Harold biting through Normson's skull, or Peterson's corpse under a trail of blood, or what remained of Thompson's body after Richard had finished eating it, Mitchell formed a new plan.

The Archians believed this prophecy, so killing any of the Browns should stop further attacks. Mitchell wanted to stay far away from Harold, and Richard had disappeared, but they knew where to find Thomas...

So he let his men sleep, because he sure as hell wasn't attacking the vampires until after sunrise.

Then, as the sun warmed up for the day, McGregor radioed that Paddington was currently at the headquarters. Mitchell roused the troops, shoved them in the van, and sped over.

"Where is he?" Mitchell dropped his L85 onto McGregor's overflowing table, dislodging the careful layers of paper.

McGregor was too bright for someone who'd been up all night; he must have brewed more wake-up juice. "He left five minutes ago," McGregor said.

"How'd he escape the werewolves?"

McGregor stifled a yawn. "Didn't say, but he thought the Browns might be more powerful than the other creatures."

Mitchell snatched his gun from the table and bit back the urge to scream at McGregor. "We're going to the duke's."

McGregor's eyes lit up. "Really? I've always wanted to see a vampire!"

"Oh?" Mitchell asked, pointing his rifle at the paper-covered table. "I assumed you'd want to stay here and read your book, maybe grind another rainforest to make your notes, but if you want to help us attack a vampire nest grab your gun and let's be off."

McGregor rubbed his bulbous head. "Ah, no."

"Just remembered how big the duke's family is?"

"Ah, yes."

"Keep translating; you're running out of time," Mitchell said. "We're going to kill Thomas Brown."

"Kill?"

"Kill," Mitchell said. "We knock him off and all that's left is this one happy demon pissing all over their prophecy. Found anything else to help me do that?"

"Uh, not personally." McGregor waved a hand dismissively at his notes. "Just the same stuff about the Three Ends – fire, head, and heart – but I still don't know which goes with which creature since staking, decapitation, and burning _all_ appear in vampire tales. But!" He scrambled through the papers. "Paddington said that plants were key... Here we are!" He offered Mitchell a sheet of paper.

Mitchell stared. He'd had less than two fitful hours of sleep and he was being offered... what? "You want me to fight vampires," he said, "with flower power?"

"He was insistent. Especially about, uh, _Nepeta Dynatos_."

Mitchell looked over to Skylar. She sneered when she saw that the men wanted her input. "Oh, I don't have a cock, so I must know about all manner of pretty things, right sir?" She snorted in a very unladylike way. "Did you want a hand with your quilting next sir? I've got a lovely sewing callus on this finger."

Before Mitchell could order her to run laps of the block until her P.M.S. had passed, McGregor shouted, "He brought some," and ran into the kitchen. A moment later he returned with a thick-stemmed plant that had a cluster of heart-shaped flowers.

Mitchell didn't glorifying this with speech. This island and its detective were beyond stupid.

"He said to use it as a last resort," McGregor said. "Just break it and drop it."

"That's it?" Mitchell asked. He'd hated the prophecy for being vague, but Paddington had taken vague to a whole new level. "We're marching into battle low on ammunition, with no intel on our enemy... and armed with our young friend's best guesses and a pretty purple flower?"

"This is the best plan ever," Clarkson said from the sofa. Mitchell kicked him up.

"Paddington's not that young," Truman said. "About your age, probably, sir."

"Then he should know better," Mitchell said.

Five minutes later Mitchell, Clarkson, Truman, and Skylar each left the hideout with a clump of _Nepeta Dynatos_ bulging in their cargo pants. Another ten minutes brought them to the manor's gates. Another second brought them through them. The impact shattered the windscreen and the van coughed, spluttered, and chugged to the front entrance. On the way, they passed deer and sheep and elk and something that looked like a big cow or ox with long curling horns.

Mitchell slammed the handbrake and leapt out in front of the manor. It loomed over them, far too tall for only two storeys, its shadow stretching away to his left. Shaking off vertigo, Mitchell eyed his three soldiers. Clarkson would do as he was told, complaining every step of the way. Skylar would obey quietly unless he told her to do anything she could construe as sexist. And Truman would do whatever he was told, up to and including suicide. He was useful like that.

"Room by room sweep." Mitchell grabbed a shotgun off Clarkson. Their L85s were nearly dry and Archi didn't carry 5.56 millimetre rounds, so they were saving the big guns for Thomas. "Watch the entrances." Mitchell headed for the front door.

Which flew open to reveal a neatly-dressed bald man.

"Can I help you, sirs?" he asked, raising a minigun.

Its barrels spun and Mitchell dived behind the door. Skylar posted up on the other side, ready to duck into the manor as soon as the butler stopped firing. Clarkson and Truman took refuge behind the van, which was being redecorated with long rows of holes.

Mitchell swung his shotgun around the door and fired blindly into the hall. The minigun's barrels whined as they stopped spinning.

Skylar and Mitchell rounded the corner and faced the dark entranceway. The minigun lay in the middle of it. The butler was nowhere to be seen, hopefully because he'd run off scared or injured and not because he was waiting in ambush.

Mitchell felt a tap on the shoulder and moved into the sitting room, shotgun swinging from artwork to couch to sofa. The next room was a dining room with a long table. Apart from their boots on the exquisite carpet, there was no noise: no ominous ticking clocks, no breathing. Nothing.

"Where'd he go?" Truman asked. He'd lost his trademark cowboy hat outside the _Bleeding Heck_ and his blond hair was swept forward. His accent seemed less pronounced, too, now that he'd lost that confident American swagger. But he had picked up the minigun.

They continued, dark room by candlelit room, throwing back the heavy curtains to let the sun retake the house. Having cleared the ground floor, they found themselves in the main entranceway with its long, wide staircase. "Sir, wouldn't it be best to leave now?" Clarkson asked.

Annoyingly, he was right: better to exit without loss than walk into a trap, but what about Thomas Brown? What about contacting London? The satellite dish was their only hope of the reinforcements needed to eradicate the zombie horde. Prophecy or not, what they needed was up there.

"Move," Mitchell said, pointing his shotgun up the staircase. It was a strategic nightmare: they were like slow-moving ducks on a shooting range. Mitchell watched the doors, ready to scramble for the cover of the banisters, but they made it to the top unharmed.

"Where are they all?" Truman asked.

"Probably asleep in their coffins," Skylar said.

"What coffins?" Clarkson asked. "There was no crypt downstairs. These are the shittiest vampires ever."

"Clean sweep," Mitchell said. "Room by room."

The unit moved into a hallway. Behind its first door were a bedroom and a vampire, clearly identifiable by her cat-like eyes and teeth, wearing a light off-the-shoulder number which swayed elegantly as she kicked the minigun out of Truman's grip.

Mitchell fired his shotgun, but the vampire leapt onto the far wall. Before Mitchell could chamber the next shell, she'd bounded up and out of sight.

Which was when Mitchell realised that the walls weren't connected to the ceiling; there was a crawlspace up there.

Truman threw wide the windows, left the minigun on the floor, and they moved on. Three dank, musty-smelling rooms along, they met the next vampire. She, too, was dressed lightly – largely because she was asleep in bed – but she woke at the sound of the door opening and screamed. For a moment, Mitchell thought they'd walked in on innocent bystander. Then she leapt out of bed and, still airborne, tore the shotgun from Mitchell's hands.

Mitchell swung a weak punch and felt her crumple, gasping, at the impact. She felt like old paper, dry and brittle. His pistol cleared its holster and he fired at her, but the vampire had turned her fall into a roll and was now scampering in the crawlspace above them.

"Oh, hello," said a voice from above.

"What's going on? Why hasn't the human taken care of this?"

"He's speaking with father now."

"Nice of him to wake me."

"You didn't hear the shots?"

"Father _knows_ I'm a heavy sleeper."

Skylar opened the curtains as the rest of them zeroed in on the vampires' positions. They raised their weapons and awaited Mitchell's go.

And were interrupted by a male vampire standing in the doorway and screaming.

He ran off.

"What's his problem?" Clarkson asked.

"Daylight." Mitchell nodded at the open window. "Score one for the humans."

The next three bedrooms were empty, but as they approached each they heard sounds of light footfalls in the ceiling. The fourth room was empty when they peered in, but full by the time they were halfway to the curtain. A dozen figures landed all around them. Judging from the women's shocked faces, though, this hadn't been a well-planned ambush. Maybe they'd run out of places to run.

Outmanned three to one, the Team members grabbed their L85s with their offhand. Eight weapons against twelve vampires. Mitchell wasn't sure who'd win the fight.

"Drop them," said the eldest man. Mitchell noticed the hint of teeth on his bottom lip, the straightness of his spine, the fine tailored suit.

"You're unarmed," Mitchell said. "Planning on killing us the old-fashioned way?"

"Not all of you," said the duke. He looked about sixty, but with vampires that might mean nothing. "We might spare _you_ , captain... Perhaps you'll come in useful one day."

"Trying to teach an old demon new tricks?" Mitchell asked.

Andraste didn't reply, but some of his daughters had a malicious glee in their eyes. How long until they realised that the Team would be fun to chase?

"'Ello there," said a new voice from the doorway.

Mitchell heard someone fire and saw the bullet chip the hallway wallpaper, which shouldn't have been possible because of the big fat vampire in the way. He was gone now, but gone where? Why hadn't Mitchell seen him move?

A _gak_ behind him made Mitchell turn. The fat vampire was holding Clarkson off the ground with one long-nailed hand. It looked like a tubby Richard Brown with shining waist-length hair and dark skin. Thomas's ears were slightly pointed and his face was rounder than his brothers'. The buttons on his fine shirt were strained and ready to pop.

Mitchell aimed his L85, but Thomas used Clarkson as a shield more effectively than his brother Harold had used Normson. At best, Mitchell might graze Thomas's wide belly. And all the time, Thomas smiled with freckled cheeks and curled fangs. That was odd – the Andrastes' and the mayor's teeth came straight down, not curled – but it was a thought for later, if they survived.

Mitchell, Truman, and Skylar edged away from Clarkson and Thomas Brown, but now there were thirteen vampires against three humans.

Yep. They were dead.

Unless...

Hardly believing he was doing it, Mitchell released his L85 and reached into the pocket of his trousers. The clump of _Nepeta Dynatos_ was still there. Would it do any good? Probably not.

Mitchell crushed the plant into a ball and tossed it onto the floor. Three vampires pounced immediately, slapping at the flowers and making a deep, happy sound like a purr. In seconds, Truman and Skylar had thrown their own bundles of _Nepeta Dynatos_ and Mitchell yelled, "Go!"

Thomas flung Clarkson away, bumped the duke aside, and pawed at the plant with his long claws. Beside the doorway, Clarkson cradled his bleeding head and Truman tried to pull him to safety.

Mitchell was already in the hallway. He had no idea what the vampires were doing, but he wanted to be long gone before they'd finished.

Then Thomas looked at Clarkson, bared his teeth, and suddenly he was standing right _there_ , behind Clarkson, holding him by both shoulders.

"Leave him!" Mitchell shouted.

Forget London. Forget Thomas. Forget the mission. He just wanted to live.

* * *

With one hand, Thomas caressed the Mainlander's head. His fingers came away red. The soldier grabbed his rifle, but Thomas ripped it off its strap and snapped it in half, still staring at the human's blood on his hand.

He licked it.

It was good.

Dimly, Thomas knew the Mainlander had slipped out of his grip, but that didn't matter: Thomas was blocking the doorway. There was no escape.

Bright light flooded the room. The others, who had been playing contentedly in its centre, leapt out of the way. Three of them pulled the Mainlander away from the curtain and pinned him to the wall. The others disappeared into the ceiling.

Only Thomas remained, basking in the sunlight and grinning. He drew the curtain across and the others hesitantly returned.

"What shall we do with the human, sire?" asked Adonis.

"I've a few ideas," said Thomas.

"Why didn't you wake me?" shouted one of the girls, storming toward her father. "Is this because of me and James?"

"You have been warned before, Clytemnestra."

"He should have had an accident, like all the others," said Leander. His skin was all lobstery, like Richard's when he'd fallen asleep in the sun a few years back.

"And risk his mother's ire?" Adonis asked his son. "I think not."

"He stole the Book of Three!" shouted Leander.

"I can't believe you were going to let me die!" yelled Clytemnestra.

"Quiet!" roared the duke. For a moment, there was silence. "When Thomas rejoins his brothers tonight, Detective Paddington shall be remade however the Three-God chooses and I shan't hear another word about it."

Far behind him, Thomas heard the human tiptoe for the doorway and faced him. The Mainlander's heart beat faster, the blood racing in his veins. Thomas could see it; it made him want to feed.

"Why?" the human asked. "Why do this?"

"To reveal the beauty of the Three-God," said Adonis, "and spread humanity's pure forms among the nations. To return the earth to her former glory."

"Because it's fun," said Thomas.

The Andrastes exchanged worried glances; Thomas would deal with them later. If they couldn't accept their places in the new world, he'd remove them.

"Glad that's sorted," the human said. His pistol cleared its holster and pressed to his temple, but Thomas had snatched it away before he could fire.

"None of that, now," he said. Thomas pointed at the loud daughter, still in her nightdress. "I have a gift for you. To teach you proper respect and responsibilityness." He ran his finger along the human's blood. "A delicious new pet."

# Chapter Twenty-Two: Reading Between the Lies

Paddington slept a good five hours in his own bed. When he awoke he showered, shaved, changed into a fresh suit, and climbed into his car. His own car. Not Quentin's. Not Quentin's clothes. He felt better than he had in three days, when the Team had first arrived.

Sure, he still had no idea which of the Three Ends corresponded to which Brown – and they were virtually invincible until they worked it out – but he was slightly rested, a little refreshed, and that made all the difference.

His yellow Hillman Imp chugged to the station, where Paddington found the desk radio had been stolen. Had McGregor tried to contact the Mainland again, or had someone finally set up a resistance? His mother sprung to mind, but where would she put a base?

Adonis's castle was the logical choice – it had heavy main gates, was large and defensible, and at the island's north-most tip it was as far from the zombies as was possible – but Paddington discounted it. If the resistance was there, it was no good to him. Adonis would kill him as soon as he passed the gate.

So where else? The council chambers were tall, fortified, fairly central, and a good symbol.

With a final glance at his half-ruined station – the cell's bent bars where Richard had broken out; the carpet stained with Thompson and Peterson's blood; their corpses lying neatly together and covered with a blanket – Paddington journeyed into the late-morning light.

A few hundred feet from the council chambers, he stopped to stare for a minute. The whole area was cordoned off and patrolled. His car was searched – boot included – and then he was waved through. The guards were in casual clothes and their movements were sloppy compared with the Team's rigid efficiency, but they were doing a good job. Paddington parked in front of Idryo's Champion, climbed the stairs to the chambers, and entered the chaos.

Inside what had once been the mayor's office, people hurried in every direction. Motivated people, who knew where they were going. People with roles. Something had clearly happened while he slept. There were maps stuck to every wall, with lines of string pinned on them. A big table in the middle was crowded with radios and telephones and people who didn't know how to use them.

Then Paddington heard a Scottish voice he'd come to love. At the mayor's desk sat Lisa, biting her nails, her blonde hair frazzled. "Uh, right. Yes. Is this... Does this lane go through to...? When I was a girl, we'd... Or has it been... blocked...?" She stopped, finished. The guy she was talking to walked off shaking his head.

Paddington stopped beside the desk. "Hey honey."

Lisa spotted him. "Jim!" She jumped up and hugged him. He kissed her. She kissed back. Behind them, he had no doubt that everyone had stopped to watch.

"So," he said, "what's going on?"

"I got sick of sitting around at Quentin's waiting to die, so I decided to form a zombie resistance."

"Damn fine idea." Paddington wandered over to the maps on the wall. "They control all this?" The stringed-off section was more than a third of Archi: the Church of Enanti, the _Bleeding Heck_ , the southern police station, the Church of Tipote, Quentin's house...

That was a lot of area.

"How are you coordinating the teams?" he asked.

Lisa nodded to the central table. "If anyone spots something, they go to the nearest house and call us. The whole system was already here, waiting."

"Yeah. Adonis knew all about zombies," Paddington said. He didn't mention that Adonis had wanted the zombies; scapegoats wouldn't help now. "How long have you been out here?"

"About two hours ago, I decided I'd rather die fighting zombies than trapped at Quentin's, but I'm not much good with a busted arm so I recruited his neighbours to help me."

There had to be more to it than that. "What was the incentive?" he asked.

"Quentin's shotgun. I had them call everyone they could and get them here. By the time I arrived, there were three hundred heavily-armed Archians very annoyed at being up before dawn, so I shouted at them to get into groups, or come upstairs if they knew their way around a radio."

Archians were generally too proud to take orders, but they were far too proud to sit at home while a filthy Mainlander did more to save their home than they did.

"Nicely done," Paddington said, taking the radio handpiece off a nearby woman and turning it the right way up for her. "Now, what aren't you telling me?" he asked. "This is your show, so you should be doing all the talking, telling me how it is and proudly displaying all you've accomplished, and instead you're hovering just behind me and only answering direct questions. So what's up?"

"We'd... we'd better talk."

He followed her to one of the abandoned offices and sat on a sofa as instructed. Lisa closed the door, sat beside him, and took his hand. After three days as a human, she still had dirt under her fingernails.

"We pulled Quentin in at dawn," she said. "He's safe; he's sleeping right now, but... your mother." Lisa's mouth was open half an inch. Paddington prepared himself for the worst. She was dead. Horribly dead. She'd been shot by accident, or torn apart by the horde, or trampled by wild cows. She was gone and he'd never see her again.

There was so much they'd never said to each other. So much he'd thought Andrea knew but, maybe, she hadn't. Now it seemed the most important thing in the world to tell her that he didn't hate her, that he was sorry for pulling away from her all these years. But now it was too late.

"I'm sorry, Jim," Lisa said, "she was bitten."

Paddington let out a long breath. "Is that all? I thought it was something serious."

* * *

Quentin woke from the nightmare, grabbed the nearest weapon, and yelled at the empty room. As the soulless eyes faded from memory, he realised he was holding a lamp and lying on a sofa. He was also in an office with the curtains drawn. Why was he in an office? He'd been on the street, waiting for the zombies to reach him, and... and he'd woken up here.

Slowly, Quentin rose and staggered out into a wide, thickly-carpeted hallway.

Someone bustled past him and through a door to the left, so Quentin followed.

The room had once been the mayor's office. Now it was some sort of hive, with familiar faces performing unfamiliar tasks: the postman manning the phones, the baker drawing a line across a map, his mother bellowing at a radio.

How long had he been asleep? Last he remembered, he and Ian had been alone on the front lines. The sergeant had just got bit, Ian had run toward the horde, the sun had come up, he'd passed out. Now...

Now he was in a room full of people staring at him. Why were they staring? Did they think he'd been bitten? Was there something behind him? A zombie?

"Whassis?" he asked.

"The Patriots for a Free Archi," the milkman said.

Quentin wanted to ask where the Patriots had been five hours ago, in the dark and the cold. Thinking up the name? Waiting, hoping someone else would clean it up?

"Who's in charge?" he asked.

"That would be me."

Quentin spun and there, leaning against the doorway and beaming with those distressingly white teeth, was Jim. He wore a clean, pressed suit, had shaved recently, and looked cockier than ever. Quentin wasn't sure whether to be relieved that Jim was alive or furious that he'd been off with his Mainland friends instead of helping control the zombies.

"You can put that down now," he added.

Quentin followed his gaze to the lamp still in his hand. He put it on the table. Maybe that was why everyone was looking at him funny. That or because he was covered in blood and stank of sweat while their hair was neat and their clothes intact.

Jim's roving eyes found every ear had tuned to their conversation. "It's a lovely day, apart from all the killing. Let's take a walk."

Quentin allowed himself to be led downstairs and outside, past the two new guards and their hunting rifles, and into the sunshine. It had turned into a gorgeous spring day, the sun bright but not hot, the wind light, and the clouds fluffy.

"Jim, what's going on?" Quentin asked. "Last I remember there wasn't anyone out there helping us."

"You can thank Lisa for that. She rounded up the posse."

"Where is she?"

"Oh, I sent her into the fighting."

"What?" Quentin asked. Jim hadn't been out there. He didn't know how it was. Lisa wouldn't last ten minutes out there with a shot-up arm. Was he trying to get her killed?

They'd wandered a long way from the council chambers. "The zombies won't hurt her," Jim said.

"Oh?" Quentin said. "When did you become the expert on zombies?"

Jim shrugged. "About five minutes before they declared me their saviour." He surprised Quentin by saying it straight-faced.

"Sure they did."

Jim seemed unnaturally interested in the trees and sky. Quentin was more worried about threats closer to the ground. Why hadn't he brought a gun, or an axe or something? At least the lamp. How could Jim be so cavalier, strolling like he didn't have a care?

"Norman Winslow gave me the grand tour of zombie central," Jim said.

"Jim, this isn't the time for pissing about!"

"Good thing I'm not then." Jim met his eyes for the first time. They were different than the last time Quentin had seen them: clearer, more confident. Hell... but for the colour, they were Lisa's eyes. Except, well, more dangerous.

"Jim, what happened?" Quentin asked.

"Zombies are only interested in human brains. They won't harm Lisa."

"Jim! What happened... with you?"

Jim stopped walking and checked around them. When he was confident they were alone, he said, "I'm a wolf."

"You mean like Lisa? You become a dog for a few days a month?"

"Same principle."

"Why?" Quentin tried to keep the disgust from his voice, but there was a lot of it and Jim was good at picking up little clues. Now Jim frowned as if trying to work out what else he might have done.

"Never mind," Quentin said. "So you're a werewolf now?"

"Right." Jim turned around and started back for the council chambers. "The zombies don't attack us, so Lisa and I have been the early warning system – finding out where the zombies are _going_ to attack and setting up ambushes before they can shuffle there."

"What if your Mainlanders find her?"

Jim didn't hesitate, but his voice came out a touch firmer. "They'll shoot her. But they'll have to get past all the zombies first."

Quentin frowned. "You're using _zombies_ to keep her safe..." It was such a Jim thing to do.

He smiled. "That's the idea, yup."

"Your mum..." Quentin said, suddenly remembering. "She was bitten."

Jim nodded. "I know. You did what you could."

"You're okay?"

"She wouldn't have wanted me to sit around moaning when there was work to do. Besides," he said, "if anyone's likely to see her again, it's me."

They reached Idryo's Champion and Jim stopped again. "Now," he said, "this is important. Right now Archi needs one central authority, one person making all the decisions... and that person is you."

Quentin blinked. "Me?"

"We can't find anyone from the southern station and I'm in and out of the hot zone."

"I'm not a leader."

"You get on well with people, though, and you've fought the zombies. You know what they're like."

This was absurd. Jim was the thinker. He should be giving the orders. "What do I know about leading an army?"

Jim shrugged. "What do I know about stopping a prophecy?" He grinned. "That's the fun."

Jim peeled away right. Quentin stared after him for a moment, then entered the council chambers and joined the mayhem. He found a pot of tea on a table near the side and poured himself a cup, then examined a map on the wall. There was a double-line of string along Church Street. "What's happening?" Quentin asked.

"Well," someone said, "we stopped them from advancing, but we've lost five men."

Quentin waited to hear whether this was in the last five minutes or the last hour, but from the young guy's expression he guessed it was longer ago than that: long enough for the horror to become determination.

Quentin checked the clock. It was after two p.m. He'd fallen asleep at dawn. Assuming these Patriots had been around then – which they must have, because they'd rescued him from the horde which had been twenty feet away – then they'd been around for eight hours and they'd lost _five_ men? Five men in eight hours? And they were _upset_ with that? "Right," Quentin said. "How many men do we have left?"

"About four hundred that we can arm."

Quentin spluttered hot tea all over his face. Four _hundred_?

"Don't worry," his offsider said. "More people _want_ to help, but we've run out of guns."

Bloody hell, four hundred armed men? And more ready and willing? And he was in _charge_ of them?

"There may also be more still trapped in the southern districts."

"Where are the zombies?" Quentin asked, wiping tea off his face.

"The main community – at least a thousand – are around the city hall to the south-west. There's others groups, but never more than fifty in any. The hall's the place to hit if you want to kill them all."

Quentin drank what was left of his tea. "We'd never get that far in, even if we entered by boat at the south docks. If there's people there, uh, maybe Jim can get them out."

The youth nodded, happy that someone else was taking charge. Quentin studied the map. There were circles that looked like patrol routes, and pins to indicate zombie activity, but mostly he was pleased that they were so organised they _had_ a map.

Piece by piece, they could retake the south. They could pick the zombies off by ones and twos and, as long as they didn't lose too many men, they'd eventually defeat them.

"Move into this courtyard," he said, pointing. "Put people on the buildings around here, then move a group in as bait. When the zombies come for them, shoot them from the high perches. It's a nice wide-open space without only two entrances on the south side. Should be easy enough to take and hold."

Over by the communications desk there seemed to be some commotion. When Quentin came to see what, everyone looked at him to solve the problem, which wasn't his intention. "What's going on?" he asked.

A young woman smiled at him and Quentin smiled back. She was in her early twenties, which meant that when Quentin was finishing high school she was starting primary school, but he chose not to think about that and hoped that she wouldn't either.

"One of our teams in the west has been overrun," she said. "There's more than a hundred undead."

"Get an emergency team or something out there." Did they have emergency teams? If not, someone would run off to make one. Quentin took the radio from a smiling girl. "What's happening?" he said into it.

"There's too ma—" There was a bang. "I'm on the bloody radio, pop a cork in it!"

"How close to the farms are you?" Quentin asked.

"Right alongside."

"Find a gate and get in a field, slowly."

There was a pause. "Uh, _slowly_ , sah?"

"Yes. Wait for them to follow you in, and then climb over the fence and escape. Lock them in after you."

"Won't they, rather, climb out?" the man asked.

"Not unless you shoot enough of them to create a ramp. Otherwise they'll just... bump against the fence and growl."

"Right-o. Out."

Quentin placed the radio on the desk and stared at the stunned faces all around him. "Zombies aren't smart," he said. "There's just... lots of them."

* * *

Paddington drove past the occasional zombie under the sun's final hour of light. There wasn't much activity here, but it was a weak spot in the defences so he was keeping an eye on it. In fact, he'd been so busy controlling the zombie situation, he wasn't even sure what Mitchell was up to any more. Apparently he'd stormed the duke's mansion, but Adonis had made no formal comment – of any kind since the zombie outbreak – so people were giving the Mainlanders the benefit of the doubt for now.

After all, a Mainlander had organised the resistance; maybe more Mainlanders could help put Archi back on her feet. Then they could shove off home.

Paddington just wished they had more of an idea what was going to happen tonight, or where, or how Mitchell could stop it.

A zombie waved at him and Paddington waved back, lost in thought. Ever since visiting McGregor that morning, he'd been considering the Three Ends. Unfortunately, vampire myths contained all of them: staking the heart, decapitation, and burning the body.

Werewolves, in recent tales, were dispatched with a silver bullet to the heart, but the original myths recommended cutting _out_ the heart, decapitation, then burning the body. Which really wasn't much help.

But zombies... zombies were always brains.

But that hadn't worked! McGregor said the Team had met Harold Brown. Mitchell would have shot both his head, which was the obvious target, and his heart, which was an easy one.

That left fire. Fire to kill the Third Brother.

So... head and heart. Was there a reason to pick one over the other? Paddington's internet investigation had revealed that most vampire stories focussed on staking the heart.

Just like it was always the head for zombies?

Paddington wasn't sure where the thought had come from, but it sent his mind reeling into new territory. What if _everything_ was a lie? What if all the well-known myths were seeded so no one would know how to stop the Browns? It was a lot of effort, but Adonis was devout enough to do it.

"But why?" Paddington asked himself as he putted along. "Why tell the stories at all?"

_Have you got a story?_ a nearby zombie asked.

"Hm? No," Paddington said.

_Come on, tell me!_ the zombie shouted as Paddington drove away. _I'll keep it a secret._

_That_ was why! Secrets got out, they always did. Tales spread, especially tales of monsters and heroes and villains that went well by the fireplace.

Adonis couldn't _stop_ the story, so he'd changed the details until it was useless. Then he'd hidden Archi and severed all ties with the places he couldn't control. Places where people would recognise a vampire and try to stick a chair leg through his heart...

And over time, the Archians grew to distrust and fear the outside world; they came to believe it was better inside their prison. All to protect Adonis Andraste and his prophecy.

Paddington slowed the car beside a shambling figure. Quentin had asked Paddington to slaughter the zombies since they didn't attack him; Paddington had refused. He couldn't regard the zombies as people – which they were – and kill them in cold blood.

"I don't suppose you've seen Andrea Paddington around?" he asked.

The boy shook his head. A heavy snow of dandruff fell around his shoulders. _Nope._

"No, no one has."

Where was she? Why was she hiding? Even Norm hadn't found her, and he had his fing... he had his stump on the puls... on the vibe of the zombie world.

Paddington shook away the difficult zombie analogies and kept going. He had to find a weakness. There was a pack of wolves out there somewhere, under the leadership of a werewolf; there was a zombie horde with a new king; and what Adonis was planning for Thomas?

No, that was pointless. Paddington couldn't put himself in a vampire's head, especially one as old as Adonis, but he _could_ think like a wolf. What would the pack be doing? Well, Conall would be licking Richard's boots, and... no, the image didn't fit. If Richard was as protective of his pack as he had been his cows, he'd see the old alpha as a threat.

That meant he'd take the leadership by force.

That meant division: wolves following out of fear instead of loyalty. But real wolves didn't work like that. Real wolves chose their alphas by...

An idea struck him and left a hot rush of excitement and terror in its aftermath.

Was he right? It was a big gamble, and he couldn't afford to be wrong.

On the other hand, he was James Paddington and this was what he did lately. He walked into the vampires' lair and walked out with the rarest book in the world. He escaped torture in the werewolf's den. He walked unharmed through the zombie horde.

Paddington plucked the radio from his belt. "Quentin, I'm off for the night. It's pretty quiet."

"Same all over."

"Little Red, are you listening?"

"I hear you, Woodcutter," his girlfriend said in a passable Archian accent. He'd ensured everyone called her by a codename, just in case the Team were listening in on their transmissions. Why Lisa insisted on giving _him_ a codename – and why she'd chosen Woodcutter – was a mystery to him. She was probably making fun of him.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Around by Quentin's."

"I'll meet you there in ten minutes," he said.

When Paddington arrived at Quentin's house, Lisa was leaning against the doorframe with a sad little smile. "Any sign of your mother?" she asked.

"No."

In the house, the kettle whistled. They went in and Lisa made tea. "You'll find her," she said with little hope.

Paddington hadn't come here to talk about Andrea. When someone produced her body, then he'd accept that she was dead. Until then, she was alive. As much as any zombie.

"Has your mum been evacuated?" Paddington asked. Silly question; he would have heard about it if she wasn't.

"Jim..." Lisa hesitated as if deciding something, then said, "My mother died giving birth to me."

Frowning, Paddington asked, "Then who was that kindly woman we had dinner with last week?"

"You've heard that Lucy went to a Mainland university when she was twenty? Well, she roomed with a young woman called Donna MacBean whose romances were frequent and... shall we say, 'transitory'."

"You mean she was a—"

"She was my mother."

Paddington zipped his mouth closed and sat on the couch.

"Wise decision," Lisa said. "Donna named Lucy as godmother and when Donna died, Lucy offered to adopt me. Donna hadn't been close with her family and when they met Lucy, they saw that she wanted what was best for me and organised the adoption right then. Lucy caught the next boat back to Archi and never told a soul."

"Have you met them?" Paddington asked. "Your birth family?"

"When you..." Lisa saw Paddington's expression and shifted her wording. "When I came home in tears and begged mum not to make me go back to school, she explained it all. I wasn't sure who that made me – an orphan mourning a mother I didn't know I'd had; the world didn't make sense. The only person I could rely on was myself. Can you understand that?"

That was how he'd been for fifteen years: deliberately distant from everyone, even his mother. It wasn't that no one on Archi had neared his high standards, it was that it was... better this way. Better, having seen what lurked inside him, that no one be close to him.

Gently, Paddington took her hand and asked, "Lisa, do you think I've ever forgiven myself for what I did to you?"

Lisa laughed in his face. "Oh God, you really take it that seriously? After all this time?" she said. "I got over it in a few months, Jim! It was nothing. Childish stupidity."

" _My_ stupidity!" Paddington said, and suddenly it all came out as rage: the years of isolation, the anger at himself, the fear. "I took my best friend and cut her as deeply as I possibly could. I did it deliberately. And in return I had a glimpse of my soul: of darkness, coiling around itself, waiting to lash out. And don't pretend it's not still there."

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic," she said, rolling her eyes. "So you were an idiot? So you still are? That's no reason to cut yourself off from everyone. Learn from you mistake and get on with your damned life."

Paddington finished his tea, feeling no better for momentarily letting the monster out of its cage.

"What happened next?" he asked. "After Lucy told you about Donna?"

"She said we could take a trip together. A month later I met my uncle and I knew who I was. I was Lisa Tanner, not Lisa MacBean. I wasn't my genetics or my past, I was whoever _I_ wanted to be. Your family doesn't decide who you become. You do."

The clock ticked away valuable seconds. Paddington tried to wrap his head around his next sentence, but there was no cushioning the blow. "Lisa, I'm leaving."

"Oh? Where are you going?" she asked, too innocently.

Paddington hesitated.

"Ah, you're being metaphorical again," she said. "How do you plan to die this time? Frolicking with the other wolves?"

He really must stop assuming Lisa needed things explained. "I have an idea," he said.

"You always do." Lisa rolled her eyes, then studied his face. Paddington tried to look confident.

"I can't dissuade you," she said, "so just promise you'll be careful."

Paddington pulled her into a tight hug. Perhaps for the last time, he breathed her in and remembered that, for a month, life had been grand.

"I love you," he said. "Always have."

He felt her smile in the tremors of her body. "I've got your heart, right?"

"Jim and Lisa, sitting in a tree—" he sang softly.

"Survive," she said, hugging tighter.

Paddington stroked her hair. "Howling wolves couldn't hold me back."

"Jim!"

"Sorry."

They pulled apart, kissed goodbye, and Paddington drove toward the Team's hideout, heart thumping like a bass drum. If Mitchell shot him, all his plans would come to nothing. Or if the wolves killed him. Or if one of a thousand other things went wrong, he'd never see Lisa again.

Paddington knocked, entered, and stopped. He was used to Skylar's rifle, but now there were four aimed at him. Skylar, Mitchell, Truman – even McGregor was pointing his gun at him. On the bright side, no one had fired.

"Hi," Paddington said. "How's it going?"

"Not good," McGregor said, turning back to his notes. The desk was long since lost beneath them, and sheaves of paper overflowed onto the floor with each new word written. "We're only hours from the prophecy's fulfilment and I still don't have any idea how to stop the Browns."

Paddington noticed the jittering of their hands. McGregor had been that way for a while, from sleep deprivation and his herbal teas, but it was terrifying to see it in Mitchell. The man was supposed to be in control.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Mitchell asked, his red eyes surrounded by dark rings. He had a gun in each hand.

"Holding back a zombie force of about three thousand," Paddington said. "You know, doing my bit."

"Didn't think to drop by?"

"I did, this morning."

"What was that plant you left us?" Skylar asked with a healthy measure of awe.

" _Nepeta Dynatos_ ," Paddington said. "Catnip."

" _Catnip_?" she asked. The awe was gone.

The air suddenly seemed colder, and Mitchell closer, so Paddington explained, "Vampire physiology is a mix of human and feline. Catnip gets them... high."

"You _knew_ this would work?" Mitchell asked.

"Studies have shown lions and tigers reac—"

"Studies?"

Paddington stood his ground. "You'd never trust a flower before a gun," he said. "If you used it, it was because you thought you were already dead."

Halfway through "dead", Paddington realised that Clarkson was missing. The Team was now half the size it had been when it had arrived on Archi.

Mitchell was close enough to take a swing at Paddington, though that would involve putting down either his rifle or pistol. Paddington fought the dual instincts to step back or release the wolf, who was out of his basket and watching with interest.

"Is Thomas still alive?" Paddington asked, to change the topic.

"He was too fast," Truman said, running a hand through his blond hair. Paddington wondered where his cowboy hat had gone. "One second he's there, the next he had Clarkson by the throat."

"To hell with your island, detective," Mitchell said. "If I get communications working, I'll have Truman's countrymen napalm the whole island, with us on it."

"In lieu of that," Paddington said, "I know how to kill the Browns."

"Bullets don't work," Mitchell said.

"Depends where you aim them. Head for Thomas; heart for Richard; Harold you'll have to burn."

"How did you...?" McGregor scoured his piles of paper in frustration. "I haven't been able to make heads or tails of the Three Ends!"

Paddington didn't have time for this. Open season for prophecy fulfilment was in half an hour, when the sun set.

"I'm right," he said, "and now I'm off."

" _Off_?" Mitchell asked. "Off where?"

"To creation's origin! Of course!" McGregor shouted, holding up a piece of paper.

There was a stunned silence before Mitchell asked, "What?"

"The Three Brothers reunite at creation's origin – they're going to the Tree!"

"It's a bloody rock!" Mitchell was red in the face.

"It's a symbol!" McGregor said, shoving most of the papers off the desk and scrabbling at those closest the bottom. "It doesn't have to be an _actual_ tree. It could be a picture of a tree, or somewhere a tree once stood, or a rock put there as a reminder."

Paddington nodded. "The stories of the Three-God talk about a forest where the Three Races lived before disobedien—"

"Standard religious crap," Mitchell said. "Doesn't make it real."

"But Adonis believes it," Paddington said, "so it's a real _threat_. Even if they don't bring about the apocalypse, the Browns need to be stopped and now we know where they'll be. Do you want to waste that opportunity?"

"Every time we try to stop them," Mitchell said, his eyes two beady black points, "more of my men die."

"Then act fast, Jerry," Paddington said, "because you're running out of men."

Mitchell threw his rifle down and raised his fist.

Paddington stared back; daring him: do the right thing, no matter what it cost.

Mitchell lowered his hand and exhaled. "You've got balls, detective."

"Thank you?" Paddington said.

Mitchell holstered his pistol and hung the rifle on its strap around his neck. Having a plan returned some of his calm. "McGregor, stay here," Mitchell said. "Radio us the second you find anything useful." He paused, studying his soldiers. "You ready to die for this?"

Truman nodded. After a second, Skylar did as well. Finally, Mitchell turned to Paddington. "If we're going, we'd better go prepared. Detective, take me to your gun shop."

# Chapter Twenty-Three: We Want YOU for the Zombie Army

In the town square, Norm preached. A hundred undead listened to his every word, though how much they obeyed was another matter. After all, he wasn't the only street philosopher and it was the nature of the crowd that some would wander off to listen to someone else, but Norm's crowd was very distracted right now. Many were turning their heads and some on the far left lumbered off to join a passing crowd.

This was more than another preacher. Something was happening. Something important.

Norm lurched forward and the crowd parted for him. He passed Gladys's group, who were listening to her philosophy of zombie romance – sexless intimacy, love beyond physicality, a relationship of minds – and rushed toward the setting sun.

And heard the baby's faint cry.

So _that_ was what they were heading for. A niggling thought in the back of Norm's mind told him he should find out what the baby was thinking, but he ignored it: the brainlust worked by sight. If he could stop the horde before they saw the humans, he might be able to save them.

Norm recognised a desperate face in the crowd and called out, _Rowena, don't! Dave was right, you don't need to do this to be a real zombie!_

Rowena reached the house's doorway, which twenty undead were attempting pour through at once. _Dave starved to death_ , she said. _Don't try to stop me, Norm._

From within the house came the muted _thwack_ and _klb_ of body parts detaching and landing.

_Do you really want to kill an innocent person?_ Norm asked, pressing in beside her.

_It's the only way!_ If she still could, Norm thought Rowena would be crying.

_Just turn back_. Norm faced the horde that had surrounded him. _All of you! Return to your lives!_

_Shove off, brainless!_ a zombie shouted behind him, but the crowd was too tight around him for Norm to take his advice; it pushed him into the house. Through room after room he yelled that they could still save themselves, that it wasn't too late, that life was valuable, that humans didn't need to die for zombies to be. Some argued with him and with each other.

Debate raged, but the tide swept them all on regardless.

The bedroom's cheap plywood door had buckled from the weight of zombies shoving themselves against it. Now zombies fell onto the bed that had been put against the door as a barricade. In the back corner of the bedroom, a shape swung at the approaching masses and behind him, another shape whimpered. In its arms, the baby cried: a beacon.

The sight of the humans triggered something animal within Norm. His mouth watered as he was shoved onto the bed. Warmth coursed through him at the thought of the tender flesh. He struggled against it, seeking the usual cool senselessness of undeath, but all the smells and tastes he'd forgotten after thirty-three days of zombity now assailed him, so vibrant and real... like he'd been sleepwalking and now he was awake.

Norm reminded himself that these humans were good people – that this wasn't their fault – but his legs weren't listening to him. He saw his stump of a left arm wriggle toward the humans.

The human shouted and swung his plank of wood. It thunked against flesh, dislodged arms, felled zombies. There were now only five of them between Norm and the man, who was very good at battering everything that came near him. Which, soon, would be Norm.

Which was just so unfair, to have come this far only to fail so close to the brains.

No, he didn't mean that! He didn't _want_ their brains.

Except he did, and everything else was a lie.

The two men in front of Norm fell to a sideways swipe of the two-by-four. Norm was right in front of the brain – that wondrous brain, which would taste of its owner's thoughts, hopes, experiences, desires, dreams – but Norm had only one stump of an arm and his teeth to attack with. The sensible part of Norm's mind knew that he'd never penetrate the skull and that he'd get beaten to death for his pointless attempt. That he was about to die and all he could do was watch.

At least, that's what should have happened.

Instead, Rowena launched herself at the man, pinning him against the wall and leaving the path clear to the woman.

Norm had tried. He'd really tried. On Jim's advice, he'd even taken a piece of fruit, but he couldn't swallow it: his throat had vomited it out. The burning, bitter aftertaste still lingered hours later.

But now, brains. Juicy chicken breast, spiced lamb, and char-grilled beef danced on his tastebuds, the merest promises of what awaited him. There was nothing that could stop him.

The crowd surged and Norm, his legs weak with desire and malnutrition, toppled forward. In the weightless instant, Norm knew where he would land, but couldn't change his course; he couldn't even close his mouth. He fell, seemingly forever, toward the woman's breasts...

And the wailing baby.

Norm's teeth tore through cartilage and sank into the pink brilliance of the baby's brain. Its cry died.

The horde stopped pushing. As one, with a breath like sandpaper, it inhaled.

Then everyone shouted at once.

He did it!

What happened?

How's it taste?

Eyes closed, Norm crumpled to the carpet. Here was their Chosen One, the brain eater. Here, on the floor, with his latest kill dripping down his chin. The baby killer.

Norm struggled to his feet and regarded the fuzzed faces: these were zombies who believed that brains were the ultimate reason for being; that they would never be complete without them. The horde stared at him with reverence, their white eyes wide. Whatever he did now would be remembered forever.

Very slowly, Norm turned his head aside and opened his mouth. The baby's brain landed on the carpet with a _splott_. It tasted like ash.

There was no bliss. No rush of information. No revelation. There was, as always, only nothing.

Norm looked at the little baby, still held in its mother's arms. Its eyes were closed; that was his only consolation. At least it looked at peace. The Three-God knew there was no peace left in this world. Maybe it could find respite in the next.

Dully, Norm noticed the thick bites on the mother's neck and head. Her eyes clouded over and the baby's corpse dropped from her shaking arms.

Norm shoved his way from the room, trying not to hear the whispers.

What happened?

He got it.

Where's he going?

Is there any more?

Norm jostled through the questioning crowd, which now filled the whole house, and emerged in the night. The gritty taste of baby stuck in his mouth and he wiped it with the stump of his arm.

_Norm!_ Gladys said, worried. _What happened?_

She was so thin. How long until they were both dead, really dead, gone forever? Not soon enough. Never soon enough, now.

Norm shook his head. Gladys noticed the fresh blood on his face. _I'm sorry, Norm. I know you did what you could to stop them._

He didn't want to tell her, he really didn't, but if he didn't someone else would. _I killed the baby._

Revulsion flickered across Gladys's distorted face. Her mouth both snarled and drooped; her bulging eye roamed away from him. After a moment, though, it roamed back. _That must have been awful for you._

If he could, Norm would have cried and held her and pretended everything was all right for a moment. But he couldn't cry, didn't have any hands to hold her, and there were a hundred zombies – both brainers and brainless – watching him for guidance. They wanted to be complete, to be whole like him, and now Norm had to tell them they never would be.

_No more killing_ , he said. _Tell everyone! Brains make no difference! No more killing!_

_More killin'!_ shouted another voice. It arrived not in Norm's mind, but right at the base of his spine. _It's time the world rememberered the forgotten God!_

A path cleared between Norm and Harold Brown. Every zombie there stared from one to the other. For a day-old convert, Harold looked terrible. His skin hung off in great patches. His barman's apron was coated in blood and full of bullet-holes. His hair had fallen out and now his scalp was red where patches of skin remained and pearly where his skull was visible.

The rotting barman leered with eyes that had started to sag and deflate and teeth that were grey and dangling. _What about you, old timer?_ he asked Norm. _Got a civility mind?_

Hundreds of eyes were on them. If Norm said yes, everyone would follow. The ones who had just seen him eat the brain would think this was a sign. The one who'd been listening to him preach would trust his judgement. Everyone else would be swept up in the flow.

In the second it took to realise this, Harold had run to him, arms splayed at his sides, mouth open, ready to taste Norm's indecision. He stopped before feasting to sniff Norm's bald scalp.

_I'm with you_ , Norm said.

* * *

The sun was on its last rays as the Team left the already-gutted gun store and night truly began as they drove toward the supermarket. If the vampires were the cautious type, Truman guessed they'd be at the Tree in half an hour. That didn't give the Team much time to stock up, secure the Tree, and fortify its defences. They'd need to go in with a clear strategy.

"If we take out one of the Browns," Truman asked, "that's enough to stop the prophecy, right?"

"Sure," Paddington said. "But the other two will kill you."

"So we run," he suggested. Was Mitchell even listening? He sat in the front, staring through the window, jaw clenched.

"Run where?" Paddington asked. "At best you reach a boat – which probably won't reach the Mainland without refuelling – and they wait you out." Paddington shrugged. "And that's assuming Adonis hasn't made some arrangement to ship zombies onto the Mainland the instant the prophecy is fulfilled."

"But if we kill a Brown..." Truman said.

"No rebirth of the world, true, but I doubt Adonis will stop just because the prophecy does." Paddington sighed, as if explaining this to a child. "This is the last prophecy in the Book of Three; after this all bets are off. If the demon stops one of the Brothers, Adonis might try to make do with the other two. There's no prophecies telling him not to."

Truman sat silently for a long time. Were they really so screwed that, even if they stopped the prophecy, they'd die? That the monsters would still leave Archi? That, even if they won, everyone lost?

"And," Paddington added, "Harold could probably walk underwater until he reached the Mainland. Richard could probably doggy-paddle the distance, if it came to that."

Truman perked up. There was something in vampire lore about not crossing running water. "But Thomas is stuck here?"

"Cats aren't generally great fans of getting wet, but Adonis could organise a flight off-island."

Truman sighed. Why were they even bothering? They might as well stop the car, find a liquor store, and enjoy their final hours.

"Here we are," Paddington said, applying the creaking handbrake.

Truman looked up at the shop and thought that, for a supermarket, it rather lacked the "super".

"This is a corner store," Mitchell pointed out as they climbed out of Paddington's car.

"It's what we've got." Paddington pushed open the store's unlocked doors and flicked on a light, revealing small aisles with an assortment of everything.

"Fire first," Mitchell said. "Look for the liquor section, barbecues, fireworks."

They split up and scoured the aisles, except for Paddington, who followed Truman like a lost puppy. "So, did you grow up in America?"

"Texas," Truman said, putting down a packet of fire lighters.

"You're not very talkative, are you?" Paddington asked.

"No."

Paddington had picked up a six-foot Hawaiian-style bamboo torch. Truman found it reassuring that bad taste found its way even to places like Archi. Some things were universal.

"You're better off hitting them with the pointy end than using that flame," Truman said, and Paddington put it back while Truman investigated the deodorants. There weren't many; Archians probably enjoyed the smell of a hard day's labours.

"What would _you_ do if you saw your mother out there?" Paddington asked. "A zombie?"

Truman glanced over. Paddington's brown puppydog eyes were staring through a can of soup.

"I don't know," Truman said. "I suppose I'd say, 'Sorry mum' and do what had to be done."

Squeaking wheels announced Mitchell and Skylar, who had strapped a propane tank onto a hand-trolley. Paddington noticed that he was holding soup and put it back.

"Don't suppose there'd be any weapons at the police station?" Mitchell asked.

Paddington shook his head. "The resistance took them hours ago."

"And there's no ancient forge or blacksmith around here?"

Paddington retreated toward the door. "There's a gardening centre across the street that might have some long-handled weapons."

"Where do you think you're going?" Mitchell asked.

"Prior engagement." Paddington out the door before Mitchell could rebuke him. Truman heard the groan of the car's engine disappear down the street and shook his head. The coward.

They were all going to die; Paddington could at least go fighting.

* * *

It had turned from a warm day to a cool night. The scent of trees and deer drifted in as Duke Adonis Andraste stared out of his window. Archi spread before him, mostly dark but the council chambers were a light show. He turned to his desk, booted up his computer, and clicked the icon for radio transmissions.

"—o be some kind of horde activity. Oh Three-God, there's hundreds of them! Thousands!"

"Where are you?" Constable Appleby asked.

Adonis clicked Block Transmissions, turned off the telephone system, then cut the city's power and plunged Archi back into the dark ages.

He'd blocked external radio contact three days ago, as soon as the Mainlanders' helicopter was out of range, and he'd blocked access to the internet two nights ago, once he'd recovered from being poisoned. A bit late there, it seemed, but young Paddington had been such a good obedient peon that there had been no reason to distrust him. But now he'd allied himself with the Mainlanders.

And the demon.

No, it didn't matter. Mitchell couldn't stop the entire horde by himself and the citizens couldn't organise their forces or provide backup without their radios or telephones. Nothing would stop Harold and his zombies meeting Thomas and Richard at the Tree.

It was the moment Archi had been waiting for, the reason Adonis had expended so much effort over so many years to keep her safe from the Mainland, to keep her pure. For this very night, he had hidden the island.

Yet on this most important of nights, he hadn't heard from Conall and the wolf pack – not that he was worried. Over the years, Adonis had expended a great deal of effort to ensure that, at every stage of life, the Brown brothers knew of their role in the Three-God's plan. It had made little impact on them – except for some of the longer words, which all of them used but none had really mastered – but Adonis thought they would know what to do by instinct.

And if Richard wasn't there by eleven, Adonis would send someone to fetch him.

Yes, the prophecy would be fulfilled. That was still what he wanted, of course. Certainly. Thomas was a pure form of vampire, a direct descendent of the Three-God, his blood undiluted by the aeons, but...

But Thomas was too fast, too vicious, too... foreign. And quite frankly Thomas was revolting. His attitude, his behaviour, his physical appearance—

No, that wasn't how to think. Thomas's blood was pure; Adonis's had been watered down by generations of breeding with humans, or humans being turned into vampires. It had been weakened with temperance, patience, kindness. Surely Thomas, lacking the flotsam of humanity, was what Adonis should aspire to be.

But he didn't.

Aware by the creeping chill on his neck that he was no longer alone, Adonis found Thomas blocking the doorway. Where the Andrastes were all thin, lithe, and fair of skin, Thomas had become dark and fat. Apparently he'd ballooned as soon as he'd been turned, but Guenevere was thankfully silent on all other details of their time alone together.

"'Ello Adonis," said Thomas. "Ready to go?"

"Of course, my lord."

Thomas's radish-coloured face nodded for Adonis to follow. Adonis did, wondering what tonight would actually herald. Would the world be reborn with vampires like Thomas? Why did that upset him?

He shoved the thoughts from his mind. He couldn't turn away now. He'd been walking this path for over five hundred years. This was the right thing to do.

At the foot of the stairs, Lilith and seven of the children were assembled. As per Thomas's instructions, they all wore black. Unfortunately, the only black the Andrastes owned was lace or leather, and the lace wasn't exactly outdoor attire. They had chosen the lesser of the two evils, and now squeaked whenever they moved.

"Where's the others?" asked Thomas. He was dressed in long flowing black, inlaid with symbols and patterns from the Book of Three. Adonis had commissioned it when Thomas was eighteen, figuring that whichever Brown became a vampire would be the same shape and size as his brothers. Now, however, Thomas's expansive stomach pulled the shirt so tight that flying buttons were becoming a danger.

"Leander is recovering from the exposure," said Adonis, "and Clytemnestra is caring for her pet."

"Bring them," said Thomas. "They should bear witless to our glory."

Adonis nodded to Melanthios, who ran upstairs, his leather jacket trailing dramatically behind him. The others stood preening, picking imaginary particles of dust from their immaculate clothing.

There was commotion up the stairs and four figures emerged. First, treading lightest, was Melanthios. Next came his elder brother Leander, his skin bright red and likely to peel soon. Third was Clytemnestra, elegant but stupid, leading the former Team member – also dressed in all leather – by the choker around his neck.

"This is fucking gay," Clarkson said, cutting his lip on his elongated teeth.

# Chapter Twenty-Four: The Big Bad Wolf

Throughout the day, Paddington had asked about Richard Brown, Conall, and the other wolves, but no one – zombie or human – had seen head or tail of them.

Paddington could always have released his inner wolf to smell them out, but he suspected that Richard would smell _him_ too, and being hunted didn't fit with his strategy of staying as far from the wolves as possible.

Yet now that Paddington was driving _toward_ where he suspected they were, he found certain death to be very liberating: he didn't have to worry any more. Either this would work or he would die.

Paddington parked his car at the start of Richard's driveway. He needed to walk the final stretch so there was no possibility of escape. Do or die. If he kept driving, he lose his nerve and blow his only chance of being useful just to live another few hours in fear.

As the cool breeze brought smells of pine and oak to him, Paddington removed his jacket, undid every second button on his shirt, and threw his shoes and socks into the back of his car. Confident that he could escape his clothes as quickly as was practical, Paddington started up the drive. It was dirt and gravel, a few hundred feet long, and he winced with every pebble in the soft pads of his feet. He couldn't see anyone ahead, but he doubted he would until they wanted him to.

Once he reached the house, Paddington paused to stare at the fields. Usually, even at its quietest, Richard's farm had a background of low moos. Now there was silence; nothing larger than a cricket dared make noise. Even the tiniest new moon seemed afraid to disturb the stillness.

The grass behind him rustled and Paddington turned to find wolves emerging from the tree line, the shadows, and the house. He couldn't tell one wolf from any other, but Richard was easy to spot: he was the seven-foot bipedal werewolf with muscles like a pile of rocks. Strong rocks, too. His hair was thinner than the wolves' fur and his torn jeans announced him to be both man and animal.

The others could have passed for common wolves, but there was no way to mistake Richard for a creature of nature.

"Ah, you're here," Paddington said warmly.

"'Erro James," said Richard. He seemed to have trouble wrapping his shortened muzzle around "L"s. "Solved the mystery of Betsy's death yet?"

"A while ago," Paddington said, forcing his foot to remain steady: it wanted to flee, but Richard would pounce if it did. He'd chase just because Paddington had run. "My girlfriend killed her. I'll pay for the damages."

"Damn right you will." Richard's jaw and chest were covered in blood. It seemed he'd been doing a lot of chasing and catching lately. Richard smiled. "Tear him apart," he told his pack, "piece by piece, but keep him conscientious."

"Conscious," Paddington said automatically.

"I want him to _feel_ it."

Paddington nodded calmly as, around him, a group of seven thick-coated wolves advanced. There was nowhere to run and Paddington would never change in time to defend himself, but Paddington's plan didn't involve running. Or changing.

Or, hopefully, being torn to pieces.

"I see you're missing a wolf," he said. "I take it Conall isn't with you any more."

Now or never.

"Fascinating thing, pack dynamics," Paddington said. "Take the omega." He swept a hand toward the rattiest and dirtiest of the wolves; probably Dom. "Usually the joker," Paddington continued, "the playful one, the comedian. Good for morale, your omega. But the alpha..."

The wolves had stopped six feet away and were watching Paddington attentively.

"The alpha is another matter. You're the alpha, Richard?"

The werewolf glanced to his subordinates, perhaps trying to work out why they weren't already tearing bits off Paddington.

"I'll take that as a yes," Paddington said. "You killed the last alpha, so now you're the leader, is that right?"

"I can kill you myself!" said Richard.

Paddington looked at the slobbering mouth and its rows of razor-sharp teeth. "I know," he said evenly. "But that's the problem. _Real_ wolves prefer psychological warfare to actual violence. The fight for supremacy isn't a fight to the death, it's a test of skill that lasts until one wolf submits to the other. You, Richard, have no idea what an alpha actually does or is."

"And _you're_ going to tell me?" asked Richard, stepping forward. Although fifteen feet away, he was more of a threat than all the wolves, who were at least content to listen to Paddington before killing him.

"Yes, I am," Paddington said. "Alphas aren't generals. They don't order the pack and they aren't always the strongest. Their main two roles, in fact, are negotiating with other packs and holding their own pack together. They're social workers. The other wolves follow because they _choose_ to."

"Kill him!" Richard waved a clawed hand at Paddington. The wolves moved in a step.

"Wait!" Paddington shouted, his hands out. He looked each wolf in his yellow eyes as he spoke. "You can feel that what I'm saying is right!"

"What are you on about?" yelled Richard.

Paddington spoke slowly, both because he couldn't convince his throat to work faster and because he was quite enjoying his life and wanted it to last as long as possible. "In wolf packs," Paddington said, "the alphas are decided not by strength, but by reproductive success. The alpha male and alpha female are a mated pair... and the last time I checked, _I_ was the only one here mating with another wolf."

Paddington became aware, through the frantic darting of Richard's red eyes, that the wolves had shifted the focus of their gazes.

"I'm better'n you!" shouted Richard. "All of you!"

" _Maybe_ you're what werewolves were originally," Paddington said, "before their blood was diluted by time or by the occasional _actual_ wolf humping a branch of the family tree, but you're not one of _us_... And you're not part of this pack."

Richard snarled, lowering his back ready to attack the first wolf to step forward, but none was that stupid. The pack moved as a unit. Even Richard couldn't fight seven wolves at once.

Let alone eight.

With a grin, Paddington pulled off his shirt and slipped out of his trousers. The clothes raised small plumes of dust as they hit the dirt, and a second later James's front paws did as well.

It was like someone had cranked up the contrast. Once-shadowy shapes of wolf and werewolf became as visible as if they were under the midday sun. The stars overhead were brighter but the sky blacker, a truer black.

James inhaled deeply through his long muzzle. There was death in the air, rotting meat, and lots of blood on Richard. Different kinds of blood, as well – cattle, wolf, and... was it human? – whose aftersmells lingered like a fine wine.

Two of the braver wolves nipped at the werewolf, testing the waters and darting back out. The werewolf's wide head jittered at the wolves, trying to watch all of them at once, then he swung an arm at someone. The wolf ducked, but Richard had already gone, leaping over their heads and raising clouds of dust as he sped toward the city.

Eight wolves gave chase.

* * *

"How far away are we?" Mitchell asked calmly.

Skylar hacked at another zombie. Luckily the undead were so fixed on getting into the Garden of Terpo and they didn't usually notice the humans until they'd planted a crowbar in their skull.

"I don't know!" she shouted. "We're not even at the gates yet!"

And they weren't going to be the first group to reach the Tree. Hell, the way they were going they'd be lucky to survive long enough to _see_ the Tree, let alone secure it or stop the Browns from doing whatever the hell they did to destroy the world.

"Truman?" Mitchell asked, far too calmly.

"Fine, sir." Truman swung the axe, to the crack of severing spines.

Mitchell moved forward a few steps and brought his scythe through a zombie neck. Her head toppled off and bounced a little, which made Skylar's dinner lurch. While they needed every advantage they could get against the thousands of zombies, it did seem cruel to kill them from behind. The zombies weren't fighting, weren't warriors; they were very sick people and the Team was slaughtering them.

Another cow trundled past. That made five so far.

After Paddington had abandoned them at the general store, the Team had toured a gardening shop and each member now had a hatchet tucked into their belt in case something happened to their primary weapon. Truman had also grabbed as many hunting knives as he could safely stash about himself. And they still had their L85s and sidearms, but the guns were reserved for killing the Browns because they were so short on ammo. They'd even taken all of McGregor's L85 ammo.

"I think I can see the east wall!" she called. Yes, she could. There was the angel carved into the rock, faceless, and gripping a fiery sword. Not far now, maybe a few hundred feet.

Ahead of Skylar, Mitchell was a whirlwind of red-coated steel and black, slicing apart most of the opposition. Truman brought up the rear, lugging the propane tank with one arm and finishing off the few zombies Mitchell and Skylar missed.

Not that Mitchell missed many.

He was defending the south-west of the group, where the zombies were thickest, and the scythe was never still. It rolled in great sweeping curves, flicking arcs of blood through the air. When it wasn't waving, the scythe's snaith was being rammed into eye sockets and then brought around for the decapitation. Mitchell's face ran thick with rivers of blood.

Funny. Before this, Skylar had never seen the zombies bleed. Mitchell sure had a way with people.

"Don't suppose the zombies are stopping at the gate?" Truman asked. "Not daring to go on holy ground? Leaving the garden nice and clear for us?"

Skylar checked. "Uh... no."

# Chapter Twenty-Five: The Tree

The wolves trailed Richard into the garden by the west gate, panting and stumbling. James's fur had felt snug before they'd left Richard's farm; now he felt like he was running in a quilted jacket. Wolves had more red blood cells than humans – which allowed them to get more oxygen to their organs and therefore tire less – and an enlarged heart and lungs to process the extra blood, but that knowledge had just been academic until recently, when his spleen had released the extra blood and James ran at full capacity...

It felt like opening the throttle and feeling the engine roar, except that he _was_ the engine. The world flew past. And still James used every ounce of that extra stamina just to keep pace with the werewolf and his enormous upright strides.

Richard reached the Tree first and pressed his back against the nine-foot obelisk. The eight exhausted wolves surrounded him. They were little threat to Richard individually, but it only took one lucky wolf to break Richard's neck. James doubted that would _kill_ Richard, since it wasn't his heart, but it might incapacitate him. And it would hurt like hell.

James was the first to leap. He aimed for the neck, was knocked aside as he knew he would be, but opened opportunities for three others to latch onto ankles and arms. Richard shrugged his massive shoulders and tossed wolves away, but Curt had leapt all the way onto Richard's back and was biting his neck.

James rolled onto his feet and ran back into the fight, dodging the wolves that were being thrown and bumped away. In seconds, they too had recovered from landing and returned to the fray.

Curt was actually doing very well. While most of the others had been shaken off and replaced by a second set of wolves, Curt had managed to clench Richard's neck tight enough to stay on and was even growling. As James latched onto Richard's ankle, the werewolf grabbed Curt with both hands and tossed him over the Tree.

A combined effort pulled Richard's half-human legs out from under him and he thudded onto his back, but flipped quickly onto his front, sending wolves skidding into the dirt as they lost their grip.

They rushed back and clamped onto Richard's arms, legs, side, neck. Richard fought back, but he was bleeding from a dozen wounds and there were too many wolves to kill any of them without leaving himself wide open to other attacks. The best he could do was throw them off and try to twist out of their bites, but any second now he'd leave something vital unguarded—

Something registered on the edge of James's vision: the top of the Tree had changed shape. It wasn't smooth stone any more, it was knobbly and... moving.

Melanthios, the dark-haired youngest Andraste, landed beside Richard and began throwing wolves off him. Now that James knew the vampires were here, he could smell the damned things, but only just.

Two wolves jumped at Melanthios. He smacked one out of the air, but the other brought him crashing to the ground.

Strangely, the other vampires didn't come to their relative's aid. They watched from their perches in the trees to the north as their brother and son defended his neck with his slender arms.

"I reckon that's enough," said a dull voice. Thomas Brown, having gained twenty pounds and a thick burgundy tan – very different from Leander's lobster one – emerged smiling from the tree line.

The vampires launched out of the foliage and landed with easy grace. They pulled wolves from Melanthios and Richard, then dodged the answering snap of jaws. Richard shook off the last of the wolves and followed them.

The two lines regarded each other. Eight wolves. Twelve vampires.

No, wait. Thirteen vampires, one of them wearing a collar and chain. James thought he looked like Clarkson, but... no, he'd think about that later.

Adonis, an inch in front of the others, raised his chin as if to indicate that the wolves would be no challenge so he was in no hurry to dirty himself ending their meagre lives.

James lowered his head, extended his neck, and growled. The other wolves picked up the snarl and it rose in tempo.

As one, the wolves charged.

In mayhem, the vampires scattered.

They leapt back into the trees or ran off, past others or into them. The wolves didn't pursue; they stayed as a group close to the Tree. James hoped Mitchell would arrive soon, since his own plan had been spectacularly short-sighted: he'd turned the wolves against Richard, but he hadn't considered that another Brown might arrive with another, larger, army.

Leander had edged close to the pack and swiped at Dom, who was the easiest target – the smallest and thinnest. As Dom nipped at the fingers, Leander flipped backward to knock Dom's jaws together with a fine leather boot. That made James suspect that the Andrastes had never been in a real fight before. They weren't using any of the tried-and-true schoolyard tactics James had honed growing up. The vampires were more like ballerinas than brawlers.

Following Melanthios's display, other vampires realised that one-on-one they had an advantage over the wolves, but the pack was ready for them. When Phaedra tried to claw at one of them, she found another wolf had bitten her wrist, but before she could hit _that_ one, he was back safe among the others.

Ten feet away, beneath the shadow of the trees, the two Brown brothers clapped one another on the back. Vampire and werewolf cooperating. That went against every bone in James's body.

A smell tapped him on the nose: meat and decay, blood and bile, mould, cloth, and death. Lots and lots of it. Quite close.

James gave a low bark and the wolves dropped back into a tighter group, staring south where, after a few seconds, the zombies emerged from the dark. Flesh hung off them by long-dead sinews; clothes were stained yellow with blood; legs dragged along the ground; arms hung loose at sides; white eyes gazed.

The wolves huddled around the Tree. On the plus side, that put them too far from the trees for the vampires to jump out and surprise them. On the down side, there was no cover for the wolves when the zombies turned against them, which James was sure they were about to.

Because if the zombie army was here, that meant Norm had failed.

_Kill!_ shouted a cold voice that James heard in the base of his spine. The smell of day-old alcohol led James to the skeletal figure of Harold Brown, undead head of the horde.

As the zombies obeyed their commander, the vampires fell back north. It wasn't retreat, however – not fear of this new threat – the vampires were creating a perimeter. They weren't going to fight; they were just going to put down any mongrel that tried to escape.

James smelled fear roll off the other wolves. Together, they could punch a hole in the vampires' guard and escape, but that left the Tree undefended. If all the Browns reached it, they'd fulfil the prophecy...

In that moment, James chose who he wanted to be. He wanted to be here. He wanted to be the one who stopped this. And with every bone in his body – including those in his fluffy tail – he would buy Mitchell every second he could.

James raised said tail from between his legs, lifted his head, and howled at the zombies. For a moment he was alone, his howl shallow and afraid in the big dark night. Then Dom joined in. Curt. The others.

The silence had been the vampires'. They had lived in it, fought in it, wrapped it around themselves like a cloak and around their enemies like a suffocating shroud. But no more. This was a new night, a night filled to overflowing with the Howl. And it was theirs.

So they charged.

* * *

Norm had jostled his way to the middle of the horde, of which he was quite pleased: if he'd stayed at the front he'd be killed first, and then how could he help Jim? By the time the enemy had killed their way to the middle of the horde, they'd be tired and pose less threat. Even now Norm could see, fuzzily, the poor figures at the front being torn apart by ravenous wolves.

Truth be told, the wolves were doing very well against the horde. Most of the zombie village had come with them – about fifteen-hundred souls – but Norm suspected another thousand had joined them on the way. Two-and-a-half thousand versus... eight. Yes, the wolves were doing very well indeed.

From what Norm could discern, the wolves were all teeth and powerful jaws, which they latched onto necks. The zombies tried to bite back, but the wolves were only at the right height to bite when they were already tearing out a throat. Some of the horde tried grabbing the wolves on the ground, but those few that succeeded typically either fell over or had their arms pulled off as the wolves moved on to another victim.

And the wolves had one other advantage that Norm could tell: they weren't humans, so there was no brainlust fuelling the zombies. They weren't fighting for brains, they were fighting because they'd been told to. And most of them didn't really want to bite fur and really didn't mind dying.

Still, the wolves couldn't hold out forever. The sheer weight of living corpses would crush them soon.

_Norm, why are we doing this?_ Gladys asked as they shuffled forward. _Please tell me it wasn't just to stop Harold killing you._

_It doesn't matter what kills me_ , Norm said. _We'll starve to death soon anyway._

Then why are we here, Norm?

_Because if he'd killed me, everyone would have followed him out of fear_ , Norm said. _Harold would still have three thousand zombies with him, Gladys._ Norm fixed her as steady a gaze as he could. _But one of them wouldn't be looking for the best time to stab him in the back._

* * *

Truman had left his axe embedded in a thick skull at the entrance to the garden and was now using two knives, slicing them in smooth round motions across zombie throats. Sweat soaked through his clothes, but they were already so wet with thick blood he didn't really notice. In front, Skylar stabbed her crowbar into a head, kicked the body away, and grabbed the propane tank again.

And so they trudged through the trees and along the fringes of the horde. The opposition was weak, given that an army of thousands was five feet away, but was strong enough that it was only a matter of time until the Team was joined it. Truman's arms were heavy, his legs ached, and at some point he would miss a throat and the gaping mouths would close on him.

Mitchell, however, looked like he could go all night. He still heaved the scythe, still darted toward enemies, still moved the weapon fast and precise, using the snaith to knock zombies back or the blade to lop off heads and slice through bodies, sometimes vertically.

"How far?" Skylar shouted, dropping the propane tank to swing her crowbar.

"Fifteen feet!" Truman yelled. A few more zombies and they'd be out of the trees and into in the corpse-riddled but otherwise clear dirt around the Tree.

Neck. Throw knife. Temple. Throat. Four zombies fell and Truman made it out of the tree line. Ahead, zombies were shoulder to shoulder with some lost cows and were clustered around the wolves he'd heard howling earlier.

Figures from his right landed a few feet away with instantly-recognisable grace. Truman scowled, tightened his grip on the knives, and prepared to battle a vampire hand-to-knife.

Then one of the vampires waved. "Hi guys!"

For a fleeting moment Truman thought Clarkson was being used as leverage. Then he noticed his fellow's catlike eyes and realised that Clarkson had been turned. Truman saw Mitchell's hands tighten on the scythe's snaith.

"Sir, you've _got_ to try this," Clarkson said. "You should see how they turn you!"

A female vampire yanked on the chain attached to Clarkson's neck.

"What's with the keg?" Clarkson asked. "End-of-the-world party?"

The female vampire yanked harder.

"We're going to set Harold on fire," Mitchell said.

"Cool! Can I hel—Earcgh!"

The vampires grinned at the humans. Truman considered reaching for his gun, but he hadn't been able to hit the vampires in the mansion; why should it be any different now? The Andrastes crouched, arms low, ready to attack, then spun to face the wolves at their heels. Or, _on_ their heels.

Truman returned his attention to the horde on his left. The conversation with Clarkson had alerted the closest zombies to the presence of a nearby meal and they were staggering forward with outstretched arms and guttural moans. Truman let the moment of peace pass and returned to stabbing the hungry islanders.

Something moved through the horde toward them, fast. It bumped against zombies – Truman saw some reach down to grab it and others fall as it brushed past them. He thought he saw cream and black fur around hip-height, but when it sprang up, above the heads of the zombie, Truman saw that it was a man. A naked man.

"Don't hurt the wolves!" he shouted.

"Detective?" Mitchell asked. His scythe passed through another throat, then he allowed himself a moment to stare. "What are you doing there? And when the hell did you grow a _beard_?"

It wasn't a five o'clock shadow. It was a full beard, the kind that took weeks to grow. Was this Paddington's grand strategy? Did facial hair protect you from zombies?

"Don't shoot the wolves!" Paddington was still bouncing up, hopping along on his toes and looking over the zombies, none of which were even _trying_ to bite him.

"And where are your clothes?" Mitchell shouted.

"Remember: wolves good!" Paddington shouted, then dropped out of sight. Was he ducking? Hiding? Staying below biting level? A dark wolf shot out of the crowd straight toward Truman. He raised his knives but hesitated, remembering Paddington's words, and the wolf passed him without so much as glancing up. It took the two-wheeled trolley's handle in its great maw and dragged it through the horde toward the Tree.

Next time he saw Paddington, Truman would have to ask him what had happened to the world, because it no longer made sense to Truman.

Right now, though, he didn't have time for anything except instinct. The vampires and the wolves threw and bit and scratched one another; the zombies growled, and white eyes from farther and farther away turned toward the Team and marched toward their brains.

Mitchell spun the scythe and hacked and dismembered. Truman barely had room to swing his knives, but Mitchell was an infinite chain of violence, calm and in control, and nothing even got close to him. Still, for every head he removed there was another to replace it.

Truman followed Mitchell and Skylar toward the Tree, aware that every step brought him closer to the horde. Closer to the wolves and vampires darting between, around, and through it. And, hopefully, closer to stopping the prophecy.

* * *

Word of the humans carried through the horde with a ripple of excitement, but no one was really hungry. The diehard brain-lovers had been at the front and were all dead now. The remaining zombies were those that had come along out of fear or curiosity or because they believed in Norm.

Ahead, Norm saw a frenzy of blurred movement. If he came any closer to the humans, he risked the brainlust. Now was the time. Norm raised himself as high as his slouching spine would allow.

_I am Norman Winslow!_ he yelled. _I was the first! I have tasted human brains and they do not satisfy! Turn from these measly mortals and join me in the quest for_ _true_ _ecstasy. Feast on noble flesh! To the duke!_

Norm wasn't sure what a vampire was, but Paddington hadn't sounded happy that the duke was one and Norm had promised to do whatever he could to help. Besides, he needed to draw the horde away from the humans and the Andrastes seemed to be able to take care of themselves.

An old, patriotic part of Norm wondered whether this was treason. Probably, but the death penalty wasn't much of a deterrent any more.

The horde's cries of _Forgive me!_ and _For Harold!_ and _What did he say?_ and _It's a basic existential conundrum that..._ trailed off. Heads sought the Andrastes and Norm pointed his stump of an arm at them.

_Large are their brains and delicious!_ Norm shouted. _Ignore the mongrels of the street! Ignore the desires of the flesh! Dine on the finest cuisine!_

Stumbling and shuffling and growling, the nearby zombies – many of who were followers of Norm's teachings – started toward the vampires. The cows were pulled along with them, but didn't seem very concerned by the night's events.

_Truly_ , Norm said, _the path to enlightenment and fulfilment is inside the heads of our former leaders! Civil blood makes civil tongues unclean, but noble blood emboldens! To the duke!_

Most of the zombies were buying it. Some, however, continued toward the humans, creating a traffic jam as the horde tried to move in two directions at once. Zombies pushed and pulled at their fellows, tore pieces off them, bumped, were shoved, fell, trampled the fallen. Zombie killed zombie for the right to feast on their species of choice.

The horde thinned.

* * *

North of the Tree, Harold Brown reached his brothers. Thomas stood rigidly, his black coat trailing down like long feathers. Richard crouched, half-wolf and half-man.

Harold nodded and hitched his decaying fingers into the pocket of his apron. _'Ello Thomas. Richard_.

"'Erro Harold," said Richard, though the wolf's mouth.

"'Ello Harold," said Thomas.

_What's the citation?_ asked Harold.

"We're waiting for your boys to clear us a path through them dogs," said Thomas.

' _Ere, you've done sommit to your hair._

Thomas touched the long, dark locks. "D'you like it?"

Harold shrugged his shoulders. Part of one dropped off. _Our mum wouldn't_. Since he'd first talked of leaving the farm, Harold had put up with a lot from his brothers. It felt good to judge instead of get judged for once.

"She never did like you, with all your wacky ideas," Richard told Thomas. "Sheep, hmfph!"

"My Barbaras did very well," said Thomas. "Much better'n your cows, if I remember every fair since we were twenty."

"Except that one—"

"Yes, all right, when we was thirty-four your ladies came second and my Barbaras came third. But the rest of the time..."

He trailed off. A few feet away, the humans, zombies, wolves, and vampires bickered. Harold knew where every one of his zombies was, could see through their cloudy eyes and feel their longing for brains, and it made him hungry. That Mainlander had been a darn good meal, the best he'd come across – so much experience, so much knowledge, so many rich thoughts... so much promise. So much better than the dull lives of the Archians he'd eaten. They had such small lives compared to what was out there: the wide world, ripe and ready for harvest.

And Harold could feel, just beneath his rotting flesh, the promise of the Tree. The need for him and his brothers to each touch their side of the rock and be taken inside it, and to come back out one creature. Perfect. Unstoppable.

But first they needed to get these humans out of the way. The Mainlanders were doing well, given the opposition. The wolves and vampires were harder for Harold to track via the horde, both because they darted around more and because they weren't food, so Harold's zombies had no interest in them.

_Is this going to take long, d'you think?_ asked Harold.

"Why?" asked Richard.

Them humans are making my stomach growl.

The Three Brothers watched the three Mainlanders.

"One each," said Richard. "Seems almost... destinied."

"Adonis said we were to wait here," Thomas said in a tone that suggested being _given_ orders was beneath them, let alone actually _following_ those orders. Harold suspected that, once the dust had settled, his eldest brother would have fun putting Adonis in his place.

_Rules are for the living_ , said Harold, starting toward the humans. He heard Richard stomp along on his right and Thomas move soundlessly on his left.

A single sneer spread across three faces and the Brothers Brown joined the fight.

* * *

For someone with ten zombies after him, Clarkson thought he was doing all right. He'd leapt into a nearby evergreen and swung around its branch to land atop the Tree, where the undead couldn't reach him and he could survey the action.

The Team had a clear space around them as the nearby zombies turned west toward the vampires. Mitchell stood to the south of the cleared area, eyeing the zombies for treachery and ready to use his scythe if necessary. Skylar and Truman were behind him, trying to spot the Browns.

From atop the Tree, Clarkson did: Thomas was watching the carnage with delight from over by the tree line; Richard was struggling through the horde on the west of the Tree, approaching the Team; and Harold was... oh dear... standing in the open to the north, smiling an evil little smile at the Team's backs.

Clarkson, driven by a protective instinct he hadn't known he possessed, rushed to the aid of his friends. Actually, "friends" was probably too strong a word, but they weren't trying to kill him, which was close enough for now. They could work on the rest later.

In one smooth motion, Clarkson dropped to the ground by the Tree, grabbed the propane tank, and hurled it at Harold while shouting, "Hey, deadbeat!"

The former publican saw the propane canister an instant before it thumped him into the ground. Truman, hearing the snap of Harold's bones behind him, spun. In a second he'd dropped to one knee, readied his sidearm, and squeezed the trigger. A single bullet spun through the cold night air and punctured the propane tank atop Harold Brown.

"Oh yeah!" Clarkson shouted. Then he started running, because the zombies were grabbing at him again. As he ran, though, he noticed the absence of a loud bang or the sound of a zombie king exploding into hundreds of fiery bits, so he glanced over.

The canister on top of Harold was spewing gas, but utterly failing to detonate or even catch on fire.

Still, Harold wasn't moving. That was one Brown taken care of.

* * *

Mitchell had no idea why, twenty feet away, the tide of undead had turned from his Team and toward the Tree, washing over anyone in its path, but he wasn't concerned with reasons. Priority one was killing the Brown brothers. Priority two was killing everything else.

Someone had already started on priority one. Mitchell wasn't sure how, but the gas tank had flown from beneath the Tree and crushed Harold. It hadn't exploded, but nothing was moving and Mitchell was content to deal with one problem at a time.

A cow mooed at him as it passed.

"Right," he said to Truman and Skylar. "Browns. You know what to... do."

A half-man, half-wolf silhouette atop the Tree raised his furry head and uttered a short howl, then leapt over the retreating zombies and landed on feet and clawed hands. Richard remained on all fours as he crept forward. Apparently he knew they had to hit his heart and wasn't going to give them the chance.

Mitchell swung the scythe, but the werewolf ducked it, grabbed the snaith with both hands, and snapped it in half. Mitchell had already let go, grabbed his rifle with one hand, and brought it up to fire.

Richard lunged forward. Razor-sharp teeth closed half an inch from Mitchell's fingers. The whole barrel of the rifle was gone.

When Mitchell had recovered from the shock, he found that his body had fled on instinct. He looked around to find Richard on all fours a few steps behind, and threw what was left of his L85 at him.

* * *

James had trouble keeping up with what was happening in the battle, but decided not to let that distract him. So the zombies had brought cows? Fine. And they'd stopped trying to grab his fur and were now wrestling with – or being torn apart by – the Andrastes? Okay. That left his wolves free to thin the zombie horde or attack the distracted vampires, and it left _him_ free to find the Browns. James ducked another severed arm, set his eyes on Richard, and charged. He was somewhat distracted, however, by the sight of his mother.

"Mum!" he shouted. Shouting required a human mouth, however, which caused the rest of him to change back and, because his human arms weren't as long as his wolf forelegs, Paddington tumbled headfirst into the dirt. Sticks and stones scraped his naked back and arms.

_James!_ Andrea said. _What are you doing here? Where are your clothes?_

His mother was still in her filthy police uniform and her right hand still clutched the sabre that was a family heirloom on the Bretherton side. Paddington shook his head as he picked himself off the ground.

Okay, right, his mother was definitely a zombie, but he didn't have time to feel empty or alone or scared, so he pushed them from his mind and focussed on the task at hand.

"Long story," Paddington told her, "I'll tell you later!"

Now... to ensure there _was_ a later.

Clarkson sprinted past, shouting, "Shoo!" at the host of zombies following him.

Paddington had seen Harold and Richard, but where was Thomas? Paddington dropped onto his hands and feet, then James leapt off four legs and tried to discern a single thread in the overbearing stink. Living corpses. Sweat. Blood. Cow. Moist night. Leaves. Vampires, almost scentless. Then something, like dust and old people. James homed in on it and found Thomas standing at the tree line, watching the heavily-distracted Team.

And directly between Thomas and the Team were a few hundred zombies... and James. He leapt again.

"Mum! Sword!"

Thomas disappeared and a path cleared itself through the undead as something moved toward the Team faster than the human eye could see.

Andrea spun her uncooperative arm in an arc. It broke off.

Paddington grabbed it out of the air and held it horizontally with both hands as the cleared path raced toward him. There was a _schlck_ as the sabre connected with flesh and bone and Paddington was knocked backward against the horde. When he looked down the newly-cleared path to its end, Paddington saw Thomas's body. It took a final step, stopped, and toppled to the ground.

His severed head, on the other hand, soared through the air, its expression outraged and confused, and fell somewhere in the crowd.

* * *

On the other side of the Tree, Richard chased Mitchell around the emptied space, trampling zombie corpses and closing on the human. Mitchell fired his sidearm over his shoulder, but Richard absorbed the bullets with barely a twitch.

Not that Skylar had much time to watch. There was a horde of zombies a few feet away that she couldn't trust to leave them alone. And the Andrastes were still around, mostly battling zombies and wolves, but the islanders couldn't hold them off forever.

Mitchell sped past her, his pistol now empty, and it took a few seconds for Skylar to spot what was missing. There was no following werewolf.

Then she felt the hot breath beat down on her from above. Smelled the blood. Heard the contented, victorious snort behind her. Almost a laugh.

Richard was behind her.

She was dead.

Skylar turned, wanting to face her death head-on, keeping her hands at her sides in a non-threatening way so Richard wouldn't attack. She knew no one would save her – Mitchell hadn't realised he wasn't being chased and Truman was holding off those of the horde who were still attacking – but then she'd never been much of one for being saved. It was enough to face her end eyes open and unafraid.

It was hard. Saliva dripped from between long rows of sharp teeth. Cruel eyes evaluated where to place the killing stroke. His clawed fingers roamed, keen to begin. His chest fur was already matted with blood. Richard opened his maw to bite.

And there was a _crack_ of pistol-fire. Skylar dropped to the ground, partly from fear, partly to get farther from Richard, but mostly to give whoever was shooting a clearer target. It wasn't Mitchell; who had just realised he wasn't being chased, and Truman was by the zombies looking confused.

As the werewolf spun away from her toward the shooter, Skylar spied the bleeding hole in his spine. Looking past Richard, Skylar saw a smoking pistol barrel sticking out of the shadows under the trees.

Richard growled a challenge. The pistol cracked in reply. Its muzzle flash lit up a bulbous head, reddish hair, a beard. Each shot highlighted McGregor's face as he fought the weapon's recoil and pulled the trigger as fast as it would go.

Round after round tore into Richard's chest, spraying blood. Richard whimpered as he fell. One foot kicked at the sky. He howled sadly for an instant, then lay still.

Trembling on the ground beside the massive corpse, Skylar caught McGregor's eyes and nodded in thanks.

* * *

When Richard fell, Mitchell rejoined the other three members of his Team clustered around the Tree's base. McGregor reloaded his pistol with a minimum of fumbling; Mitchell wouldn't have trusted him to know where the trigger was.

So, the three Browns had been dealt with, the prophecy was defeated, but there were still a couple of thousand zombies outside the quarantine zone. The citizens couldn't possibly contain a breach this size. The zombies would bite and breed and take over the island, but at least they couldn't get off it. Even if the zombies infected whoever came to investigate Mitchell's radio silence, they'd never successfully pilot a helicopter back. The situation was contained.

Unless someone came by boat.

How long until some poor fisherman arrived on Archi, was bitten, and started sailing back toward England? Even if it ran out of fuel, the boat would probably hit the coastline somewhere and the kindly emergency workers would rush to investigate, with their exposed flesh and their slow reflexes...

Mitchell sighed. The zombies would get off Archi. They bloody would. They'd stopped the ridiculous prophecy, but the world was still going to end.

And they'd be the first to go. Well, the second. First would be the Andrastes – and good riddance to them – but when the zombies ran out of vampires they'd turn on the humans again.

Things couldn't get any worse.

And so, of course, they did.

There was a scrape behind him like a heavy pot on dirt. Mitchell turned to find a dead hand shoving the gas tank away and then Harold Brown hauled himself to his feet. His body was noticeably more broken than before, his white ribs protruding from – and his internal organs hanging out of – the bruised but bloodless crater his chest had become.

But still he moved.

Harold grabbed the gas canister and hurled it at the Tree. A human shape leapt off just before the tank removed the top foot of the Tree and cracked the obelisk's faces like lightning.

The figure from the Tree landed beside Mitchell and he spun, pistol raised. The vampire dodged the first shot and pushed Mitchell's arm aside before he could fire again. Another second and it had twisted the pistol out of his grip. Mitchell had been so busy attacking he didn't recognise the figure until it spoke. "Sweet. That's never worked for me before," Clarkson said.

To their north, Harold Brown spotted his dead brothers and waved his nearly-severed arm at the Team and howled something like a wind of despair and gloom.

As if one entity, the entire zombie horde – even those in the throes of attack – turned and swarmed toward the Team. Mitchell guessed they had ten seconds before there were too many undead to hold back. He holstered his pistol and grabbed the bits of his scythe off the ground. If he was going down, he'd go kicking, biting, pulling hair. Hell, if he had the power he'd take all of Archi with him.

His Teammates were already attacking: Truman and Skylar hand to hand and McGregor behind them, picking off skulls with unnerving accuracy, but even with his streak of headshots, there were too many zombies.

Clarkson reached between Mitchell's hands and opened a pocket on his jacket. Mitchell flinched at the sudden and sure way that Clarkson moved, the quick darts like a pounce. Before he could do anything more than flinch, however, Clarkson had what he wanted: one of the signal flares.

"Help's not coming," Mitchell said.

Clarkson cracked the flare's cap.

The zombie king glared at them and screamed, particularly horrific when seen in the flare's bright white sparks. His jaw opened wide like a snake's, ready to swallow its prey whole. If Harold charged them as he had Normson, they had less than a second to live.

"Hey Harold!" Clarkson said. "Go toward the light, motherfucker."

Shadows danced and lengthened in the shifting illumination as the flare left Clarkson's hand and spun end over end to land in Harold's open chest cavity. The flare's sparks became rolls of flame as soon as they hit the barman's alcohol- and propane-soaked apron, turning the zombie into an inferno.

"What the hell was that?" Mitchell asked Clarkson.

"What?" Clarkson said, as together they turned to face the thousands of zombies still ambling toward them from the south.

"'Go toward the light?' _He_ didn't go anywhere," Mitchell said. "You threw the light toward _him_. And the swearing was completely unnecessary."

Harold sprinted past them into the horde like a headless chicken someone had set on fire. His arms waved, broke into bits, and flew off like little Molotov cocktails.

"Whatever," Clarkson said. "You just don't know style."

Harold turned three tight circles before his legs disintegrated and his remains tumbled to the dirt to gently crackle.

* * *

As soon as Harold hit the dirt, the zombies froze with a blank expression of mild confusion on their faces, like they'd all forgotten something. Were they all in each other's heads, all the time? Had the sudden absence of Harold's overriding voice left them lost, shocked, confused? Paddington certainly hoped so.

"Norm?" he shouted, pushing through the unresisting horde.

_Over here, Jim..._ Norm said, but he didn't sound certain of it.

"Get everyone out of here," Paddington said. "Right _now_!"

_Uh, yeah..._ Norm shook his head and frowned with hairless eyebrows, then turned to his fellows. _Right everyone! Nothing to see here! Back south, you undead gits!_

Still confused, the zombies shuffled away from the Team and the Tree. Paddington sidled over to Mitchell as silently as he could, hoping none of the zombies were watching him.

"Detective," Mitchell said, "I think it's time you started answering my questions."

"Get out of here," Paddington whispered, "before the zombies realise that they're walking away from a meal."

Mitchell hesitated, then apparently decided that questions like "How long have you been a werewolf" could wait until Paddington was wearing pants.

He did ask one question, though: "And what are _you_ going to do?"

Paddington glanced over his bare shoulder at the vampires, who stood in a tight group nursing scrapes and bruises, then at the seven wolves who sat nearby, watching them.

"I'm going to finish this," Paddington said, and strode toward the duke.

Adonis stepped forward to meet him with a smile. Hardly what Paddington had expected from a man whose schemes had been so thoroughly thwarted. Where was the rage? The screams for retribution? "Detective." Adonis clapped Paddington on the back and led him away like old friends at a chance meeting. "What a terrible night."

"Did it not go to plan?" Paddington asked.

"We had nothing to do with this tragedy."

They had drifted a distance from the vampires, the wolves, and the Team. They were, in other words, alone.

"But let us speak of the future," said Adonis. "You have done very well tonight, detective. You solved the case and saved us all. Clearly you've outgrown our little island. After tonight's events, I shall have no trouble recommending you to join – and perhaps lead – this Supernatural Team. The Mainland is the place for you, detective. You have always known this." Adonis smiled. "What do you say?"

For Paddington, it's not even a choice; his past has left him no other path to tread.

# Chapter Twenty-Six: The Moment of Consequence

James Paddington, aged thirteen, is not popular. He's more interested in learning the how and why of everything than he is in sports, and the rejection of the other children and the disapproval of the adults is like a knife to his stomach.

He is, however, not alone. Lisa Tanner is even more repellent than he is. Bookish and inquisitive, she isn't even a real Archian, a fact highlighted by the metal on her teeth: some new Mainland contraption. Her feet turn inward, as do her shoulders, and her long hair knots and catches in her teeth.

The omegas of the school, they originally became friends so they weren't completely alone, but Lisa has taught James to ask questions and James has taught Lisa how to cut off her emotions.

One week ago, breath frosting, they shared their first kiss behind the lunch shed.

Today, they are to receive an award in front of the whole school at the end-of-year ceremony. Over a thousand students and teachers are here and one of the older boys – Will – has told James how he can become the coolest kid on Archi.

On the stage, Principal Baldwin speaks of the rewards of hard work, waves a hand at Lisa and James as they stand beside him – the brightest of the primary and high schools respectively, according to a test the Mainland forced them all to take – and says they have done Archi proud. James feels hot sweat roll down his neck as he watches the back row of the hall, where the older kids sit. Will nods to him.

The principal wraps up his speech. The pivotal moment approaches, and soon it will be past. With a smile, Principal Baldwin picks up Lisa's framed certificate off the carefully-ribboned table. Lisa smiles a mouthful of metal, unable to contain her joy. And James knows without a doubt that he shouldn't follow through with Will's plan. That it is wrong.

But Principal Baldwin is handing Lisa her award and shaking her hand and if James doesn't act now, the opportunity will be lost forever.

And forever is a long time to be alone.

In terror, as if watching from outside his body, James sees himself grab Lisa's skirt and lift it high. She flashes butterflies at the entire school.

Pandemonium breaks out. Children point at Lisa. Teachers yell for quiet. The older students stop cackling once the shock wears off. The younger ones keep laughing. James looks over them all, to the very back of the hall, where Will never even smiles.

Lisa tears her skirt away from James. As she tugs, her award drops from her hands and tumbles through the air. James lunges for it. His fingers knock its frame, sending it into a spin.

It shatters at his feet.

Rough hands drag James away. Stern words bounce off him, unheard, as he watches Lisa kneel on broken glass to pick up the pieces of her award.

And to James, the future opens.

Either his peers will accept him or they will continue mocking him. If they mock him, he is their fool; he vows never to be so again. If they accept him, it is for what he has just done, and he hates himself for what he has just done.

And he doesn't like _them_. He realises that he never did.

Suddenly, James doesn't love Archi. He hates its petty-mindedness. He cannot stand its backward values. Contrary to his mother's repeated trifle, Archi has done nothing for him and he owes it nothing.

So he rejects it and everything it stands for and promises that he will _never_ follow blindly. He will find the reason for everything, always question, never submit, never accept popular opinion. He will do things his way.

Behind him, tears roll from Lisa's ice-blue eyes down her red cheeks, and the last joy in James Paddington dies.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Demon's Legacy

"No."

"I'm sorry?" asked Adonis.

"I say no," Paddington repeated.

"Ah."

Adonis sized Paddington up. One on one, a vampire had the advantage over a wolf – but there was something unsettling about Paddington. He wasn't taller, or wider, or a better fighter than the others, but somehow Paddington was more Wolf than they were. His coat was thicker, his stance more regal, his golden eyes every inch as intelligent as his human ones.

"Things are going to change," Paddington said.

Adonis had had three centuries' experience leading, protecting, _ruling_. And now this... animal... thought to tell _him_ how things would be? "And what shall change?" he asked. "Would you put Archi on the map, after all I have done to keep her hidden and her people safe? Would you have her ravaged by the world, her beauty tarnished, her traditions drowned beneath a flood of Mainland filth?"

"Don't play the innocent," Paddington said, his brown eyes every bit as hard as his tone. "You hid Archi to protect _yourself_. It must have been a lonely life, trapped in your castle, only visited by the ignorant and the controllable... Which did you think _I_ was, by the way?"

If it was going to be stakes and garlic and crosses, Adonis would meet it head on. "Call the proper authorities, then. Doom us all."

Paddington smiled. "No."

What was his game? Adonis tried to think like Paddington, but he couldn't fit his head into a life that only lasted eighty years. "What, then?"

"For a start," Paddington said, "you'll reconnect Lisa's internet, which stopped working that night you had me to dinner, and you'll let Mitchell contact the Mainland."

"And he'll kill us all," said Adonis. As Paddington stood there in nothing but his pride, Adonis believed he would. The detective would have no qualms about destroying his entire family, just for being different. Hypocrite.

"I want you monitoring the call," Paddington said. "If he tries to compromise Archi, cut communications."

"Then why let him contact the Mainland at all?"

When Paddington finally worked out what Adonis meant, his furrowed brows leapt upward. "Oh! You mean why don't we just kill them? Because more will come looking. Our only hope of containing this is by letting Mitchell go. Also because I'm against murder; old policeman's habit."

"So your friends go free," said Adonis. He was quite enjoying this. It had been years since anyone had stood up to him. He'd missed the to-and-fro of negotiation. "What else?"

"We need a new mayor," Paddington said, "and he probably doesn't need the false teeth."

"They aren't false."

"I... was happier not knowing that." Paddington swallowed.

"And why should I allow any of this? Mitchell and his fellows have committed an offence: Breach of Embargo. I am within my rights as duke to demand their executions. To be carried out by the senior police officer, if I recall. You, detective."

Paddington's eyes took on the same disconcerting intensity they had just after poisoning Adonis and his family. "You're not innocent here, duke. You tried to fulfil the prophecy, knowing full well what would happen once the zombies got to the Mainland. Maybe you didn't realise what monsters the Browns would become, but that doesn't excuse your doing everything you could to create and protect them. You turned Thomas, you had Conall rescue Richard, and you shattered the _Bleeding_ _Heck's_ thick wooden doors to let the zombies get to Harold."

Adonis couldn't remember when someone had last stared at him with such loathing.

"But that's implication and suspicion," Paddington said. "Let's get specific. You ordered Conall to ignore Norman Winslow's escape, which led to nearly half the island becoming zombies, and you had the wolves kidnap and torture me."

"Very well, but the sword cuts both ways," said Adonis. "You stole a priceless text from me and attempted to kill my entire family."

"Did I mention the second-degree murder of four _thousand_ Archians?" Paddington asked.

How serious was that threat behind the detective's eyes? Adonis couldn't trust that they were alone out here, even if they appeared so. The zombies may have left – at Paddington's command, worryingly – but the wolves were still guarding his family and the Mainlanders would be somewhere nearby, watching them through high-powered scopes. If this didn't go as he desired, Paddington could kill the Andrastes and invent any story he liked to explain what had happened.

"The final change, I suppose," asked Adonis, "is your complete control of Archi?" He locked eyes with the detective. "Is this where I beg for mercy?"

"It won't do you any good," Paddington said.

Was it best to attack now, before Paddington could change? He was taller than the detective, but it would only take seconds for the wolves to rush to their alpha's aid, or for the Mainlanders to shoot him from the shadows. Yes, Adonis might best Paddington, but the price was his life.

"It won't do you any good," Paddington continued, "because I'm not arresting you. Strangely, Intent to End the World isn't an offence; and we both know no jury on Archi would ever convict _you_ of anything."

"Then this is all wind," said Adonis. "What next? You exterminate my family, without justice, just for being what we are?"

Paddington shrugged a no. "There's no law against being a vampire."

Adonis raised a styled eyebrow. "No more visits from your Mainland friends?"

"No vampires on my streets, no wolves in your castle," Paddington agreed. "Archi needs a clear figurehead as we rebuild."

Adonis waited for the catch.

"But I'll need access to the internet," Paddington said. "Once a week I'll contact Mitchell, just to let him know we're okay."

Adonis smiled. So that was his game: Paddington could call in the cavalry at any time, turning Adonis's rule into a farce. "What's to stop them betraying us as soon as they return?" asked Adonis.

"Your Mainland contacts," Paddington said, "the ones who keep Archi off the map. If they can hide a whole island, four soldiers shouldn't be a problem."

"A well constructed defence." Adonis had expected Paddington to leave Archi burning in his wake. "I hadn't taken you for a patriot."

"I'm not," Paddington said. "This whole island can turn to ash and you with it as far as I'm concerned. I'll fight its pettiness and bigotry to my dying breath and beyond..." The anger in his voice died away. "...but this place means something to Lisa."

The _Mainlander_? "You spare us for _her_?"

"Damn right. Sir."

With that, Paddington turned and walked back toward the Tree and the wolves. Adonis watched him go, running the prophecy through his mind. Paddington had summoned the Team that had destroyed the Three Brothers; had begotten peace with wolves, zombies, and now with vampires; and had decried Archi, sparing her only for the sake of a Mainlander.

Adonis had been right a week ago. He'd been right and Paddington's mother had been wrong, bless her. He smiled at Paddington's back. "Well played, demon," he said.

* * *

Paddington strained to hear movement behind him; what use were ears that couldn't swivel? Who'd designed that? Trying to ignore the glares from the Andrastes, he stopped in front of the wolves and smoothed his beard and tried to slow his thumping heartbeat. The mix of terror and excitement was... fun. Was right. He'd liked it, felt at home in it. Now he had to go back to being normal.

"It's over," he said. "No fighting vampires, unless they start it."

Even as he said it, Paddington heard voices from the south-east: real voices, through his ears, not zombie-voices in his mind. The wolves ran into the trees. The vampires had already vanished. Paddington stayed, listening, trying to pick voices out of the crowd. Lisa and Quentin were in the lead, followed by many of Archi's finest shooters. Suddenly the night felt very cold, probably because he was exposing so much flesh to it.

Or because of the frigid gun barrel being pressed into his spine.

"How long have you been a werewolf?" Mitchell whispered.

"A few days."

The first few lines of the crowd were visible under the trees, if Paddington squinted. Quentin led them, shotgun in hand. Around him, others checked that the zombie corpses on the ground were really dead and, occasionally, shot one which hadn't been.

Mitchell's head leaned over Paddington's shoulder and nodded at the crowd. "That looks like your girlfriend."

"Probably because it is," Paddington said.

"You broke her out while we were visiting the mayor."

"How could I? I was with you the whole night, remember? We came here, saw the Tree." Paddington nodded at the half-destroyed rock. The top was jagged now instead of smooth, and cracks ran down each of its three faces.

"At _your_ suggestion," Mitchell said.

The crowd was nearly upon them.

"Why should I play along, detective?" Mitchell asked.

"Because you want to get off this island alive." Paddington stepped toward the two-hundred strong crowd. He'd have to come up with some convincing lie about why he'd been naked on a battlefield, but that could wait for a bit.

Three steps had him in Lisa's arms and her in his. "Could I borrow that jacket?" he asked.

Lisa considered for a long moment as she hugged him. "If you must," she said at last. The pale green coat didn't reach lower than Paddington's thighs, but it was better than nothing, which was his other option. Behind him, Mitchell had disappeared again.

Quentin stared at the corpses covering the ground. "Looks like we're a bit late."

"They've gone back south," Paddington said, buttoning the coat. "Create a barricade from the southern edge of the garden all the way east and west."

"What for? We've got them on the run!"

"They need somewhere to live," Paddington said.

This was greeted with, at best, mild offence. Others swore openly.

"If you attack the zombies," Paddington shouted over the din, "they'll lose their minds and we'll lose our friends. If you leave them alone, I can convince them to stay south."

"So we hand over half the island?" Quentin asked. He was leaning forward, making sure Paddington was serious.

"It's already theirs," Paddington said. "Just let them keep it for a few months."

"What happens after that?" Quentin asked.

"After that... they won't need it."

Quentin waited another moment in case Paddington felt like telling him what was going on, but now wasn't the time. He wasn't going to tell Quentin that the zombies were still alive with the whole of Archi listening in or they'd try to rescue their loved ones. The island needed quarantine now, not chaos and foolish heroism.

"Get this cleaned up!" Quentin said. "Remember: don't go near their mouths! Even the re-dead ones!"

Lisa looked from the corpses to the broken remains of the Tree. "Looks like you've had quite a night."

"It's not over yet." Paddington released a long breath, embraced the silence, then opened his eyes. "Right! Let's go convince the zombies."

Ten minutes later, they caught up with the horde. Even breathing through his mouth, Paddington could taste sour milk and rotten eggs. Images of maggots and puddles of sick rushed to his mind. At least it was less awful than it had been through his wolf-nose.

They found Norm lumbering along next to Gladys. _All good?_ Norm asked _. I think this is everyone. Well, everyone still alive. Jim, are you wearing a green jacket?_

"Yes."

Looks nice on you.

"They've given you the south," Paddington said. "Can I trust you to stay there?"

No. Post guards. There'll always be radicals: thinking for oneself is what zombity is all abou—

Norm missed a step and smacked to the ground, wheezing. Paddington reached down to help him up, but Norm shook his head and stared into Paddington's eyes.

_I couldn't stomach the fruit_ , he said.

_What does that mean?_ Gladys asked. Her knees cracked as she first bent, then fell, beside Norm. She placed an arm around his quivering shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Paddington said, and that was enough. Gladys returned to cradling Norm; Lisa wrapped a warm hand around Paddington's. "Thank you, Norm."

_My pleasure_. Norm extended his stump of a left arm and Paddington shook it. It had the texture of cold chicken skin, but Paddington kept shaking until the arm drooped and Norm closed his pearly eyes.

And there they stayed, islands in a flowing sea of bodies, uttering silent goodbyes and prayers. Gladys held Norm and wept tearlessly. Paddington slipped an arm around Lisa and pulled her into a hug.

If not for Norm, the Team would have been overwhelmed, the Browns would have reached the Tree, and Adonis would have shipped them to the Mainland to convert the whole world.

Paddington was glad Norm had died with dignity; not in a battle he'd never desired, not taken by the brainlust, but in peac—

"Blarch!" Norm said, convulsing. Gladys shrieked. Paddington lost his breath, first from shock and second from Lisa crushing his ribs.

After a few mute seconds, he said, "I think he's actually gone now."

The current moved on around them.

* * *

By sunlight, the night's horrors were easier to accept. The cruel chill lost its grip in the golden pink light and the sight of a helicopter on the horizon warmed Paddington's heart as he waited with Mitchell, Skylar, McGregor, and Truman on a high clear paddock on Richard's property.

"You've worked out your cover story?" Paddington asked Mitchell. He'd had less than an hour's sleep, but he'd shaved and the wolves had returned his clothes. All things considered, he felt pretty good.

"Collapsing ruin," Mitchell said. "Normson, Thompson, Peterson, and Clarkson were crushed under the rubble. We spent a few days excavating the site – with the _generous_ help of the townspeople – then buried the bodies. Good enough?"

Paddington noted the edge in Mitchell's voice. He wouldn't keep the secret once he was off Archi, but Adonis's friends would make sure the truth never got out. At least, not all the way.

"Any ideas to explain the radio silence?" Paddington asked.

"No doubt McGregor will come up with something so technical even they won't understand it."

The helicopter was a fat black monstrosity slowly lowering on them. Paddington ran to McGregor as the wind ruffled clothes and satchels, but McGregor was too busy with Skylar to notice him.

"I still can't believe you saved me," Skylar was saying.

"So I'm not just a, uh, pretty boy," McGregor said.

"Pretty face, I think you mean."

"You think so? Thanks."

Skylar smiled; Paddington hadn't been sure she knew how to. Her face softened, her forehead flattened, even her stance was more relaxed than Paddington had ever seen it.

McGregor noticed Paddington. "Are you sure it's okay to take the Book of Three? What about all the secrecy?"

"Who'd believe it?" Paddington asked. "Besides, it corroborates Mitchell's story and – let's be honest – you'll get more out of it than I would."

"But it ends with this prophecy," McGregor said. "How much can I learn?"

"I'm sure you'll have fun finding out," Paddington said, smiling. The helicopter was close now. "Don't forget: any ideas you have on preventing Lisa's transformation or curing the zombies."

McGregor nodded. "It'd be easier with some samples."

"Nothing leaves Archi," Paddington shouted.

The helicopter touched down. McGregor started toward it, but Paddington laid a firm hand on his shoulder. "Nothing leaves Archi," he said. "Including Lisa's blood sample."

McGregor hesitated, like a deer caught in headlights.

"Did you think I'd forgotten?" Paddington asked.

McGregor glanced at the helicopter. "I wasn't going to show it to anyone."

He wouldn't, either, but he'd probe until every drop was spent and someone might notice the tests and Paddington didn't trust Lisa's safety to McGregor's ability to lie.

"Hand it over," Paddington said.

His ginger brows knitted in sorrow and annoyance, McGregor withdrew a test tube filled with dark blood from his flak jacket. Paddington slipped it into the inside pocket of his long tan coat and nodded at the helicopter, where Mitchell was motioning for McGregor to hurry up.

As the doctor ran toward the helicopter, Truman ran away from it and stopped in front of Paddington. "Someone should say thank you for saving our asses," he said with a thick Southern twang.

Paddington glanced at the chopper. It was thirty feet away and _chnk_ ing a storm. No one would overhear. "Drop the accent," he said.

Truman squinted into the sun. "What's that, friend?"

"I know you're not American."

"How'd you work it out?" Truman's accent was now English, educated, and non-dialectical.

"In the store, you said 'mum' not 'mom'. You slipped, just for a second."

Truman shook his head, smiling. "Nothing gets past you, does it?"

"Nothing I can stop," Paddington yelled above the helicopter's roar. "Why the deception?"

"I moved to America when I was fifteen. I trained there, then transferred to the Supernatural Help and Investigation Team. When I arrived, they'd hung a banner: Welcome to the motherland, you colonial git. So I put on the accent, the swagger, pretended I was some big-shot yank, fully intending to stop once Mitchell read my file."

"How long ago was that?"

"About a year," Truman laughed. "Joke's on me, I guess."

Paddington nodded back at the helicopter, where Mitchell was pointing at his wristwatch. "You'd better get back on the horse, cowboy."

Truman slapped his hand into Paddington's and gave it a hard shake. "Sure thang, partner."

When the chopper was a speck in the sky, Paddington drove to Lisa's house. She'd stayed at the council chambers to help Quentin coordinate the sentries, the cleanup in the garden, the zombieproof blockade, and all the other loose ends left because the world hadn't ended, but she'd promised to go home and sleep as soon and for as long as she could.

Paddington wanted nothing more than to fall asleep beside her.

* * *

Three weeks later, outside a different house, a hundred plants slowly died. Each pot had a small tag indicating species and genus, and each plant was missing a leaf, or a limb, or its roots. Right beside the back door, however, were half a dozen lush and green plants. Inside the house, the floor was littered with stalks and leaves and branches. The carpet had the consistency of dirt, not that the owners had minded. Even when they'd been alive, they'd been content to debate philosophy and, toward the end, religion.

"How's the latest batch?" Paddington asked, bearing tea. Lisa sat at the table, crossing out the next plant on her list. The list was long. And it was nearly all crossed out.

"No effect." Lisa rubbed her face and took the tea.

Three weeks of fourteen-hour days of testing different plant extracts on every zombie who would volunteer his living corpse to science hadn't yielded even the start of a cure.

Lisa set down her empty mug and picked up her pencil. "McGregor could solve this in a day, the way he talks..."

"Maybe," Paddington said, "but he'd take souvenirs."

Lisa continued scratching out ingredients and adding others.

"Lisa... we need to talk about it," Paddington said.

"I'm not taking oestrogen suppressants."

"McGregor said they were safe."

Lisa smile sweetly. "James, do you remember that conversation we had about who's right when we disagree?"

"You are, dear," he said.

"That's right. Now hush, I have work to do."

Paddington washed the mugs. They'd been here nearly a month, but it was still a foreign sink. How could it be home when they were deep in zombie territory and far from friends?

"A-ah?" Lisa said. Paddington ran to the living room, where Lisa had thrown off her shirt and was staring at her shrinking hand. She looked at him with an expression between wonder and excitement. Then her nose extended and her face sprouted fur. Only her eyes stayed the same throughout the change. There was no malice in them, but Paddington approached the wolf with caution.

"Hello girl," he said, running his fingers through her thick fur and unclipping her bra. She was soft, her outer coat silky and the one beneath crimped.

Lisa licked him.

"Pluh!" Paddington wiped his mouth and glared, but Lisa had her head cocked down and to one side. "Okay, I deserved that," he admitted, "but now we're even."

She growled, a soft hum that came up at the end: an invitation.

Paddington glanced at his watch. "I suppose I can play for a few minutes."

Lisa bounded forward, then hopped back. Paddington ran his hands around her head and she followed them, darting from hand to hand, nipping at his fingers. After a minute, she bore him to the ground and lay across his chest, still.

"Oh, so that's how it is, is it?" Paddington asked, hands running along her back. "I'm yours now?"

When the doorbell donged, Lisa was up and at it in seconds. Paddington took considerably longer to reach and open it. "Hello constable," he said. "I believe you know Lisa."

Beside the door, Lisa sniffed the visitor. Paddington knelt and cupped her maw, forcing her to look at him, not the constable. "I'll be back in an hour. Don't go anywhere." Lisa bounced toward his face, but Paddington had been expecting it and stood before she could lick him.

"I love you too," he said, and closed the door behind him. The two policemen climbed into the new squad car and drove farther south under the crescent moon.

The radio clicked and buzzed. "Jim?"

Paddington plucked it off the dashboard. "What's up Quentin?"

"Just finishing today's ledger," Quentin said. "How many zombies are left?"

"Total?" Paddington sucked air through his teeth as he considered. "Maybe five hundred."

Quentin yawned over the radio. "Okay. You have a good night, detective chief constable."

"Shut it, mister mayor," Paddington said.

"Right you are."

The radio fell to silence and Paddington put it back on the dashboard. After a few seconds drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Clarkson said, "So she's a wolf now, huh?"

"Is that a problem, constable?"

Archi's newest recruit shrugged. "No."

"She doesn't crawl inside your spine?" Paddington baited. "You don't have to resist the urge to attack her?"

"I'm too lazy to attack anything, sir," Clarkson said. "And I still don't like the uniform." He tugged at his black button-up jacket, but couldn't get it to his satisfaction.

"I'm not letting you wear an evening suit," Paddington said. It seemed being an _actual_ vampire wasn't good enough; Clarkson needed to look the part. "Besides, it's not like you have standards."

"I do so," Clarkson said.

"You once ate chewing gum you found in the bin."

"It was mine."

"The _bin_."

"And it was still warm, boss."

Clarkson parked the car and they climbed out, pulled on surgical masks, and entered the square. A few bodies lay in the street, but most had been collected by the wolves and driven by the truckload to the mortuary, which had been expanded considerably. Paddington might have felt bad for Ian having to deal with so many corpses if he hadn't been responsible for creating them by murdering his girlfriend. He could work off his debt the hard way, by being useful.

Paddington stared at what had once been a hotel. Now it was where zombies lived out their last days, together. "Have a look around," he told Clarkson.

"For what?" the vampire asked. "Littering violations? 'Sir, is this your arm?'"

"Being a cop isn't all saving the world. Now stop complaining or I'll put you on day shifts."

"That's not funny, sir!" Clarkson yelled as Paddington entered the hotel.

McGregor had been in touch today, explaining that the Book of Three was actually the Book of Tipote, given the rune on its cover, and espousing his theory that zombiism was the root of every illness in the world and that by studying them he might not only cure all disease, but also discover how they read each other's minds and be able to replicate it without all the mental or physical impairments. It might have been true, but it was also bait, so Paddington refused to bite. It was better that everything die here. No taking chances.

No exceptions.

Paddington opened the door to his mother's room. Zombies didn't sleep, drink, eat, had no possessions, and preferred conversation to silence, so the room had been cleared of everything except one chair. Once the room had housed ten; tonight Andrea was alone.

"Hey mum."

_Hi love_ , she said, her face set in the wide grimace of her smile. Her once-thick hair had become lonely strands on a mottled scalp. White eyes spun in sunken sockets as she looked around him.

No Lisa?

"She's in no state to see anyone today." Paddington sat on the chair. "No Baldwin?"

Dom took him this afternoon.

"Oh," Paddington said into his hands. First Norm, then Gladys, now Baldwin. "Why don't you move rooms?" he asked. "There are others who'd like the company."

_Are you happy?_ Andrea asked quickly.

Paddington hesitated. Usually when Andrea asked him that he'd lie and she'd try to set him up with another girl anyway. It was as close to a personal conversation as they'd come for fifteen years. This time, Paddington told her the truth.

"Yes. I am."

Andrea exposed two rows of gums and black teeth. Paddington checked that his surgical mask was still on, but there was only so much it could do against such an odorous assault.

_I'm glad_ , she said. _And I'm glad you'd tell me._

Paddington looked at his mother, swaying there in her ragged police uniform. Its once-shiny silver buttons were now filthy, its right sleeve now empty.

"Even if it took your slowly dying to make it happen?"

_Everyone's slowly dying_ , Andrea said.

Trust a zombie to think like that.

Most of us are ready to shuffle off anyway, especially if the alternative is Mainland help.

"Speaking of the Mainland," Paddington said, to change topic, "Mitchell's review came back: Truman's taken over the Team. Jerry's just a private again."

Who?

"Mitchell," Paddington explained. "His name's Jermaine."

His mother's face contorted, but he couldn't tell if it was deliberate. _Jermaine?_ she said.

"I know," Paddington said. "I thought 'Jim' was bad; he must have been teased rotten. Some parents are so cruel."

_Let's talk about you_ , Andrea said. _Has the duke knighted you yet?_

Paddington hadn't told his mother what the Andrastes really were. He didn't want her accusing him of making up stories or resurrecting old arguments. For once, he placed being happy before the truth. "I'm not sure I want Adonis holding a sword at my throat."

_He wouldn't hurt you_ , Andrea said.

Paddington doubted that any crowd would stop Adonis's revenge. Certainly no crowd on Archi; they'd probably find Paddington's "accidental" decapitation quite entertaining.

_He needs you, James_ , Andrea continued, swaying on the spot.

When she fell, Paddington was ready. He'd seen it happen before, knew the signs, and caught her.

Are you there?

"I'm here, mum. I've got you," he said, but there was nothing else he could do. No stroking of hair, no reassuring patting of hands: zombies couldn't feel it and every touch pulled another piece off their frail form. So Paddington held her and waited for her body to go still.

Tell Lisa... she'll have to look after you now.

"I will. I love you, mum."

_You've made me so proud, James_ , she said. _My little Jimmy._

"It's okay mum."

Andrea's breath came in ragged gasps, like she was scraping the air from the room. Her tremors slowed. In another second or two, her eyes would close, her breath would cease, and she would glide gently into the afterlife.

Instead, Andrea lurched up and stared into Paddington's eyes from an inch away.

Tell Adonis... I was right.

Then her eyes closed and she dropped, limp. Paddington felt hot tears on his cheeks and found that he was rocking back and forth, staring at her body and weeping. She was gone. All that was left of his mother were deeds and pictures and memories.

Then her words penetrated his grief, grounded his tremors, and left only a dead calm.

" _What?_ " he said.

* * *

Adonis Andraste stood on the highest parapet of his castle and stared over his island. It was mending well. Lisa Tanner was a city councillor and generally accepted as a Proper, if not natural-born, Archian. Paddington had earned the citizens' trust by laying down the law to the zombies, though no one was quite sure how he had done so. There was peace, in two societies instead of one.

The world, in short, marched on.

In his long life, Adonis had found that it always did.

He returned his attention to the stars. "You could still hurt him," said a shape on the wall beside him.

"When you have wisdom, Leander, we can discuss the folly of using sullied pride as motivation for retaliation." Adonis drew a deep cold breath. "The chief is no more threat to us."

"That's what you said a month ago."

Adonis stared at Archi. Even at night, lights burned and people worked. Busy little bees.

"He can expose us," warned Leander.

"Not without endangering Miss Tanner."

Adonis's eldest son leapt off the parapet and stormed toward his father. "He has defied the Three-God! There must be punishment!"

"Son..." purred Adonis, "you speak as if the matter were finished..."

Eyes still on the stars, Adonis caressed the crescent on the cover of the thick leather-bound book he had brought up with him. Above him, the stars continued their slow advance toward the next age.

# Epilogue: The Second Coming of the Gods

Two months ago, Delores had been an ordinary dairy cow. Then her Farmer had tied her to a stake and she'd nearly been eaten by some horrible demon of a thing. She'd never quite recovered, always worried that it was behind her, in every shadow, watching her, and so her Farmer had taken her out of the fields for a walk through the streets – all the places she'd always wanted to see. And he'd left her there.

Wandering alone, abandoned and afraid, Delores had thought the world couldn't get any worse...

And that was when the gods had appeared.

They were gorgeous. Being in their rotting presences brought greater joy than milking or the bull. All were welcomed, none were judged, and serenity flowed from them in streams. So did a horrid stink.

After a time, some of the gods had lain down and stopped moving, passing through the dirt into the next world. Others had fought the humans to protect the Holy Society. They were also now in the new earth, lucky sods.

Delores shook off the cold and called out for the gods. There was no answer. A few of her new herd's desperate faithful had already tried to jump the fence and rejoin their beloved. They might as well have tried to jump over the moon.

Which brought Delores back to her doubts. What if the gods _hadn't_ gone to a better place? What if they had just... gone?

With the departure of the gods, a Farmer had found Delores and the others and joined them with his own herd, which was now tearing itself apart with grief: they had been so much more but now they had to be cows again, ordinary dairy cows and they... they couldn't. They would always remember those glorious weeks of calm beyond calm.

Delores left the others at the fence, seeking solitude and space to wrestle with her doubts.

On the next hill was a shape, lighter than the darkness around it, moving fluidly, its body low. Two bright eyes were fixed keenly on her. She knew that shape, those eyes shining in the dark. The demon from the field had returned to finish her off. Delores steeled herself for death. She'd be with the gods again soon.

_You couldn't wait a few hours?_ said a voice behind her.

Delores turned to find a human looking past her at the white beast. He tore off his windblown outer coat to reveal the smooth skin beneath. _And back you came_ , he said _. Honestly, Lisa, you're worse than a homing pigeon._

Had one of the gods returned? No. He smelled strongly, but not of noble death – of dirt and blood and glory, of the pungent peace that awaited them all – this human smelled of sweat and tractor exhaust.

Behind Delores, padded footsteps came closer. The demon would be on her soon. Delores fought the flight instinct with her every muscle. Not long now. A few seconds and she'd be with the gods again.

Ahead, the human rushed toward her. He sprinted, pushed his body forward, and reached her before the demon – and trod on her! He'd used her as a step to dive at the demon!

Delores heard whimpers and howls and snarls behind her, but didn't feel the pain of an attack. What delayed her killer? Surely not that skinny human...

But when she looked around, the human was gone. Now the white beast rolled and fought with a dark-furred demon.

Ah, of course, the gods were being merciful: two would kill her quicker than one.

The dark demon nipped at the white, which drew back and snapped, but the dark demon lowered its muzzle and growled. Delores waited. They would remember her soon.

But no... the dark demon was keeping the other one _away_ from her. It was the larger, thicker of fur and muscle, its tail waving in the air and its balance high.

And then it bounced above and around the other, then away... leaving the way open for the white demon to attack Delores. It considered her with those sharp blue eyes, its tongue hanging out, then turned away and raced after the dark demon.

Joy swept through Delores as she trotted back to the herd: the gods were still out there, performing miracles, protecting them, keeping them safe! She had to tell the others!

One moor across, the wolves ran together through the night.

The End.

* * *

James Paddington will return in

Fratricide, Werewolf Wars, and the Many Lies of Andrea Paddington

# About the Author

Stephen Bills is a kilt-wearing, motorbike-riding, turtle-owning Adelaidean with a B.A. in Philosophy and an M.A. in Creative Writing. When he is not writing, he is a waiter at an accounting firm.

* * *

Connect with Me Online:

Webpage: <http://StephenBills.com/>

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/stephenbillsauthor>

Smashwords: <https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/sbills>

