Hack

Hack
A Marcus Holt investigation





By J.S Liddle




3.00 am Wednesday
         The body lay twisted over a pair of wheelie bins, legs broken and splayed at a bizarre angle. Blood had spilled from a gaping wound in the neatly collared neck; flash-flooding down bare arms to mix with the engine oil that coated the back street. The flies had already started to settle in the heat of the muggy summer night, buzzing in and out of the open mouth. Inner city traffic flashed past, headlights flickering through railings to strobe the cul-de-sac. A scene from a stop frame snuff film.
A few metres away from the  broken corpse, the shadows erupted into brief supernova in blue and yellow, a flash of flame igniting a cigarette, illuminating a chiselled jaw. A dark figure stepped out into the flashing light and fished a compact mobile phone out of his pocket.
         “Good evening sir. I’m afraid it’s just as you predicted.”
The phone squawked out a garbled reply as the dark figure moved to inspect the body more closely.
         “No sir, I can’t say I approve. Too messy. Throat ripped out with some kind of jagged edge. Possibly teeth. Not my style at all.” 
The listener on the other end of the line paused, then chuckled. The next order came with a hint of vindictive pleasure. The smoker smiled around his cigarette, perfectly formed lips twisting upwards at the edges, flashing bright white teeth set in the dark flesh of his face.
         “Of course sir. I’ll see to it personally. In fact, I know just the man, eh.”
Then, a passing shadow in the night, he walked away, leaving nothing but a faint patch of discoloration on the wall where he had leant, and the lingering smell of stale tobacco. By morning, even that would be gone.


         It was 3.36 am. Funny, thought Marcus Holt, freelance journalist and constant debtor, just how slow time can become when you’re taking a beating. As if every blow slows the tick of the time like bad clockwork. Then all thoughts of time flew out of his head as a meaty fist came in to deliver another punishing blow to his ample midriff, knocking him off his feet and delivering him, retching, into the tender embrace of the kitchen floor.
         “Mr Marsh is not a happy man, Marcus.” A thin, oily voice commented. Holt opened his eyes to see a short spotty man in a soiled pinstripe suit smiling down at him. “Bugger me, you look like a silly sod, lying there on the floor. What does he look like Tony?”
         The man mountain behind the suit rumbled in reply. “Looks silly, like yer said, Nico” Nico smiled his lizard smile and nodded sympathetically. “Now you may be wondering, Mr Holt, exactly why it is that Big Tony here is rearranging your apartment. Yes?” Marcus coughed, blood leaking from the cracks in his swollen lips, and then nodded. The pain in his head swelled to bursting point, but he managed to keep his focus as Nico continued.
         “Last week, you submit an article about safety hazards in certain rented accommodations in the heart of Newcastle Upon Tyne. You mention Mr Marsh, my current employer. He then gets slapped with a fifty thou fine, and has to pay a lot of people a lot of money to keep his license.” Nico stopped and took a sip of water from a small bottle, then looked down to the prone and barely conscious Marcus. “Now for that, Mr Marsh would be happy just suing that bloomin' stupid newspaper. But not only were you stupid enough to put your bloody name to that piece of shit, but you, yourself, owe Mr Marsh three months fucking rent.” Nico knelt down and produced a small, but very professional looking flick knife. “Now. Understand this, and understand it well. You have just one week, mark that, one week, to pay Mr Marsh what you owe him. Three months rent, plus a further two thousand to cover his considerable distress. Because you, my dumpy little hack friend, have attempted to piss about with a very important man. Not clever, eh Tony?”
         Tony paused in his concentrated effort to dismantle the washing machine and considered the question for a few seconds, then rumbled his assent. “Nup. Not clever”. He grunted in satisfaction as the side came off the machine, spilling wires and soapy water over the floor. “So,” continued Nico,  “I would suggest that you sell everything you own and get the money to my boss, pretty damn quick. And in case you feel like skipping out, we’ll leave you with a nice little reminder.” The knife flashed down, lightning fast, and impaled Marcus’s hand, pinning his palm to the floor. A shot of red hot pain pulsed through his arm, freezing his mouth into a silent scream. His entire being seemed to focus on the small spot of intense pain in the middle of his hand and then faded into blissful darkness.
         Nico stood, and motioned to his giant business partner. “Job’s a good‘un” he chuckled, retrieving his knife. It was 3.40  am, and there was plenty more work to be done.


         
         The power was incredible. He felt the blood rush through him in a wave of sheer adrenaline. It was nothing like sex. It was the power of the kill. Satisfaction of the natural human urge to destroy. The urge to conquer, subjugate those weaker than oneself. He rode the wave for hours, but the comedown came all the same. Then the anger hit him and he stalked through sweltering streets, sweat pouring down his face. Just a few more hits, and he’d be alright.


         Marcus awoke to pain and blades of  seven a.m. sunlight. His tongue felt like carpet and, if he was reckoning right, it would take around an hour to catalogue all the other complaints. Okay, he thought to himself, lets do a basic list. The real hurt’s in the hand. Then the face, and then we’ll get to the ribs. Standing up, he decided, was only worth it for the coffee.  It took a few pain filled minutes to wheedle his body into co-operation, but eventually, Marcus Holt found himself looking at what was left of his flat. Washing machine – dead. Toaster – inserted into the microwave with brute force. Microwave – suffering from an extreme overdose of toaster. But the kettle…Marcus breathed a sigh of extreme relief. The kettle was intact, and, contrary to the usual state of the universe, full. Marcus raised a suspicious eyebrow. The kettle was never full. And immediately after a house call from two of the nastiest people he’d ever met, anything out of the ordinary was likely to be seriously unpleasant. Opening the kettle, he smiled ruefully, and blinked back tears. “Shit.” He whispered, and decided that now would be a good time to leave.

         The morning sun didn’t do anything for his headache. Neither did the sound of the city streets as he dragged his sorry looking self to the one place where he could be sure of some sympathy. He made his way into the centre of town, onto the tube and away. He skipped the fare and dodged the inspectors, hid in the rush of school kids on their way to expensive suburb schools. No one even spared him a second glance. Valya’s place was only a few miles out of the city, but the change was obvious. Skyscrapers were replaced with towering oak trees, and glass-topped walls with hedges. There were fewer people as well, so Marcus managed to avoid too much notice as he walked to his friend’s house.

         She was in the garden, a notebook in one hand, and a cigarette in the other, informing a pair of puzzled looking cats that the government had hushed up a vast conspiracy involving the legalisation of Marijuana, aliens, and various fast food outlets. Marcus stood and listened for a minute, allowing time to reset to the normal pace, before he coughed and let himself in through the vine-covered gate.
         “Lo, Val.” He called as he attempted to stride manfully down the path to her door. Unfortunately, it was at that point that his body finally gave up any pretence at capability. For the second time that day, Marcus Holt let consciousness be damned.     
         
         Control. That was the key. The knife slides in to draw blood, then the wound seals under the pressure of the blood, if the knife was sharp enough. To take control of mans bestial nature required a knife so sharp it could cut through thoughts. It all made sense now, all the words. True power came from not becoming the beast, but controlling the beast. Being the puppeteer was so much more rewarding than being the puppet. Oh it made him laugh. He would keep laughing until the cold came again, then make another incision.
         

         This time, when he woke up, Marcus was surrounded by cats. A herd of them, milling around his prone form like a furry sea, yowling and purring with a general attitude of disappointment and contempt. Valya stood over him, as he lay on the sofa an expression of worry on her broad, pretty face, and a kettle in her hands. “Look at you Marcus,” she clucked in a broad Cornish accent, “ have a cup of tea, and tell me what’ve you gotten yourself into this time.”
         So he explained. The article, Mr Marsh, the rent, the bully boys and finally the kettle. The kettle had been the last straw. “The bastards boiled my goldfish, Valya. They boiled Pirate Pete.” The anguish was too much. He broke down in tears, allowing himself to be pulled into Valya’s generous chest, crying out the pain and shock of the night. Eventually, he cried himself dry, ran out of tears, and sat up, wiping his eyes with a blood-stained sleeve.
         “I’ll have that cuppa now, if you don’t mind. I think it’ll do me some good. And if you’ve any idea on how I can manage to make nearly three thousand pounds in a week, I’d love a cup of that as well.” Valya nodded and busied herself about the tea making process, muttering to herself and rummaging through piles of discarded magazines and notes. “August, no, was it in May? Yeah, but not in that May.” She tossed a magazine at him “Here, make yourself useful, have a look at that, a mini-article on a vampiric library.” Marcus shook his head in disbelief at the front cover, a gothic affair showing a pale young woman in purple underwear snarling defiantly at the reader, under the title Werewolves and Witches : THE magazine for the SERIOUS occultist.
         “What in the name of all things holy is this, Val?” he asked, grimacing at the sheer gothic pretentiousness of the magazine. She plunked a mug of tea down in front of him and grinned.
“The holy grail. A certifiable urban myth. It’s very simple duck. A bunch of vampires who go around abducting disturbed teens and setting them to transcribe vampire history and lore. No one’s every seen it, no one’s ever come back from it, but it exists. That much we know for certain.”
         Marcus shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t want to upset Valya, but his journalist’s instincts had pulled him to a major question. “Uh, darling, if no one’s seen it, and no one who’s been there has ever come back, then how do you know about it? How does anyone even know it’s real?”
Valya patted his hand sympathetically, as if he were a dog that had just trapped its paw. “It’s not real lover. All the journos on the occult circuit know it ain’t real. But you write a world exclusive on it, and this rag’s bound to print it. And for a five page spread, they’ll give you two grand easy. And I’ll bump you the extra. You see, you’ve got a gift. Stories just come to you” She winked at him and added “You can even stay here while you write them, if you want.” She watched for a while as Marcus turned a gentle shade of red, then mentioned the spare room.


        Marcus sat on the bed in the spare room, flicking through the thirty or so back issues of Occultist Weekly, Cthuloid Press, and of course, Werewolves and Witches. Half of the articles were utterly ludicrous. Jesus appears in a porno movie. Neo-Nazi lizards send robot back in time to sabotage Apollo 13. But some held a flavour of truth, almost believable amongst the backdrop of general dross.  Unexplained killings on the tube. A man who could sense death in a house, hours before it occurred. A new drug on the market that let you see the spirits of the dead.           A shiver snaked down his spine as he read the next article. Occultist Weekly, a local small press ‘zine, cheaply printed on A4, had covered a series of particularly brutal attacks. A man murdered, his throat ripped open and his spine broken nearly in half. Then a week or two later, two more killings in the same vein. Two teenagers, naked in a park, throats and wrists opened, hips broken and staked down to a roundabout. “Holy shit,” Marcus muttered, “there are some sick buggers out there”
         “Sure enough, there are.” The voice boomed out across the room, startling Marcus from his reverie and snapping his head around to focus on a tall dark figure standing by the door. “But thankfully, the investigative journalist fights through hordes of undead, demonic entities and the curses of vengeful gods, dictaphone held high, shining with the holy light of truth.” The figure strode into the room and removed his wide-brimmed leather hat to reveal a mane of long black hair and a face that seemed to be focussed around a wide, sarcastic grin.
         “Hey friend,” said the grinning man, pulling out a silver cigarette case, “you’d be Marcus. Val’s told me all about you. I hear you’re researching this vampire library thing.” He inserted a cigarette into the grin and lit it, then took off a pair of smoked glass shades and offered his hand. “I’m Leo. I work for an information gathering company called Nautilus. We may have a lead for you, on this whole vampire cult phenomenon.” A strange sensation of discomfort began to steal over Marcus, as if his inner journalist was screaming for attention, distracting him slightly as Leo, still smoking and smiling earnestly, slapped down a box file and continued.
         “Deal is, you take a look into a series of murders. Write us an article. Put the pieces together and deliver us a feasible hypothesis. For your services, we offer six hundred quid, and all the info you need to slide together a nice spread on vampire cultists in a mobile library.” His hand was still outstretched. Marcus locked eyes with him and held his gaze for a few seconds. Then he smiled, recognising, behind the bluster and good natured cheek, the cool steady look of the professional bullshitter. It was a look he knew well. It was his look. He took Leo’s hand and shook it, revelling in the fact that the man had such a firm, trustworthy handshake that it almost equalled his own.
         “Good man. Nice firm grip.” Leo grinned even more intensely, almost blinding Marcus with a blast of charismatic enthusiasm. “Here’s our card. Don’t call unless you’ve got something to tell us. My boss wouldn’t be too impressed, and that would put me up to my neck.” He looked down at Marcus and clapped him on the shoulder with his other hand. “And you’re a bit shorter than me, if you get what I mean.”
         With that barely veiled threat, he left, leaving Marcus holding a small black card, embossed with the word Nautilus on one side, and a phone number on the other.
9. 25 am Friday

         Marcus didn’t even look at the file until two days later. What finally made up his mind were two phone calls. The first was the bank, informing him that his overdraft had finally, and fatally, hit rock bottom. The second was a little more interesting.
         “Good morning Mr Holt. This is Detective Sergeant Lucstone from the command centre in Ponteland. We’d like a few quick words, if you don’t mind?”
         Marcus froze, his mind racing. Policemen didn’t generally call him unless he’d done something illegal. And to the best of his knowledge, he’d done nothing seriously dodgy for at least a year.
         “Of course officer. Can I ask what this is about before I come down to the station?” Lucstone laughed, hardly a comforting sound for the already worried Marcus. “Sounds like a serious case of the guilty conscience there mate. It’s about a press release. We’re offering you a scoop on a serious of killings. Real weird shite.”
         Marcus winced, the sound of this real weird shite just a little to convenient. “Three deaths right? People getting their throats cut by some sicko with a bread knife. Kids in a park. I’ve seen this in a magazine, and it’s hardly an exclusive.” The cop at the end of the line coughed and whistled in surprise.
         “You’re a quick one alright. Just like yer blokey on the phone said. But we’ve found something else. I hope you can cope with a bit of blood. We’ll send someone round to pick you up in half an hour.”

         The cops in the car were quiet and pale. The youngest, or at least, the one that looked youngest, was shivering violently and sporting dark rings around his eyes. Not a single one of them would meet his eyes. The car pulled up outside an impressive brick built building a few miles outside the centre of town. Even as Marcus stepped out of patrol car he could hear the sounds of a crime scene. Six or seven white suited figures buzzed around an open door into a tiled room. Yellow and black tape formed a barrier to people, but not to the smell. It hit him like a hammer to the stomach, a mixture of butchers shops and full rubbish bins. An abattoir in a heatwave.  A heavyset man with graying hair approached him with a sympathetic look and a notebook.
         “Alright? I’m DS Lucstone, we spoke on the phone.” He offered a packet of gum and grinned wryly at Marcus’s questioning glance. “Menthol superhit. Means the only thing you’ll be getting a nose full of is mint. And in this heat, you’ll need it. It stinks a bit in there you see. Three stiffs – that’s two caretakers and the club coach.”
         “What the hell is this place, anyway?” asked Marcus, chewing frantically to drown out the waves of Charnel No.5 emanating from the open door.
         “Rugby club. The killer got busy around half an hour before the first of the under 18s team got here. I dread to think what would have happened if one of the lads had turned up early.” Lucstone shook his head, then looked at Marcus appraisingly “If you’re as good as your bloke on the phone said, you can make it sound like we’ve got a lead. Draw this bastard out.”
         Marcus nodded, his mind racing. Who was this man on the phone, and why was he sending the police his way. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t even know the slant you’re taking on this. Are we talking about a lone nut, or something more sinister? And where are you wanting this published? I mean, I’m freelance – I can’t guarantee you’ll have anything in print.”
         Lucstone smiled a dark and nasty smile. “Don’t you worry about that. Just write us an article. Do what you want with it. Lone psycho with a knife or a bunch of bastards with a trained attack dog. Either way, we know about it. And there’s a fat bit of cash in it for you. We’ll deal with it getting circulated, and hopefully, our little killer’ll get all wound up ‘bout it.”
         Marcus was handed a file and bundled back into the car. The police drove him back to Valya’s house in silence, with only a brief encouragement to “keep safe” as he left the car.
         The Nautilus file was just where he had left it. It went on the desk with the police file. The facts were simple. The killer, in each and every case, had broken the spine, crushed the ribs and opened at least one major artery. The first attack had been a couple of months ago. A business man walking to his car at night. The killer had attacked from behind, smashing his face through the windscreen, before the spine had been broken, again, the forensics report said, from behind. Then, the killer had dragged him through the glass, opening his throat to spray arterial blood all over his fluffy dice.
         The kids in the park weren’t any prettier. Marcus shook his head as he read – the couple had been together when the killer struck. Whatever the killer had done, it had pretty much driven the boys forehead into the girls face. Hopefully that had knocked them both cold. Weird thing with this one was, there were prints around the scene, and an almost ritualistic set up. That’s what Occultist Weekly had picked up on.
         Then a dead body in a back ally, over on the north side of town. Back snapped, legs broken, left bleeding over a wheelie bin. This time there was no ritual, no prints. The police report said that it looked like the man’s throat had been bitten out, but the DNA coming back from the bite just didn’t add up.  Marcus chuckled humourlessly. “Could’ve been a werewolf, DS Lucstone. Or a girl in skimpy underwear.” Finally, the most recent attacks. Three men, big men, dismembered and, distributed, in a short period of time. The killer, whoever he was, must have really gone wild.
         “There are times,” Marcus muttered to himself, leaving the files and heading for the kettle, “when I wish I smoked. This is just too weird.” Val was in the kitchen, cutting a chicken into chunks with eye watering brutality. She turned and smiled, then motioned to a steaming mug on the side.
         “Tea alright for you pet? You’ve got another visitor – in the living room. I’ve already fixed him summat to drink, and I’m chucking a stew together for the three of us.” Marcus nodded weakly. It had always been Val’s way to just organise things. And now there was a visitor in the next room. Well, he thought, every day as it comes.
         The visitor was huge. He was the kind of man who made everything in the room look delicate and tiny. The steaming mug of tea cradled between his hairy hands looked like it would barely hold a mouthful for this guy. Shit, thought Marcus, he makes Big Tony look small. The other defining feature of the man was hair. Lots of it. He had a tangled mess of dirty blonde dreadlocks cascading down his back, a long, white-blonde beard and eyebrows that colonised his forehead with the determination of hair that recognised its manifest destiny. But there was something wrong. Marcus could see the strength of the guy, his muscles were practically bulging out of his tight Black Sabbath tee-shirt, could see that he moved like a bar room fighter of the best kind. But he could see something else too. Fear.
         “Y’allreet?” The question came in a deep rumble, an utterance in deep Geordie dialect. “Are yee Marcus? The writing man, aye? I’ve got a message for ya.” Marcus smiled. It seemed as though a lot of people had a lot of messages for him these days. And this boy, only twenty or so, wasn’t nearly as threatening as he had first appeared.
         “Oh aye? What’s that then?” Marcus allowed himself to slip deeper into the accent. This was his area of expertise after all. Interviewing was what made him his name in the press. Well, that and not knowing when to quit. “What’s your name kid? I reckon seeing as you know my name, I think it’s only fair.”
         “Aam Tarka.” The way he said it was just too much for Marcus. If he’d just said the words it would have been alright, but it was the words combined with the deadly earnest expression and the sense of immense pride. He doubled up laughing, his tea just being saved from gravity by Marcus’s self preservation instinct, and knowledge of what Val would do to him if he spilled tea all over her genuine Northumbrian proggy mat. Tarka’s eyes narrowed and a gentle growl of warning issued from his throat.
         “Yee tekkin the piss like? Fook d’ye think yer laughing at?” Marcus straightened and held up his free hand in apology.
         “Sorry mate. It’s been a long week. You’re probably too young to get it. I think I misheard your name. When I was a kid, I had this book about Tarka the otter. So I just thought you were going to tell me you were a were-otter, or some other shite.” Tarka shook his head slowly and stood up from his position on the sofa. He was at least six foot four, with shoulders to fit.
         “I’m afraid not, Mr writer. Me name’s Talker. ‘Cos I talk to people. Your sort of people. The message is simple. We didn’t do it. None of our lot would come round to this kind of place to hunt. And the toon’s even worse. We just wanted you to knaa. We’ve done nowt. So don’t send your blokes wi’ your big cars and silver fooking bullets up to our patch to piss us aboot.”
         Marcus narrowed his eyes. “I hear the words, but they’re making no sense. Which people? Where is your patch? And what the hell do you mean by silver bullets?” Talker raised one of his colonist eyebrows and scratched fretfully at his beard.
         “Ya mean you divn’t knaa? Yer standing there, drinking tea out of a witches mug, stinkin’ of magic, baccy and blood and ya divn’t knaa? I think ye’d better sit doon, mate.” His voice was sympathetic now, like a man talking to a child. Confused and more than slightly intimidated, Marcus sat, collapsing into the nearest armchair. He watched as Talker made a strange gesture in the direction of the darkened sky. The clouds began to shift, drifting across the sky. In a few seconds the moon shone full into the room. And Talker changed.
         The first things to change were his feet. As far as Marcus could see, his boots seemed to flip inside out with a mind-bending disregard for physics, replacing themselves with huge furry paws, almost like monster slippers. But not quite as cute. Then his legs. Where before there had been tight drainpipe jeans in faded blue, there were now muscle-bound tree trunks covered in thick pale fur. His chest barrelled out, the ribcage set forward and the shoulders back. His arms elongated to trail onto the carpet, and huge claws burst forth from hands the size of Marcus’s head. Finally his face changed. The heavy brows pulled back, the nose ripped forward and the eyes sunk deep into a wolf-like skull, burning with a terrifying ferocity. And Marcus screamed.
         The world fell away from him like a bad film effect. Suddenly it all made sense. This was the killer. The pounce from behind, snapping the spine with lightning speed, crushing the ribs as the helpless victim was slammed to the ground. Then the throat ripped, either by those vicious claws, or torn out with slavering fangs. And now it had come for him. He was going to die at the hands of –
Calm.
         It was a mixture of emotion and instruction. Marcus felt himself relax into the chair. A wash of images replayed themselves in his head. The man/wolf thing called Talker saying that none of “his lot” had done it. Saying they wouldn’t hunt round here. He was talking about the killings. The killings that Nautilus were interested in. The killings that the police had put on his plate. Slowly, Marcus regained his composure, using techniques gained in seventeen years of professional journalism. Breathe in. Create a question. Does it hurt? Breathe out. Clear the mind. Breathe in. Ask the question. Clearly.
         “Does that hurt? ‘Cos in films, there’s a lot more screaming and howling.”
Humour. Discretion. Respect.
         Breathe in again. Accept this new state of affairs. This had to be the biggest scoop ever. Marcus Holt, freelance journalist, was interviewing a werewolf. “So, if it wasn’t you doing these killings, then who, or what, was it? And why does everyone think I’m the man for the job? I’m not a hero. I can’t do magic, or turn into a eight foot tall wolf thing.” The notebook was out now. This was it. A career maker or breaker. A part of Marcus, burried deep under professional buffering, was screaming at him to run, escape and never write again. He ignored it. "Of course, the real question is - why me, and why now?" Marcus smiled at Talker inquiringly, only to realise the wolf man's attention was elsewhere.
         A noise from the door spun him around. Valya stood there, an apologetic smile on her face. “Sorry lover,” she said, “I never thought you’d have to know.”
         Dinner was a bizzare afair. Marcus and Talker spooned down chicken stew in silence as Valya explained the situation Marcus found himself in.
         “Werewolves. Vampires. Mages. They’re all real. Most of them keep pretty much to the shadows. The trick is to avoid the public, keep it all low key. Half the time even close family members don’t know they’ve got a witch in the family. Leo, he’s a mage. Quite powerful too, but young and cocky.”
         Marcus raised his hand. "Question. If one person can do magic, why can't everybody? I mean, are mages mutants, or do they take special drugs or what?" Valya nodded.
         "I thought you'd ask that. It's a number of circumstances. It starts with a drive. I mean, with me, it was animals. I had loads of pets when I was a kid, and the more I talked to them, the better I felt. Then one day some prat in a van ran over one of my cats. Just drove away too." Valya took a gulp of tea and continued, looking a little embarassed. "I spent all night just sat up with the poor little thing, expecting her to die. But then I just decided she wasn't going to. If felt weird, like I was on fire or something. Ten minutes later, she got up and walked off, fine and dandy. That's when it twigged - I didn't just feel better around animals. I was better."
         Marcus nodded, his head bent over his notebook. "And you just started from there. How did you find out about the other people who have these...abilities?"
         Valya grinned and rolled her eyes. "You really are never off the job are you? There's people in charge. People who don't need the general public finding out. It would either lead to mass panic, or people coming up and asking us the lottery numbers or if their lover's cheating on them. They got in touch within a few days and I began to learn about the world as it really is. Dark, nasty and scary. 'Course most of what you read is utter trash.  She shrugged, pulled a magazine out of the rack on the workbench and slapped it down onto the table. “You can tell though, can’t you? What’s real and what’s spotty fifteen year olds on the internet talking crap. Because no matter what, you’re still a journo, eh duck?” She patted his hand sympathetically and shifted her chair around to sit beside him. “I were trying to break you into it gently like. And like it or not, you get some great stories.”
         Marcus chuckled and flipped through a few pages of his notebook. “So what now? I’ve got a story to follow with no leads on who did it. All I know is who says they didn’t. I need a lead, something to work on.” His energy came back hard now. The familiar snapping crackle of determination surged through his mind, focussing him, directing him and leading him to –
         “Leo. He knows shit he’s not telling.” Marcus pulled out his phone and the Nautilus calling card. After a few rings a disgustingly self-assured voice drawled out.
         “Marcus mate. You got something for us, or is this just a very foolish social call?” Valya closed her eyes as Marcus’s face settled into an expression she’d seen him adopt many times before. The bottom half of his face was smiling, a direct contrast to the coldness in his eyes.
         “Leo. I’ve just had a visit from a bloke who claimed to be a werewolf. He said that his lot didn’t do it. Then he turned into a fucking monster, Leo. A great big bugger with teeth and claws. Now I’m informed that you’re into some kind of magic yourself.” He leaned back in his chair and took a long gulp of tea, listening to the silence on the other end of the phone. “Now, we can rule out a vampire, ‘cos  the latest attack happened in broad fucking daylight. And if it wasn’t a vampire, or a werewolf, then I reckon I should be looking at some kind of human, with supernatural powers. And I only know two of them. How’s your alibi, you smug bastard?” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “You think your pretty clever, don’t you, Leo? I’ve been playing these games for seventeen years now. I want answers. Now.” He hung up and smiled at Valya. “I’ll give him ten minutes to get here. After that, I phone the cops.”
         When the knock came on the door a few minutes later, Marcus allowed himself a grin. But it wasn’t Leo’s tall frame that filled the doorway. It was Talker’s.
         “There’s been another one. Nearby. But there’s a witness, living one. And I’ve got a scent.” He pointed a large and dirty finger at Marcus and grinned. “Howay Dick Tracy. We can get this bastard now, a‘reet? Get yer coat.”  Marcus got his coat, and a little more. Notepad and pen went into his pockets, as did a small but robust digital camera.
         They rode through the summer evening, Talker’s chop-job bike rumbling and groaning its way down towards the city. Eventually the bike stopped outside a park gate and Talker dismounted.
         “I’ve got some of my lads standing guard in case our man comes back to finish the job.” Marcus nodded, in no doubt as to what these “lads” would be. When they burst into a clearing in the trees he was confronted by a group of men and women built on a similar scale to Talker, standing in a circle around a small boy, unconscious on the floor.
         “What happened?” Marcus asked, flipping out his notebook and pen. “I mean, why’s this kid alive. Did you get to him before this thing could do it’s business, or what?”
         Talker shook his head. “Nah, we found him like this. He’s gonna be a’reet, but what’s important is, there’s a scent trail.” He motioned towards the city side of the park. “Our killer came from ower there. He stinks of magic, and worse, he smells like kin.”
         “Kin?” Marcus looked blank. “What the hell is kin?” A few of the other werewolves spat on the floor, and one of them, a man with thick matted ringlets and plaited beard, choked back laughter, only to reel in shock as Marcus wheeled on him “You got a problem, my pedigree chum? You lot asked for my help, remember.” Talker grinned at the sight of a short, plump man in a raincoat facing down a fully grown werewolf, capable of ripping him in half with a bare minimum of effort. Marcus calmed himself and turned back to Talker. “So, what’s Kin, and why the big reaction from the hairy scary bunch?”
         “Kin, mate, is the name for another werewolf, that ain’t in your pack. This thing smells like a werewolf that we don’t knaa, that’s been fooking around with magic.” He dropped his voice and nodded towards the embarrassed looking lycanthrope that Marcus had dressed down. “Ye knaa, that’s Ripper. Pure bred killer wi’ more muscles than brain. The guy can bench-press a bus for fooks sake. He’s never gonna live this doon. Anyway, like I was saying, this Kin comes in from ower there, jumps this little lad, and scratches him up a bit. Then he changes his mind, and fooks off ower,” he pointed to the centre of the park, away from the city, “that way.” 
         “So we can follow him. And find out what’s going on. And one of you lot can call an ambulance.” Marcus nodded and motioned for Talker to lead on. No one in the clearing noticed the tall, dark-clothed figure of Leo, heading off in the opposite direction, towards the city.
         Leo took the path that Talker had pointed out first. The path was moderately easy to follow, leading through the trees to a dip in the geography of the park, a gorge surrounded on three sides by cliff-side. He shook his head as he looked down into the natural amphitheatre. “Oh boys,” he whispered, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, cupping the glow in his hands, “oh c’mon fellas. Just how bloody obvious can you get.”
         The scene he looked down on was like something out of a bad seventies horror movie. Red-robed figures surrounded a circle filled with pentagrams and other occult symbols, pouring out red gloop from chalices and throwing handfuls of powder onto a brazier from which acrid smoke billowed. In the centre of the circle stood a rangy figure, arms outstretched in black vestments, head tilted back to the sky. Leo watched, allowing his senses to access the magical realm, until he could see the lines of power flowing into the mage, a web drawn from each of his teenage acolytes. This, then , was the one that Nautilus was interested in. Leo grinned, white teeth in the dark, and began to walk down the path of smoke, becoming insubstantial as he folded it around himself.
         
         Marcus and Talker ran. They had followed the scent trail for around a mile before reaching a small abandoned building. There they had seen it. A small, loping figure, like a werewolf in form, but nowhere near the stature. It had snarled at them defiantly, then bounded off across a stone built bridge. Now they were following it down a narrow avenue of trees. Marcus slowed, then stopped. He wheezed for a few seconds then motioned Talker over to him. “Wait a sec. I know this place. He’s got nowhere to go, unless he can fly. That means we’ve got him cornered.” Talker nodded, and began to remove his bike jacket. “What’re you doing?” Marcus asked, “All we have to do now is phone the cops, let them know we’ve got the killer cornered.”
         Talker looked at him incredulously. “And say what? Hallo, officer, I’ve found the werewolf what did it, come and get ‘im. Cornered animals fight mate. You really do knaa bugger all. We’ve got te gan in, and tek ‘im doon, or we’ll have more hassle from ‘im.” Marcus grimaced, but it was impossible to argue with the sense of the young wolf-man.
         “You going to do your monster bit then?” He asked, nodding towards the end of the natural cul-de-sac, where they could see the creature prowling around, its eyes burning in the shadows of the treeline. Talker nodded and took a few steps back, then launched himself forward, leapt, and changed.
         The other werewolf, the one that Marcus had begun to think of as the beast, hurled itself towards Talker, colliding with him in mid air. The two combatants spun round with the impact, and crashed to the ground in a whirl of motion. Talker smashed his elbow into the beast’s muzzle, snapping its head back, and followed up by driving his knee into its stomach, doubling it up. It shook its head muzzily, and pounded an uppercut into Talker’s jaw, then latched its maw into his side, worrying at his ribs. Talker howled in pain and indignation, raining blow after blow down onto the beasts skull. They broke apart and circled each other warily, snarling ferociously at each other.
         This time the beast lunged first, launching a kick at Talker’s kneecap. He twisted at the last second, the blow glancing off to one side, knocking him off balance as the beast whipped its head forward in a brutal takedown. There was a sickening crunch as the beasts forehead connected with the bottom of Talker’s throat. Talker choked, spat blood and then smashed both of hands into the beasts ribcage, scrabbling for purchase, and wrestling it to the floor. He pinned it, sitting on its chest and alternating between punching it in the face and bouncing its head off the floor. Then he jerked suddenly, and froze as the thing drove one bony knee in between his legs. Talker yelped and toppled off the creature, which rolled with him, ending up on top. It placed its hands around his head and began to twist.

         Leo stepped out of the smoke and smiled like a lizard. “Hello boys.” he said, and luxuriated in satisfaction as the circle of would-be mages dissolved in panic and disorder. To give him credit, the leader kept his calm remarkably well. He stared at Leo with an expression of contempt and apparent disdain.
         “Who might you be, to interrupt our circle? Not many people would have the gall to break the sacrament of a power place.”
         Leo’s smile got even wider. This one could talk the talk alright. But Leo had played this game a hundred times before, and he could see the fear in the mage’s eyes. Time to build it. “You ain’t worth my name you powerless piece of shit!” he laughed. “But I know you. Paul Wyatt, 2:1 in psychology, graduated just a few months ago. I work for Nautilus.” He raised his voice to include the rest of the circle. “That means I put punks like you down for a living. It means there ain’t a spell you can throw that I don’t know. So drop the magic and put your hands where I can see ‘em.”  He folded his arms and nodded towards Paul, whose face darkened.
         “You are mistaken, Mr Nautilus. There are many spells I know that you would be totally unprepared for. I could burst the blood vessels in your alveoli and leave you drowning in your own vitae. I could send your blood the wrong way round your circulatory system, killing you  slowly.” He folded his hands into the deep sleeves of his robes and smiled. “But I have no intention on entering into a long drawn out magical duel with you. For you see, I am no longer Paul. I saw the dark on the road and was made blind. I am Saul.” It was then Leo realised he had miscalculated and began to reach for his cigarettes and a chance to regain his advantage. Saul chuckled as he saw the move, then produced a small pistol crossbow from the voluminous black robes and, much to Leo’s surprise, shot Leo in the chest.
         If Marcus was surprised when the beast changed from a ravening wolf monster into a naked, bewildered teenager, it was nothing compared to Talker’s incredulity. It was probably shock that saved the boy, frozen in position on the barrel chest of a werewolf, hands locked around its head in an abortive attempt to remove it. Talker very gently sat up and circled the boys neck with his enormous hand, not putting any pressure on the throat, but restraining any attempt to get away.
Name. Reasons.
         “R-Robin.” The kids voice quavered, fluctuating between bass and soprano. A product of fear, or youth, Marcus wondered. He stepped forward and continued the questioning.
         “What’s a kid like you doing out here at night, playing wolf, eh? Talker tells me that you lot don’t play in the city. Does your da know you’re out here?” The kid – Robin – shook his head.
         “They don’t know anything. They don’t know I can change. That’s why I needed the Master.”
No Master.
         The thought came with such vehemence that Marcus’s knees almost buckled. “Let go of him, Talker. He’s not about to run off, are you Robin?” He retrieved Talker’s jacket as the werewolf deposited Robin onto the floor, where he sat, knees tucked up and tears running freely down his face. Marcus draped the jacket around the teenagers shaking shoulders and crouched down next to him. “Okay lad. Why don’t you start with the reason for all these attacks? Who’s this Master bloke? How did it start?” The boy took a shuddering breath and began.
         “Saul  brought us all together. We were all on this website. For people with…problems.” He indicated his arms, tracks of scar tissue visible even in the half light. “He said that cutting could give you back your power. But cutting yourself only got you so far. He took us all in, showed us magic, real magic.
We were doing a ritual when I changed. He said it was an omen, a sign that we were doing the right thing. So we started to hunt, together. Saul would be the focus, the centre of power. The others would channel their magic into him and then I’d change. Saul would be in charge, mostly. But I couldn’t kill that kid. I knew when he tried to make me. Saul’s a junkie – a real dangerous one. We’ve got to get away from here.”
Where. Hunt. Pack.
         The last thought blasted out like a siren, a signal to the others waiting with the child. Thoughts came back with startling clarity.
Pack. Blood. Nearby
Pack. Child safe.
Pack. Hunt?
Pack.
Pack.
         Marcus grinned and checked his kit. Notebook and camera were still intact, and very usable. Time to hunt. They set off through the night, following the thought trail of the pack, with Robin riding on Talker’s massive shoulders and Marcus wheezing along behind. Robin grinned fiercely. For the first time in his life, he was running with the pack.

         The first thing Leo noticed when he woke up was how professionally his hands had been tied. No give in the fastenings at all. His shades had been removed and his coat had been draped over a nearby outcrop of rock, neatly divesting him of cigarettes, phone and his final resort, a de-restricted taser of the sort used by the German police. Which left him with his charm, wit and natural cunning. Leo smiled self-assuredly.
         “Say fellas,” he addressed a group of red robed acolytes who stood around his gear, “any chance you could chuck us my smokes, eh? I’m feeling it a bit, if you know what I mean.” And in fact, the pain in his chest was pretty excruciating, a fact brought all the more to his attention when Saul stalked over, a self-satisfied expression on his long thin face, and placed one booted foot over the wound and pushed.
         “They may not be the most intelligent people in the world, smoking mage, but they are not that stupid.” Saul sneered as Leo groaned in pain, then stiffened as he heard a crash from behind him. He wheeled to see one of the acolytes flat out on the floor, his eyes obscured by Leo’s shades, small wisps of smoke curling out from behind the lenses. Leo grinned and shook his head.
         “What’s that you were saying Paul? I’m impressed by your quality of hired help, eh?”
         Saul quivered with barely controlled rage, his fists clenching and his jaw trembling. He dismissed the group with a wave of his hands, and a cold tight voice. “Out. Get out of my sight, all of you. Do not come back until I require you.” The teenage mages ran, scattering off into the park, and Saul turned back to Leo. “You, however, can stay. You get to be my ascension to immortality.”
         Leo grimaced. “Save us from cheesy villains, God.” he muttered, then watched as Saul gathered his power, harvested from seven killings and scores of sacrifices. The magic crept out of the sanguinist and began piercing Leo’s finger tips. His power was incredible, and the pain unbearable, as blood began to rise to the surface of Leo’s skin. His fingers swelled, one by one. Saul smiled as he touched each of the bloated fingers in turn, then returned to Leo’s fourth finger on his right hand. “This little piggy went to market.” Saul intoned, and Leo’s finger ruptured, spattering the floor with blood.
         Leo screamed as Saul continued. “This little piggy stayed at home.” This time the blood burst was accompanied by a cheery little chuckle, possibly the most sinister sound Leo had ever heard. “Imagine what I’m going to do when we run out of fingers, Smoker!” Saul sniggered. “Won’t that be fun.”


         The werewolves surrounded the  gorge. Each member of the pack had intercepted and disabled at least two of the acolytes. Marcus stood among them and stared at the scene unfolding in the gorge. Talker turned his head to the horrified journalist and grinned, fangs glinting in the flickering light of the still burning brazier.
Yours. Hunt. Go
         Marcus nodded and let the rage build inside him. This bastard, stood in front of a helpless man, was a torturer, a coward and the worst kind of killer. He was the reason for rides in police cars, rooms filled with charnel stink, dead teenagers and pushy werewolves laughing at his lack of knowledge. He cracked his knuckles and snarled in the dark, picked up a fist sized rock and stalked forward into the clearing.
         “This little piggy had roast beef.” Leo’s middle finger exploded in another burst of gore and agony. Saul groaned in appreciation and raised his hands, totally oblivious to the short plump figure moving up behind him. “And this little piggy-“
         “Got a face full o’ pain!” Marcus started moving as Saul turned, mouth opening in shock and terror. The rock smashed into Saul’s jaw with a nasty crunching sound, breaking teeth and shattering bone without any difficulty. Saul collapsed to the floor, moaning, his hands cradled around his broken mouth. Marcus grinned down at him, and kicked him solidly in the stomach. “Fucker!” He spat on the writhing mage. “Are you laughing now, eh? Keep laughing.” He kicked again, scoring a hit between Saul’s legs. “Daft bastard. Daft southern bastard.” He knelt down and lifted Saul by his collar and whispered in his ear, “This is my town. Don’t mess."

         Marcus Holt, freelance journalist, went back home. Leo had assured him, once he had been untied, that Nautilus would “Clear everything up, eh? Not yours to worry about no more.” Saul wasn’t going to be a danger to anyone for a long time, and he’d be kept under close observation. The werewolves took Robin. They’d insisted on that, and Leo, bloodied and in pain, had acquiesced remarkably quickly. Then there had been mention of payment. Nautilus would be only too happy to provide Marcus with a clean slate – no debts, no rent trouble. Leo had even promised an office apartment in the city. But only if the article was up to scratch, a harrowing tale of psychotic killers and a dangerous cult of misled teenage boys. The kind of thing the tabloids would wet themselves over.
So Marcus left the city park and wandered out onto the hot summer streets of  “The Toon”. He had an article to write and a new life to sort out. But it was a Friday night in the big city, the pubs were open, and he needed a pint of the dark stuff. Somewhere out there, in the crowded streets of home was a story waiting to be told.

Epilogue: 3.00 am Wednesday
         Alfred Marsh, property developer, woke up surrounded by teeth, and hair and nails. In the dark, a quiet voice said very clearly,
         “Mr Holt is not a happy man, Alfred.”