Shadow Of The Wolf. Rebecca Flanders

not poisoned. I never poison my victims. It spoils the taste of their flesh.”

      Amy didn’t move, or breathe or even think. She huddled like a rabbit trapped in the glare of headlights, clutching the glass and staring at him, and she knew the purest terror she had ever known in her life.

      And then he laughed. “What a foolish little human you are, after all!” he exclaimed. “I had hoped for more courage from you…or perhaps simply more intelligence.” He shrugged elaborately and turned away. “Drink or don’t, whatever suits you. I was merely trying to be hospitable.”

      Amy’s fingers tightened on the glass. “Who—who are you?” Her voice was hoarse and breathless, barely above a whisper. It hurt to make even that effort.

      “You know the answer to that, chérie,” he replied gently. Was there a hint of a smile in his voice? “You gave me my name, after all.”

      Amy wanted very badly to drink from the glass. She managed to hold it steady against her chest, no drops sloshing out. “Me?” she whispered. Firmly, determinedly, she put more effort into her voice, making it audible. “What are you talking about? I don’t know you.”

      “Ah, but you do, chérie. You’ve followed my career from the beginning.” He seemed amused as he added, “Well, almost from the beginning, anyway. And you were the first—I’m quite certain because I made a note of it—to call me by my rightful appellation. The Werewolf Killer. How did you know, I wonder? Will you tell?”

      Amy thought, No. A nightmare. And then she thought, A joke. A very bad practical joke that had gotten out of hand. Or a deranged fan, would-be copycat who let himself get carried away by the Mardi Gras spirit…Yes, that had to be it. Because otherwise, she was being held captive by a man who had already killed fifteen people, and no one knew where she was. A man who stalked and slashed, who tore out the throats of his victims and left them like so much discarded rubbish by the side of the road…a madman who had held the city under a spell of terror for ten months, just as he now held her.

      She looked around the dismal, dank-smelling little room. What were those stains on the floor? And the spatters on the wall, were they simply a trick of candlelight? Was this where he brought his victims, then, before he killed them? And she didn’t really have to try very hard, did she, to smell the terror in this room like a lingering miasma, to hear the pleas for mercy that lingered in the ether like ghosts…

      Sternly, she stopped herself. She was talking herself into hysteria.

      She looked at the glass in her hand. She looked at the wolf-thing standing over her, arms crossed, grotesque head slightly tilted as though in speculation or amusement. She thought, Better to die of poison… She took a sip of the wine.

      “Well now,” he said with obvious approval. “I’m glad you’ve decided to be civil.”

      “It’s very good,” she said. Keep him talking, she thought. Keep your wits about you and keep him talking and you have a chance—small, but a chance—to get out of this alive.

      “A simple Pinot,” he replied. “Unpretentious but amusing, don’t you think?”

      “I don’t know much about wine.”

      “Oh, that can’t be true, chérie. A woman of your background and education? Don’t be modest. In fact, I chose the wine because I knew you would appreciate it. Subtle but elegant. Understated but genuine. Like you.”

      Amy thought, Oh, God. She said, “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

      He seemed pleased. “My pleasure.”

      She searched, in the flickering candlelight, for the door. There was only one, and he stood between it and her.

      “Is this your place? Do you live here?” she asked.

      Again he laughed. The sound, though muffled by the mask, was not particularly sinister. It was the laugh of a child—or a madman.

      “Hardly,” he said. “No one could live in a place like this, not even those poor miserable creatures I send to their eternal rest. How could you think that?”

      It was becoming easier to swallow. She took another sip of wine. “Why did you bring me here?”

      “To talk. I’ve wanted to meet you for some time now, and after tonight’s newscast, it seemed…appropriate.”

      “You—watch my broadcast?”

      “But of course. Doesn’t everyone? And why should it surprise you to learn that I, your protégé, in a manner of speaking, am one of your biggest fans?”

      Amy felt ill, a cold heavy dread weighing down her stomach, filling up her throat. She said, “Why do you say that? You’re not my protégé, I told you, I don’t even know you.”

      “Alas, I am wounded.”

      With a sudden swooping motion, he bent down and took her chin in his fingers, grasping hard. Amy shrank back, too frightened to even cry out. Wine sloshed on her blouse.

      “You know me, chérie,” he said quietly. His breath was hot on her cheek, and oddly pleasant-smelling. Like fresh grass. His eyes, yellow glass eyes in a hairy-covered mask, were dead and glittering, horrifying. How did he see behind those eyes?

      “You were the first to know me,” he said, still soft, still low. His fingers were like talons, gripping her chin, bruising the bone. “That’s why I have chosen you.”

      “Chosen me,” she whispered, and she had never before imagined she possessed the courage it took to look into those flat yellow eyes and not shrink away. “For what?”

      The seconds ticked off before his reply. Life or death, torture or pleasure; she imagined him weighing the options.

      And then he said, “Well now, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

      Abruptly, he released her and moved away. She felt the throbbing imprint of his fingers on either side of her chin and she thought irreverently that she would have to wear extra makeup for the show tomorrow to hide the marks. Then she wanted to laugh. Tomorrow, makeup, the show…she, whose chances of surviving the hour were growing increasingly slim, obviously had much bigger worries.

      And with nothing to lose, she lifted her chin, tilting her head back a little to look him in the eye, and said, “You expect me to believe you are the so-called Werewolf Killer?”

      “Since that is who I am, yes. I should say so. You have an opinion to the contrary?”

      Amy glanced around, not too obviously, she hoped, for something she could use as a weapon. There was nothing. If she broke the glass in her hand, he would be on her before she could get to her feet and would probably use the broken glass to cut her throat. In other circumstances, she might throw the wine in his face and try to dash for the door while he was blinded, but the mask would protect his eyes. The room was small and empty and left her with few options.

      She said, “You could be anyone behind that mask.”

      “Ah, but couldn’t we all?”

      He seemed to be enjoying himself. And why shouldn’t he? He held all the power.

      Amy struggled to keep her gaze steady, not to show her fear. She said, “You might at least let me see your face.”

      He chuckled. “I think not. Having done that, I would have to kill you, and I’m sure you don’t want that.”

      Her heart caught a little on hope. “Isn’t that what you plan to do, anyway? Kill me?”

      Again the head tilted to the side, assuming a posture of thoughtfulness. “Why, no, actually. I hadn’t planned to kill you, not right away, anyway. I have plans for you first.”

      He came to her and dropped to one knee beside her on the mattress. The yellow eyes glittered in the candlelight, the bared teeth menaced. But none of that was as terrifying as his posture, so close to her: intimate, powerful,