Supernatural Freak: Supernatural Freak, #1

Supernatural Freak

Supernatural Freak Book 1

Louisa Klein

http://www.wattpad.com/story/9059864-supernatural-fog-supernatural-freak-2

©2016 Supernatural Freak by Luisa Klein. All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted, save with the written permission of the author.

PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS BOOK IS WRITTEN IN BRITISH ENGLISH: if you’re American, you’ll find some words spelled differently.

I dedicate Supernatural Freak to my dearest friend Lippa: a great cat, a very special person. RIP my love (April 2001- 27th May 2016).

CHAPTER 1

Stood up by the shaman

Faced with being alone in the middle of nowhere at night, the true Londoner doesn’t lose her head but takes a deep breath, smoothes her jacket, and goes in search of a bobby or a black cab. Only foreigners freak out in such circumstances. Londoners, on the other hand, being the most British of all British people, never ever freak out. Still, when you are a paranormal expert who’s in a deserted area of the Docks and are supposed to heal a werewolf with the aid of a shaman who hasn’t shown up, I’m afraid the only reasonable reaction is to…

Run! Mr Wilson growls, getting worryingly hirsute. He has a point. A skinny girl in her twenties is no match for a werewolf, and I don’t think that telling him I’m a dog person would make much of a difference. Trouble is that he’s standing between me and my car, so my only option is to run in the opposite direction. My feet sink into the sand of the Thames’ shore, the river a creepy black ribbon untouched by the full moon’s rays. It takes what looks like ages to cross the sand and reach the building site a hundred yards away. I should have never trusted that damn shaman. How could I have been so stupid? A long howl fills the air. My client has now fully transformed. In a second he will pick up my scent and hunt me down. My usual luck. I reach the building site’s iron gate and start climbing it furiously. When I’m nearly on the other side, my foot slips, and one of the gate’s spikes tears my jeans and cuts my ankle. It gets better and better. I jump on the ground, and right before me a muscular hairy mass bangs against the gate, making it tremble. God, he’s big. Especially considering that, when human, Mr Wilson barely reaches five foot six.

Gnaaarl!

My client growls, his yellow eyes filled with primeval ferocity. He’s biting the gate. It will take him a while to figure out whether he can easily jump above it, so I’d better run and find a hiding place. I should have never accepted this case. I mean, curing a werewolf for good? Come on! I should have never felt pity for Mr Wilson and his thick wallet… It was all the shaman’s fault, standing me up like that ten minutes before moonrise. And with that pathetic excuse that there had been a misunderstanding… Damn coward.

I eye a bunch of ready-made quicklime sacks leaning against a wall on the top of a scaffold. There are also a few tins of paint and a makeshift slide, probably made of aluminium, built to get rid of the construction debris. It doesn’t look very solid to me, but then I’m very light and have no other option. I have to jump to reach the closest iron bar of the scaffolding. Luckily, my usual clumsiness abandons me when I’m in danger. It must be the adrenaline, I suppose. I barely feel the cold of the iron in my hands, my heart pounding like crazy, my blood running through my veins at Formula One speed. A deep growling and gnawing tells me that the beast has passed the gate.

I have just the time to reach the right level of the scaffolding and hide behind the sacks. The sharp smell of the quicklime should be strong enough to cover my blood’s scent, at least for a while. To increase my chances, I rip one sack using my house keys, pouring its contents all around me. Again, being short and skinny is a benefit. Thanks to that, if I brace my knees and curl up behind the sack, I am completely out of sight. I hold my breath. A few yards away, the werewolf is sniffing the ground, searching for me. The air seems suddenly thick, coagulating in my throat. After a few seconds, the scaffolding trembles as if during an earthquake—he’s coming. He has finally picked up my scent, and he is coming to get me. Well, I have climbed up here for a reason. Let’s just hope my reflexes don’t betray me. I reach into my pocket for my thick winter gloves and put them both on my right hand for double protection. I retreat, as close to the slide as I can be. I wait. Not long, as two seconds later the werewolf’s claws clench the scaffolding and his giant head comes into view. I hear an ear-splitting roar, and there he is, former Mr Wilson in all his ferocity. His fangs are on show, long and strong. They could easily chew off one of the scaffolding’s metal bars. They probably can. I’m not that eager to check, anyway. He’s sniffing around, trying to track me, fooled by the smell of the quicklime. One point to me. I crouch behind the sack, grasping some of the quicklime with my gloved hand. He’s two yards away, one yard…

Peekaboo! I jump out of my hiding place and throw the quicklime on his muzzle. He roars in pain and frustration, rubbing his face with his claws to get rid of the corrosive chemical, making things worse. I grab a paint tin and smash it on his head. Then I turn around and rush down the slide. Now, if I’m lucky, that blow will keep him occupied for around a minute, which means that I can’t go directly to the car. If I do, he will surely get me before I reach it. I have to be smarter. So, I head towards the other gate, the secondary entrance to the building site. I throw my gloves, already half-corroded by the quicklime, as far away as I can. They have my scent on them, which may make my hairy fellow go after them first, giving me a few extra seconds. Fortunately, contrary to real wolves, werewolves are pretty obtuse. Putting another barrier between us and following a less expected path to get to my transport should take him aback. And let me live.

This gate is lower and easier to climb than the previous one. In a heartbeat, I land on the other side. I’m on a narrow road, badly illuminated. In front of me there’s a row of grey, one-floor buildings, probably warehouses. I take a deep breath and run down the street. Once past this block and the next, if I’m not mistaken, I should reach my car parked on the second road behind the building site. I run as fast as I can, without looking behind me. I turn right, and that is when my feet slip on something wet on the floor, and I stumble. I put my hands out in front of me to break the fall, cut half a caper, roll on my side, and land against one of the warehouse’s walls.

Great. If there was still an inch of my body free of bruises, now it has been covered (and they say consistency is a virtue). Aching all over, I stand back on my feet, having no time to rest. Still a little stunned by the fall, I look around to see which way to go. And then I see it. The thing I hit. Only, it’s not a thing. It’s a dead body. He is, was, Chinese, I would say in his thirties, although death usually tends to make you look older. The pale luminescence of a solitary streetlight illuminates his face, all twisted in a grimace of indescribable pain. His open mouth is filled with dark, coagulated blood, but the most horrifying part is the giant gash in the victim’s chest. Someone, something, ripped it open and stole his heart, tearing apart his ribs, lungs and part of his guts. The wetness I slipped on was his blood, gallons of which are spilled all over the place, including on my jeans and part of my jacket. My tennis shoes are literally soaking in it. This cannot be the work of a human being, but it can’t have been Mr Wilson, either. The blood is still fresh, which means this guy has been killed recently. Mr Wilson was with me before and, unfortunately, after his transformation, so it couldn’t be him. Besides, a werewolf wouldn’t be capable of such a precise, almost surgical job and would have devoured the entire bod-…

Growwl ...

Speaking of the devil. I have been here for no more than forty seconds. Too long, by a werewolf’s standards. In this short time span, he’d got rid of the quicklime and reached the bottom of the narrow road leading to my car, blocking the way. Clearly the beast has been drawn here by the fresh corpse’s smell. He’s not chasing me yet, probably taken aback by the scent of fresh blood and undecided about whether he’s going to go after me or the easier prey to my right. I have maybe three seconds since I know he will come for me. Werewolves aren’t scavengers, and they much prefer live prey to dead, no matter if the latter has been killed recently. One option could be running back to the building site. If I am lucky enough to reach it in one piece, I might lock myself up somewhere and manage to hold my ground until dawn when Mr Wilson will be himself again. Another option would be… Shit. I don’t have another option. I glance at the pavement, trying to spot the bits not inundated with blood. I cannot afford to slip again. Thank God there’s the light of this street lamp and… I look down and see something shiny dangling from my neck. It’s my necklace. Of course, my necklace! How could I have been so stupid? I mean, I know that being an idiot is a sort of inalienable right, but one should never overuse it! My necklace, the one grandpa gave me for my eighteenth birthday, has got a one-carat diamond and is made of platinum and silver.

The werewolf lets out a roar so loud that it makes the walls around me tremble. Another roar and he’s running towards me, his fangs glittering under the moonlight, saliva dripping copiously from his obscene mouth. Perfect timing. I rip my necklace off my neck and wait, holding my ground in spite of my wobbly legs. I must be very, VERY careful and precise. I have only one shot. I have to calculate every single movement or I’m doomed. Here he comes. I must wait until the last possible moment, until I see the redness of his eyes… Three… Two… One! Everything happens so fast that I don’t even have the time to be scared. In an instant the ex-Mr Wilson jumps at me, his fangs clearly aimed at my throat. I don’t know how, but in less than a second I throw the necklace into his open jaws and jump aside, hoping with all my heart it will work and… it does! When I finally turn around again, the beast is lying on the ground, his powerful body shaking with pain, white foam pouring out of his monstrous mouth. I retreat cautiously, never turning my back on him. Once I reach the corner at the bottom of the road, I turn around and run as fast as I can towards my car, which is only a few yards away. I get inside, slam the door, and start the engine. Mr Wilson will be fine. The amount of silver he has ingested has just knocked him out for the time being and won’t cause him any real damage. Tomorrow he will just wake up naked in the middle of nowhere with the symptoms of a massive hangover. And first thing tomorrow, I’m going to the shaman to ask him for an explanation. No, I’m not going to ask him anything. I’m going to shout at him. For sure. I mean, if it wasn’t for my grandpa’s present, I would be werewolf supper by now. How can anyone with a conscience and a twinge of common sense leave a twenty-five-year-old alone with a werewolf on a full-moon night? How could he have not thought about the risks? I’ve been a paranormal consultant for over three years now, and this is the first time something like this has happened to me.

The moon still hangs in the sky, mocking me with its big, yellow face. Don’t you get it? it seems to say.

When I enter the A2016, I finally get it. My epiphany hits me like a truck hits a little kitten; the shaman didn’t behave that way because he is an unprofessional coward. It was all a setup. He wanted me dead.

But why? I mean, I met him two weeks ago. I barely know him. Was he working for someone? If so, who the hell was it? By the time I reach my house in Montague Street, my head is packed with questions. Now, I am extremely angry, and my knees are still shaking with fear. I want my answers, but I have other priorities. To start with, I’m covered with someone else’s blood. Secondly, the place where that someone will soon be found is filled with my fingerprints. I need William and his ghost magic.

I’m so tired I barely have the strength to turn my key in the lock. I carefully step in, doing my best to keep the noise to a minimum to avoid waking Martino so he won’t make a fuss and… Oh, boy! Yes, yes, I’m home. Yes, good dog. Good dog… I haven’t even stepped inside before that ball of scruffy, but at the same time fluffy, vanilla-coloured hair is jumping on me, licking my face with a very long and extremely pink tongue. It’s my rescued dog, Martino, a medium-sized mongrel with a big appetite and a high-pitched bark. At the moment, he’s giving me a naughty look with his big, amber eyes, probably waiting for a snack. Hush, boy. Let’s not wake up the world.

I share the house with my Uncle Terry and my two geeky best friends, Albert and Guido. My uncle is an old scoundrel who is probably still out with his mates, getting drunk in Soho. But the geeks are for sure sleeping soundly, and I don’t want to wake them up this late at night.

Come on Martino, let’s go upstairs to William. Yum, fat sausages for you.

He licks his lips and follows me, wagging his tail frantically. I rush to the attic. When Sir William is not there, my attic looks like a normal, dusty room full of rubbish and memories. But when my friend haunts it, it takes the appearance of an elegant drawing room of the late eighteenth century. There’s a golden harpsichord in the corner, an enormous floral needlepoint rug, silver candelabra, and comfortable armchairs. A big fire crackles in an antique fireplace decorated with one Greek column on each side. Sir William Burrow, Duke of Worthington, tonight is more handsome and blonder than ever. He is standing in front of a big baroque mirror with an elaborately carved golden frame, wearing an embroidered red frock coat and a very glamorous and rather coquettish shirt with laces. He is complacently admiring his reflection in the mirror, smiling to himself.

Sorry to disturb you, William…

He quickly turns to me.

Good Lord, child! he says thunderously, widening his beautiful blue eyes. You are hurt! You are bleeding! What happened?

In a second he’s by my side. He would grow pale if he wasn’t a ghost.

Don’t worry, William. This isn’t my blood. I had a little problem with a werewolf a couple of hours ago.

A werewolf? You were meeting with a werewolf, and you didn’t tell me anything, young lady?

An armchair magically appears under my butt, almost forcing me to sit on it. Martino instantly lies upon my feet.

William, I understand you’ve known me since I was a child, but there’s really no need to be so patronising and overprotective. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t inherited Granny’s house.

Oh, there is no need to be overprotective. Is there, child? Of course you are perfectly sensible. That is why you face down a werewolf alone on a full-moon night without telling me anything.

I wasn’t supposed to be alone. A shaman was supposed to be there and perform a healing spell on him! I snap back. He can be so annoying sometimes. I met him when I was five and wandering in my granny’s attic. He shot out of the grandfather clock he still haunts and ordered me to stop singing since he couldn’t bear that awful noise for another minute. He hasn’t stopped patronising me since then. Damn ghost.

Shaman? Healing spell? He raises an eyebrow.

I quickly explain that I got hired by Mr Wilson nearly three weeks ago. He wanted to get rid of the werewolf’s curse for good. The only way to cure a werewolf is to find a powerful shaman able to perform a complicated healing spell, and I was so lucky, or so I thought, to find one shortly after Mr Wilson signed with me. The said shaman was an old man, highly recommended by a dear friend of mine, a very reliable Oxford professor of ancient religions, so I trusted him completely. And I was wrong, of course.

And he left you alone with a werewolf in the middle of nowhere? And you clearly explained to him what he was supposed to do and the risks involved?

You really think I am stupid. Don’t you, Will?

My apologies, child, he says, realising his gaffe. It could be that he did it on purpose for a reason we do not know, he says, pensively. On the other hand, he could simply have had second thoughts and used a futile excuse to dismiss you. How did you survive, if I might ask?

Well, I threw my necklace down his throat. You know, my necklace, the one made with silver and a diamond?

Of course I know. I can already tell you Madame Lafont won’t be happy about it. I am sure of it.

Look, there’s no time to worry about my mother’s reaction. In a few hours the building site on the Docks will open again, and both Mr Wilson and the corpse will be found along with my foot- and fingerprints. Clean them up or I will get into trouble.

Wait a minute child. What corpse?

I sigh impatiently then quickly describe my encounter with the Chinese man. The duke listens to me with a mixture of surprise and fascination.

I will for sure analyse the corpse, child, but this looks like the work of a demon, which means that you were in even more danger than I thought and—

Also, there are my leather gloves scattered somewhere in the building site main yard. I cut him off. They should still have part of my aura on them, so it shouldn’t be that difficult to retrieve them, I exhale, exhausted. Please bring Mr Wilson some clothes and get him out of there. He is for sure still unconscious, so it shouldn’t be a problem, the duke stares at me, arching one of his perfect eyebrows. I know he tried to kill me, but it’s not his fault, after all. He was supposed to be cured tonight, poor chap, you know… Ouch! A wave of pain hits my injured ankle, making me grimace.

What’s wrong, child? Where does it hurt?

He sounds like my dad.

Nothing, William. Just a scratch. Please go now. I’ll have a shower.

No, you will have a bath in here, he contradicts me while a luxurious marble bathtub appears in front of the fireplace. It’s a special healing water. You’ll feel better. Throw your dirty clothes into the magic fire. It will destroy them completely. Don’t go to your room. Stay here tonight. You will sleep much better, a giant four-poster bed magically emerges from the floor, clean, silky pink pyjamas neatly folded on it. William can be annoying from time to time, but he cares for me, and if there is something he doesn’t lack, that is style and a keen eye for detail. I will be back as soon as possible, he says then disappears.

I sigh and get off the chair with difficulty, heading towards the bathtub. I pass by the huge mirror and gasp, glancing at my reflection. That thing can’t be me. I’m monstrous. I’m really not one of those girls obsessed with their appearance. I think there are much more important things in life, honestly. Still, sharing a strong resemblance to a cave troll isn’t exactly my dream come true. I suck. Apart from the fact that I’m covered with blood and every sort of dirt imaginable, and I truly mean every sort, around my eyes there are dark circles which make my dark blue irises look almost black. One of the many mysteries of my life is the colour of my eyes since apparently their shade of blue is unique, and everyone I