Fratricide, Werewolf Wars, and the Many Lies of Andrea Paddington

  * * *

  The sun was due to set around four o’clock: long nights, short days. Good for vampires, bad for the Team. Unless the Team wanted to kill the vampires. Which Mitchell did. It was long past time they had some justice for the three Team members who had been murdered stopping the vampires’ last stupid prophecy.

  Throughout the afternoon, Truman had had them sleep, fill out paperwork, watch the castle, and walk the streets. Reminders that the vampires owned this town were everywhere: they had bought its heart with cheap trinkets over the last three decades. Pity; it looked like it might have been nice here once.

  The only place that was genuinely old was the castle, beneath which Mitchell currently clung. More to have something to do than out of genuine need, he’d convinced Truman to let him investigate the castle for alternate entry points. If he found none, a helicopter would be their only viable method of ingress. The rotors would announce their intentions, but it was better than the long walk across the stone bridge.

  For the last hour Mitchell had been crawling on his hands and knees up the steep hill that led toward the back of the castle. His arms ached and his body groaned under the weight of his rain-soaked uniform. By the time he reached the top he’d be too tired to fight. A surprise attack was impractical, then. Even if there were some way in, they were too vulnerable for too long. The image of Andrastes tipping boiling oil over the castle walls seared itself in his mind.

  Mitchell finally reached the stonework and, after pausing for a moment – still careful not to lose his footing and slide down to the bottom – examined it. It was annoyingly good: no convenient finger cracks he could use to scale the walls. Mitchell inched along the outside looking for windows, doorways, loose stones; anything that might be an entrance or become one through liberal use of explosives.

  After an hour, he’d circled the castle and found nothing. No one had decided, at the last minute, to put in a bathroom waste chute. Adonis had kept the castle functional for a war. Presumably on purpose. He’d bought the land thirty years ago according to Beck; had he been planning it that long? The times matched Paddington’s birth, near enough.

  Was all of this preparation for his war with Paddington?

  Did Adonis really think Paddington was that big a threat?

  Had he ever met the man?

  Whatever; there was no point staying here. “Mitchell to Truman,” he said into his radio.

  “Go ahead.”

  “No secret entrances. The castle’s more secure than the Alamo.”

  The Texan paused a second before responding. “Understood. Pull out.”

  “Sir, I can still plant the explosives; give them something to be afraid of.”

  “Negative,” said the American. “Be in position; we send Clarkson at sundown.”

  Stupid Truman. Since their briefing, McGregor had mentioned Clarkson might be Paddington’s brother. If that were so then killing him would be the only way to stop the vampires, but instead of keeping him around Truman was set on sending him into enemy territory.

  How did he expect to win a war? They couldn’t give the vampires notice; couldn’t expect them to play nice. His better nature would get them all killed. Mitchell would never have allowed this weakness. He did what had to be done, no matter how horrible. He didn’t like it, but he did it.

  Which was why he’d already planted the explosives.