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

  * * *

  Paddington resisted the urge to slam the laundry door only by closing it very slowly and deliberately instead. Was there some way to make Lisa understand that he hadn’t wanted Dom to die? That standing there and watching – doing nothing – had been the hardest thing he’d ever done, but that he’d owed Dom the respect not to let him die alone. And if he’d thought throwing a punch would help he’d have done it. If he’d thought anything might have worked he’d have tried it. But he hadn’t, and making Lisa feel better about him wasn’t a valid reason to die.

  Apparently she didn’t see it that way. She’d rather be the widow of a foolish hero than the wife of a sensible coward.

  Gods, she could be so… erratic sometimes, so emotional. He couldn’t. Sometimes he wished he could. He always had to hold himself back, for fear of the monster inside him.

  And now he knew the monster’s purpose.

  Kill his brother. Destroy his wife. End the world.

  He flexed his left shoulder. The monster had helped him fight tonight and it had been glorious, in a way. The flow of battle, the dance, the effortlessness of killing and leaving to die. The beauty in a spray of blood.

  Paddington gritted his teeth against the image. For good measure, he pushed against his bandage with his right hand. The flare of pain brought him back to himself, and the fight now seemed like what it surely was: awful, chaotic death. Brutal and vicious. And in no way good.

  Right. Do something. Don’t sit in the dark and think about it. Find people. Not too hard; every room had someone in it, plotting a way to attack the Andrastes. This one had Skylar, sitting cross-legged on a bed and staring at her tablet.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She looked up. “I hope you haven’t come to me for relationship advice.”

  Skylar had heard the fight, then. Hardly surprising. “Do you think I did the right thing leaving Dom to die?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “It’s a sound strategy. He was a necessary loss for the rest of the unit. Nothing would have been gained by dying to save him.”

  Paddington nodded. He’d been right, then.

  “But relationships aren’t military engagements,” Skylar said. “They have different rules. You did the right thing in a battle, but for Lisa? I don’t know. You must know how it looks.”

  He didn’t. “How does it look?”

  “It looks like you wanted to watch her ex-boyfriend’s execution,” Skylar said, “which comes across as more than a little jealous.”

  He’d never considered that she might think her past with Dom had influenced him in any way. What was he supposedly getting revenge for? He’d married Lisa; if there was a winner here, it was him. He didn’t need to grind a former, already-defeated opponent into the ground. That was just sick.

  “What was she annoyed at specifically?” Skylar asked.

  “That I didn’t do something to save him.”

  “That you didn’t do something. She wanted you to demonstrate that what’s important to her – or was once – is important to you. And instead of acting, of showing that you love her, you just stood there.”

  Lisa wanted him to do, not to be? He hadn’t thought of that. For him, Lisa’s being there was all he wanted. Every morning when he woke, she was there and he was happy. He’d never considered that she’d need gestures to remind her he cared.

  Paddington nodded. “Thanks, Skylar. Sorry this ended up as a relationship talk.”

  She shrugged an oh-well. “It’s what I’m here for. Apparently.”

  Paddington left her to her planning. Part of him wanted to find Lisa right now, but she’d need time. Time to either think of more things to yell at him about or to understand it from his point of view. As much as it hurt him, he’d give her that time.

  Instead he sought out the other Archians, Will and Curt. They were the only ones who weren’t working on another attack strategy, which Paddington appreciated. He didn’t have any energy left for concocting the best way to elicit more death; too many people had died tonight already.

  “How did it happen?” Will asked. He and Curt were dressed once more in the Team’s spare uniforms, mostly too big for them.

  Paddington sank into a recliner and placed his left arm on the armrest. It felt good just to sit, to physically rest. “He was already captured, tied up, when I found him. There was a mob. I tried to argue that they should free him or call animal control, but…”

  “How was he?” Will was leaning forward on the couch.

  “Brave,” Paddington said. “He didn’t change back. It might have saved his life, who knows, but he didn’t change back. He died to protect us.”

  “They all did,” Curt said. He sounded empty, not angry: a far cry from the mean boy who had threatened him with a knife the first time they’d met.

  “He was a good guy,” Will said, placing a hand on Curt’s shoulder. The younger man nodded.

  He was, too. Dom had been the butt of every joke, but he’d allowed himself to be. He’d never fought against it or been bitter about it that Paddington had seen. At some point, he’d realised that others would make fun of him and decided to laugh with them.

  And he’d had more of an impact on Paddington’s life than Paddington had ever realised.

  “I owe him everything,” Paddington said. “If I hadn’t been a werewolf, we would never have stopped the Browns. And if he hadn’t accidentally turned Lisa… I would never have been a werewolf.”

  Oh no. There was a silence. He’d thought Will might come out with a funny-how-the-world-works or tell an amusing tale about how he had come to join the pack, or Curt might quote a scripture on the Three-God’s mysterious plans. Instead he got silence. Not a reverential silence, but a guilty one. Paddington recognised it; he’d had a lot of practice spotting them of late because it seemed everyone was keeping secrets from him. His mother, his wife, now his pack.

  “What?” he asked.

  “No, it’s true,” Will said quickly. “You’re right. Serendipity, huh?”

  “What about his mum?” Curt asked.

  “What?” Paddington asked. Don’t tell him someone else had a drastic truth about his mother, another secret she’d kept from him. Had she been a werewolf? No, of course not: they didn’t allow female members in the pack. Besides, she hadn’t gone missing for a few days each month. Unless she was on oestrogen suppressants, but where would she get those on Archi—

  Paddington forced himself to stop. Stop speculating. Listen.

  Will flashed a glance at Curt, but his anger was fleeting. “I suppose you have a right to know, James. Pack membership isn’t random. It’s passed down through the mother’s line.”

  “Passed down how?” he asked. “Was she a wolf?”

  “No.”

  Thank goodness for that. One less ridiculous conspiracy theory to focus on.

  “Her father was,” Will said, which kind of ruined Paddington’s celebration. “Only males join the pack and the right to membership is passed father to daughter to son. The extra generation keeps us from becoming too insular or, uh, inbred, I guess.”

  Paddington had a family history of werewolfism? So it was another thing his mother hadn’t told him!

  “So, every son of the daughter of a werewolf joins the pack?” Paddington asked.

  “Only the eldest son of the eldest daughter,” Will said. “And no two members can be within two years of one another. And there are size limits on the pack, of course.”

  But Curt was ten years younger than Paddington. “You were recruiting members long after I was born,” he said.

  Will fidgeted. Fingers interlocked, unlocked, scratched his neck. “There’s also a test, James,” Will said. “You failed.” He looked almost sad about it. Had he wanted Paddington to pass?

  Paddington’s eyebrows leapt up. “There’s a test?”

  “At puberty.”

  “What was it?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Just tell
me!” Why was everyone keeping secrets from him these days? Why couldn’t they just give him a straight answer?

  Will assembled his thoughts. “Do you remember that, in your first year of high school, you and Lisa were going to receive an award in front of the whole school?”

  Of course he remembered the worst day of his life, the day he’d taken the person he held dearest and betrayed her in order to win the affection of the cool kids. If he recalled correctly – and he did – the older boy who had suggested publically humiliating Lisa was… was Will…

  Gods.

  “That was the test?” Paddington asked.

  “Yes,” Will said. “A test of devotion and discretion. Could you be trusted? Would you remain faithful to a friend no matter the enticement?”

  He’d certainly failed and now… now he wasn’t even sure how he felt about that.

  That moment had defined him, shaped him. If he’d passed, he would have become part of the pack so much sooner. He’d have become a completely different person. If he’d passed, he wouldn’t be him now. He’d be some other James Paddington. One who had grown up with friends instead of alone. He’d probably have come to love Archi if he’d been in the crowd rather than outside it questioning mercilessly because he had nothing else to occupy him. He’d have been a proper Archian. Accepted. Desired.

  And when Lisa had returned from the Mainland – because she’d likely have visited her birth family at some point – he would have rejected her like the rest of the island had.

  On that basis, he was glad he’d failed. The life he had right now, with a wife and a baby on the way, meant too much to wish it away for anything.

  Paddington nodded. “Fair enough, then.”

  Will waited for more. “You’re not angry?”

  “It’s not your fault I failed. Why would I blame you for my actions? Besides, the test’s a good idea: it weeds out untrustworthy or problematic candidates before they even know the pack exists.”

  “But it’s a bad test!” Will said. “It kept out someone like you. No matter what your Doctor McGregor’s version of the Book of Enanti says that you are or you’ll do, you’re a good guy, James.”

  “Maybe. But only because I failed.” He stood; he’d had enough of dwelling in the past. His mother’s secrets and lies and omissions. Better to focus on the present.

  Especially since, in the present, someone was shouting.

  It was Beck, in the kitchen, and he wasn’t even shouting words. Just making noises as he threw himself at Clarkson in a fit of rage. Clarkson, for his part, deflected Beck’s attacks with one casual arm, like a cat batting away a toy.

  “What’s the big deal?” Clarkson asked.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  Beck ran at Clarkson, who stepped aside and watched Beck hit the cupboard door. Before Beck could get up and have Clarkson assist him in hurting himself again, Paddington stepped between them.

  “Constable Clarkson! Kitchen table! Joel… Joel?” Paddington held Beck’s head until his eyes had focussed on him. “What is it?”

  Beck opened his mouth to speak, then laughed. There was no joy in it. “It’s stupid, is what it is. Just me being an idiot, as usual.”

  “Hey, stop that. You’re not an idiot, whatever this is about.”

  Beck tore his eyes away from Clarkson and looked at Paddington, then he swept the flop of brown hair off his face. “You remember that girl? The one I’d ask out if I survived this war?”

  A crowd was forming; Paddington ignored it. “I remember.”

  “Well, it turns out she’s his bit of fun,” he said, “and she is more than something to be played with!” he added to Clarkson.

  “Hey, don’t get mad at me,” Clarkson said. “Whether she wants to play is up to her…”

  “She deserves better than you!”

  Clarkson appeared to weigh this up in his mind. “Again, up to her.”

  Paddington gave Beck a look that said to calm down and he’d deal with this. Beck took the hint.

  Yikes. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. He should feel drained by the idea of yet more problems, but Paddington actually quite liked these chaotic times. At least no one was in mortal danger for a change. Just a common row. A domestic dispute.

  “Care to explain?” Paddington asked Clarkson.

  Clarkson looked around the room at large. Everyone was back now. “Beck asked me what I’d done after I left you all before the attack. I told him that I wasn’t exactly on-board with the idea of killing my own kind, so I thought I’d drown my sorrows in a bar. I found a place called the Crypt and got chatting to a barmaid. She liked vampires, I liked her, so we went into the back room. That’s when Beck started having a fit or whatever he was trying to do.”

  Truman stepped closer. “You were seducing a young woman when I radioed you?” he asked. “That’s why you didn’t respond?”

  “The radio was off. It would have ruined the mystique.”

  Skylar scoffed. “What mystique?”

  “Actually, that’s a good question,” Paddington said. “Who does she think you are, Clarkson?”

  Clarkson scratched his immaculate hair. Despite an increase in his already-substantial laziness, vampirism had caused him to take some pride in his appearance. “I might have tweaked a few details.”

  “Lying about who you are?” Mitchell said. “That’s despicable.”

  “What details did you tweak?” Paddington asked. “Your name? Your occupation? Your address? Your age? That you came here to stop her count from destroying the world?”

  “Sort of… all of those?”

  “All to get into her pants?” Skylar asked. Her hand was creeping toward the trigger of her gun.

  “What? No! No, not at all,” Clarkson said. He didn’t even sound sarcastic. “I just wanted to play.”

  “Like with food?” Will asked.

  “No, like… a game. In films the girl is always young but the vampire is really old and wise and that. I wanted to see if she’d believe it. My money was actually on ‘no’, by the way. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Not a big deal?” Paddington asked. “If you’d done it to trick her into sex with you, that I could understand – it’s morally reprehensible and risks turning her into a vampire – but this? This is dangerous.”

  “What is?”

  “Tricking someone just to see if they believe it.”

  Clarkson stood, not content to go with the flow for once. “How is that dangerous?”

  “Because that’s how you become Adonis. Thousands of small deceits, testing what people will believe, snowball. What starts with you toying with one woman’s heart ends with you manipulating everyone you can into doing what you want. You think Adonis planned to become the man he is? I think it’s far more likely that he had grand ideas – far nobler goals than his own amusement – and look what happened to him: he took the freedom of an island and a town, bent them to his will, then left them to die at the hand of the monsters he’d helped create. You think it won’t happen to you? Piece by piece, inch by inch.”

  Clarkson had sat back down about halfway through the speech and stared at his hands in his lap, confronting mortality not because he had so little time left but because he had so much. He sagged under the weight of those future years. “It’s not… It can’t end up that bad, can it?”

  “Not for most of us,” Paddington said. “We only have eighty years. Assuming you age like a vampire from now on, you have three hundred good years left in you and a hundred or more of old age. Imagine how far you could fall in that time.”