She cried out in relief when the elevator doors at last slid open. Jumping inside, she hit the button again to close the doors. This time nothing happened. Oh please, oh please, she prayed. She was still hitting the buttons when the corridor darkened. Ophelia held her breath as the dreadful silhouettes of the six surviving werewolves appeared on the wall just before they crept around the corner toward her, snarling and slavering, maddeningly slow as they stalked their prey. She slapped the button one more time in desperation.

“YES!” She punched the air, almost weeping as the doors closed. Her luck had held; she had a chance!

The Puma helicopters crouched on the lawns of Helleborine Halt like giant mosquitoes. Crone gave the signal for the searchlights to be trained on the mansion, and the night sky lit up with cold clarity, illuminating the front entrance. When it seemed there were no more human survivors, Crone had agreed with the Prime Minister that it would be just as well to let the werewolves perish in the fires. But then somebody had reported there had been two children held in the bowels of the Halt, and everything had changed.

There was movement from the main door. Someone was coming out. Crone watched as a well-built, dark-haired woman with a blackened face half fell, half jumped down the steps to the gravel drive. She was followed by something Crone would have nightmares about for the rest of his life. These werewolves had been altered beyond his wildest imagination. They ran upright, on two legs, not four. They stood almost ten feet tall, their glowing orange eyes feverish with hate, their muzzles drawn back from their dripping fangs, making a keening, howling sound that remained etched in Crone’s brain for eternity.

Smoke billowing from Helleborine Halt was making visibility difficult. Quentin Crone tried to give the special services the order to fire, but his breath caught in his throat. He could make out the determined face of Ophelia Tate as she sprinted toward the helicopter, bravely trying to outrun the six snarling creatures who were closing in on her. Then, mercifully, although no order had been issued, shots rang out. Four of the werewolves took high-velocity silver bullets in the chest and were sent flying.

Crazed and confused, the two remaining werewolves turned toward the helicopter where Crone sat with the gibbering Prime Minister. As they stole menacingly toward the cockpit, Crone pulled himself together. At exactly the right moment, he hit a switch on the copter’s dashboard. The rotor blades whirred into life. He closed his eyes as blood splattered across the glass bubble of the windshield, almost, but not quite, obliterating his view. Quentin Crone had already decided to hand in his resignation before the werewolves’ severed heads hit the ground.

CHAPTER 29
WORLDS COLLIDE