“Don’t be dead.”
Simon grinned. Then he grabbed Kate’s hand and ran toward the Anstruther coach, which they had left a few blocks away.
“I’m sorry,” she told him as she fell into the seat and the carriage kicked into high speed.
“No, you’re not.” Before she could reply, he waved her off. “I understand why you did it, Kate. As I said, there’s no one to judge us except ourselves.”
Kate leaned forward and buried her head in her hands. Simon placed a firm hand on her shoulder and left it there to comfort her. She swallowed her dismay, clinging tightly to Simon’s resolve.
Chapter Twenty-one
Despite the wee morning hour, heavy freight wagons creaked along and merchants pushed carts rattling with pots and cutlery. Malcolm reached the river, shoving through gangs of wanderers. The northern side of the river was a bit less busy and some streets were actually deserted, a rare thing in crowded London.
The Scotsman felt as if chilled fingernails were scraping along the back of his neck. He turned back to the bustling bridge. His trained tracker’s eye saw several men who slipped in and out of sight, moving through the crowd with more purpose than most of the early-hour street folk. They could have been laborers on the way to work; they could have been thieves seeking unwary victims. All the same, Malcolm walked faster.
He made for the decrepit Devil’s Acre, hoping to lose any pursuit in that warren of ratholes. For several blocks, he walked at a normal clip to prevent any shadowers from increasing their own pace. Suddenly he spun and bolted into an alley. He dodged piles of refuse and leapt over a wall, where he paused to get his bearings. A tremendous chorus of howls rose, singing his death. Sweat broke out on his brow and he started to run again. A scrabble of claws sounded behind him and his legs pumped all the harder. His arms reached around his chest and pulled his pistols.
A shape loomed on his right and he fired. In the flash of the pistol, Malcolm saw the horrific visage of a werewolf. The ball struck the creature in the face, shoving it back into the wall. Malcolm continued to run. Another werewolf leapt past its dead comrade and gave chase. It virtually climbed the walls, bounding from side to side and exploding forward, landing just beside Malcolm on a pile of crates. Its cruel jaws shut on the sleeve of the Scotsman’s greatcoat, ripping it. Malcolm didn’t stumble but aimed and shot it in the chest.
The narrow confines of the alley slowed the pursuing pack and kept them from spreading out to encircle him as true wolves would in the wild. Malcolm made a sharp turn into a cross lane. He gained ground as the pack could not slow their frenzied momentum and the two in the lead were bowled over by a third one running madcap behind. The crumbling buildings shook with the impact of the creatures. One poor soul looked out his third-story window at the commotion and wished he hadn’t.
A werewolf landed in front of Malcolm on all fours, claws digging onto the cobblestones to halt its slide. Malcolm drew a long knife with a blade coated in silver, leaping straight for the beast, bearing it backward to the ground. The knife rose and fell into the creature’s throat. The werewolf thrashed, a massive clawed hand ripped across Malcolm’s back, sending him flying into a brick wall. He scrambled to his feet and ran out into a main street just ahead. He prayed that the pack still craved secrecy and wouldn’t emerge into open view, even at night. He risked a glance back and saw the narrow darkness undulating with a horrifying motion as the pack hesitated.
Malcolm paused to break his pistols’ breeches and load custom shells. When he glanced up, he spied dark shapes climbing onto the rooftops. He cursed again, this time in Gaelic. Malcolm counted only two in pursuit. Two such creatures were a deadly match, but his guns had four barrels each and silver loads. He wanted to kill them rather than lead them to Penny. The Lancasters required close range, so he needed to lure them to him.