Charlotte swallowed hard and nodded.
“We have to find that bastard Mansfield.” Malcolm searched in every direction but saw no trace of the ambassador. A huge piece of the roof had slid into the road heading south, leaving Lombard Street the most likely escape route. He looked east and west and decided a man of Mansfield’s limited bravery would move west so as not to pass the danger of the church. Malcolm pulled Charlotte along, searching the crowd for the familiar face.
Suddenly Charlotte tugged on his hand and dragged him into an alley. She was moving faster, pulling him along. Her vigor was returning with every second they pushed farther away from the church and the dampening effect of the Skin of Ra. Charlotte grasped Malcolm’s hand tight enough to hurt. He looked down to reassure her, but instead noticed that Charlotte was in the midst of changing. Long, clawed fingers curled around his. The waistcoat she wore ripped at the seams as she grew larger. Malcolm wanted to scream and jerk his hand away, but he did not let go. She looked up at him with amber eyes that glowed and gave a triumphant growl.
“Follow,” she snarled. With a toothy grin, she sniffed the air. She had found a scent. Letting out a bark of triumph, she started running, dropping to all fours. Malcolm ran hard to keep sight of her as she loped down the alley and turned a corner.
As soon as he came around, he saw Charlotte crash against a heavy door with no effect and fall back weakly. Malcolm ran up to her as she whined in frustration. He tried the latch, but it was locked, bolted from the inside.
“Stand back.” He drew a pistol and fired two rounds into the lock. A solid shove by the two of them and the door broke open. Charlotte was about to rush in, but Malcolm laid a hand on her shoulder as a warning. The young werewolf looked up at him, her muscles twitching in expectation. He leaned in and peered around the corner of the doorframe. He caught a glimpse of Ambassador Mansfield before a pistol shot rang out and the wall next to his ear exploded from the impact of a bullet. Jerking his head back, he looked at Charlotte, lifting his Lancaster.
“When I make him dive for cover, in you go.”
She nodded her shaggy head.
“Just disarm him.”
Charlotte exhaled a disappointed growl and crouched at the ready. Malcolm extended his arm through the door. His Lancaster roared twice and Mansfield ducked behind a long table heaped with ironworks. The lithe werewolf leapt to the far side of the room and bounded toward the table. Mansfield saw her coming and raised another pistol. A bullet slammed into Charlotte. It sent her tumbling into wooden crates.
Malcolm shouted and ran inside, firing his second weapon empty before he had to duck down behind some barrels and reload. “Charlotte! Can you hear me, girl?” A sliver of fear lanced Malcolm.
Mansfield chuckled. “Your little dog is dead.”
The Scotsman didn’t deem to reply but scuttled forward for a better position.
“Ra will wipe this place clean of interference,” Mansfield continued, “so Gaios can work his wonders.”
Malcolm let him prattle on as he lifted his head to spy on his target’s position. “Aren’t you afraid your mummy bride will run loose without you?”
“She’ll come when I call. But first she needs to deal with your friends.”
“She’ll have to take down all of London to do it,” Malcolm snarled back.
“I doubt that. You’re like bugs to her.”
The bellow of a Lancaster firing rhythmically drowned out Mansfield’s words. A dark shape streaked toward the ambassador, and a scream ripped through the room. Malcolm stood up and aimed both smoking pistols. Mansfield dangled from Charlotte’s outstretched arm, her claws wrapped around the man’s throat. Her other arm was raised, ready to strike.
“Charlotte!” Malcolm shouted.
The werewolf’s arm hesitated. Her eyes turned toward him, reflecting oddly in the limited light. There was a wildness in them, an angry resistance. On instinct, he almost pointed his weapon at her instead of Mansfield.
She growled at Malcolm, long white canines flashing, but slowly her arm lowered. Her snarl ended in a shriek of pain as she dropped Mansfield, holding her side. Mansfield scrambled away clutching a bloody knife, trying to rise to strike again. Malcolm vaulted the table, swinging his pistol like a club against Mansfield’s shoulder. The man rolled to the floor, but swept up with the knife, narrowly missing gutting the Scotsman. He shot Mansfield in the knee. Malcolm then kicked the knife out of the screaming man’s hand and jerked a pistol from Mansfield’s belt. It was empty.
The Scotsman turned to Charlotte. She lay panting, holding a bloody gash in her side. There was a black crease along her shoulder. He dropped to one knee beside her. “Let me see.”