She is so tired.

The haunch of deer is taken away. The cold one and the small human prey leave the room. They are careful to shut the door. But the wolf and lion linger.

She settles, lying with her head resting on her paws. Still watching them, full of confusion.

“Will she be all right?” the lion says.

“She’ll go to sleep soon enough,” the wolf answers.

“That’s not what I mean. What if Kumarbis is wrong and she never joins us?”

“We have to show her that his is the way. That’s all.”

Her ears prick forward, listening. Almost, she understands. Almost, she wishes she can answer them. Let me go, why not just let me go …

But they, too, leave, and she hears the metallic click and slide, and knows it means the door is locked again.

She picks herself up and paces again. The track she walks is familiar. She’s made a clear trail in the dust and grit on the floor. If she paces forever, maybe she can wear out the stone and carve her way to freedom. If she doesn’t wear her claws to stubs first.

She would fall asleep walking if she could.

Chapter 12

THE ISLAND OF DOCTOR MOREAU is one of the more modern takes in a long line of stories about beings who cross the line between human and not. I’d always thought that Moreau himself was the least human creature in the story. A confession: I started reading the H. G. Wells novel thinking it would be quaint and cute, like a lot of Victorian literature that was meant to be startling and horrifying, but really wasn’t to our modern, jaded sensibilities.

What a lot of people don’t realize about the story because they’ve just seen the movies is that most film versions only cover the first two-thirds of the book. In the novel, Prendick is stranded on the island for another ten months, having to coexist with the horde of devolving man-beasts. Having to become like them in order to hold his own among them, while maintaining enough of his humanity to be able to build a raft and escape. The end of the novel—the part that’s meant to be truly horrifying to anybody who reads it, no matter where or when they live—shows Prendick rescued and back in London, among the teeming mass of humanity. And he can’t tell the difference between them and the tormented beasts he left behind. This was a common theme of H. G. Wells: the idea that humanity is just a very short step from utter, uncivilized chaos.

Some of the worst people I’d ever met didn’t have a lick of supernatural about them. Technically, they weren’t monsters. But they were, surely. You can only judge people by their actions.

*   *   *

I WOKE up on top of my clothes, which gave me a weird jolt of happiness. They hadn’t taken my clothes! Instead, I was nested in my own familiar unwashed body odor, which gave me a strange sense of well-being. They really didn’t mean me harm, they really weren’t going to hurt me, maybe they weren’t so bad …

I sat up and stewed, trying to remember everything that had happened after I’d turned Wolf. Trying to dredge from those fuzzy memories some solid nugget of information. Sometimes, my stretches as Wolf passed in a haze, my human mind unable to hold on to memories gathered through animal senses. Other times, I remembered so much, entire scenes, thoughts, images, and people. The less stressed, the more calm I was, the more I could remember. Wolf had only heard their words as the mumbling of lesser, weaker, two-legged beings. My subconscious was not helping.

One memory stood out: Sakhmet and Enkidu were sympathetic. I could talk to them, maybe even get through to Kumarbis. I remembered him looking at me. He was so hopeful.

After a quick stretch I got dressed. They’d cleaned up the deer haunch while I’d slept. Some blood remained smeared on the floor. It smelled dirty and rotten now, not at all appetizing.

I curled up on the floor, resting my head on my bent arm, trying to think. Kumarbis had spoken for a long time, so that all the words ran together. He’d been telling stories, I thought, stories that I would have loved to hear, but in a foreign language for all that I could tell. It was all fuzzy, growing more fuzzy by the moment.

Even if Tom hadn’t been able to look for me or get help, Ben would be on the warpath by now. He’d call Cormac, and Cormac was a professional in hunting down werewolves. Between the two of them, they’d find me, I was sure of it. I beat down any arguments to the contrary before they could bubble into my awareness. They’d find me. Among the hundreds of abandoned mines scattered in the mountains, hundreds of miles from anywhere …

And what would he tell my mother? Was it Sunday yet? Mom usually called on Sunday, updated me on the whole family … my dad, my sister, her kids. They must have known I was gone, they must have been so worried about me. I didn’t want to get wrung out from crying, so I squeezed my eyes shut and didn’t cry.

I must have fallen asleep again. I hadn’t meant to, and I didn’t like what it meant. The exhaustion was getting to me, I was losing energy. It wasn’t that I was giving up. But sleeping was so much easier than trying to think, when my brain hurt and my heart ached.

The door scraped on stone. My eyes were closed, stuck together almost. I thought I was dreaming, but my back and shoulders were stiff from sleeping on the ground; the feeling was visceral, not at all dreamlike. Footsteps padded, and I smelled Sakhmet and Enkidu. I took far too long a time gathering myself, opening my eyes and struggling to a sitting position, not even able to get to my feet before they were standing in front of me. My reflexes were dull, my awareness drained. That was probably the point. They were wearing me down, slowly. My anger over it had become dull and distant, like an old bruise.

Sakhmet knelt, putting herself at my level. Condescending, I thought. She wasn’t worried about me being dominant or putting herself in a submissive position compared to me. I was the prisoner, we all knew it.

“Your wolf is very beautiful,” she said, smiling kindly.

Part of me warmed to her. Of course, I wanted to say. Sometimes I thought Wolf was the most beautiful part about me, sleek and wild, full of strength and focus.

Instead, I muttered in a dry, croaking voice, “She’s also really pissed off.” Sakhmet revealed another bottle of water, which I accepted. It was like she knew exactly what I needed. Creeped me out a little.

I took a long drink, which seemed to clear my mind, and splashed some on my face, which cleaned out my eyes and woke me up. My anger settled. I could see the pair of them a bit more clearly.