Return of the Wolf Man by Jeff Rovin Read Free Book Online Page B

Talbot’s. She could literally feel the fingers becoming thicker, hair pushing from under the skin.
    “Hurry!” Talbot implored her, his voice gruff and deepening.
    Joan placed the heel of her right hand against the edge of the fragment. She saw his wrist thicken and short, bristlelike hair rise from it. This was not an illusion. It was proof of the existence of hell.
    As her resolve grew stronger, Joan pressed more firmly against the smooth edge of the glass. It penetrated Talbot’s bare flesh. A trickle of blood spilled out as spittle dripped onto her hand.
    “Do I need to put the glass—all the way through the pentagram?” Joan asked.
    “As far as you can,” Talbot said. His woeful eyes found hers. The eyes were narrowing, the flesh around them darkening. “Quickly!” he urged.
    She hesitated. Her fingers weakened and her grip relaxed. If there were a hell then there had to be a heaven. And one day she would be judged for this—
    “I don’t think I can do this!” she cried.
    “You must!” Talbot gurgled, his voice changing into a low rasp as he slipped one of his big hands from underneath hers. He placed it firmly behind Joan’s. She felt a strong push on the back of her hand and, surrendering, she went with it.
    Talbot’s frown became a grimace as the sharp-edged glass penetrated his chest more deeply. Joan shut her mouth and breathed through her nose and pressed harder on the mirror. He moaned, a trace of the wolf still in his voice as the silver-backed shard slid between his ribs.
    “More!” he pleaded as his blood spilled onto her dress.
    “God, no—”
    “The silver must penetrate . . . my heart.”
    With a cry, Joan turned her face to the side and put both palms on the back of the shard. She leaned into his chest. Talbot sucked down air as the makeshift weapon found its target. He smiled, exhaled loudly, and then slumped forward.
    “At last,” he gasped. “At last.”
    Joan shrieked and pulled her hands away as blood poured over the back of the glass. She put her gory palms on the cold stone floor and scuttled away, watching as Talbot bent over further. His forearms hit the floor. Blood dripped into a puddle under his chest. She raised the back of one hand to her mouth and began to cry.
    “Forgive me,” she said, as much to God as to Talbot.
    “No,” Talbot said. “It’s . . . what . . . I’ve wanted.”
    The candle threw off enough light so Joan could see Talbot’s face reflected in the spreading pool of blood. She wanted to go to him and comfort him. But it was all so horrible—
    “Listen . . . carefully,” he wheezed. “My body . . . must not . . . be burned. It must be buried . . . in an unmarked place. And the mirror . . . must never be removed.” Talbot looked over at her. “Will you . . . see to it?”
    “This can’t be happening!” she cried as his blood streamed toward her. It seemed almost as though the blood were alive, seeking her out. The wolf’s life essence determined to mark her for all time.
    “Will you . . . see . . . to . . . it?”
    Joan moved aside at the last moment. She was relieved as the thin stream of blood flowed past her.
    “Yes,” she cried. “I’ll make sure no one finds you!”
    “Thank . . . you,” Talbot said. His torso drooped and his head struck the floor. He struggled briefly for breath. “I must never . . . live . . . again.”
    “Never,” Joan repeated.
    With a little smile and a final gasp, Lawrence Stewart Talbot shuddered and rolled onto his side.
    Joan waited a long minute before crawling toward him. She felt as though she were in a Grand Guignol play, dressed in a costume, creeping through a gothic setting, going to examine a corpse. She bent over the body, lifted one of his wrists, and looked for a pulse. There wasn’t any. Slipping the shawl from around her shoulders, Joan laid it over his head and stood. She felt guilty as she looked down at the peaceful body and then into the laboratory at the butchered remains of