Moonrise

Art by Matsujo9 (LJ | e-mail | comment) and Medley (LJ | e-mail | comment)

Part Two

There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls
George Carlin

The shots echoed through the house, making Jock jump and duck into the nearest doorway. He'd only come across one of the invaders so far, who'd proved to have a rather hard head, even when Jock turned his gun round and hit him with the handle. But although his torch had broken in the encounter, it had been nearly silent and the man was now safely locked in one of the hundreds of empty rooms while Jock continued his quiet prowl from floor to floor, occasionally dabbing at his nose where the black-clad man had got in a lucky punch.

After a few minutes of huddling in the darker doorway, Jock decided no one was coming in his direction, and he risked moving towards the stairs. He could hear movement from below him, at the bottom of the main staircase, and he dropped to his knees, crawling closer to peer between the banisters. It was hard to make out the shapes in the darkness until someone helpfully turned on a bright flashlight, half-blinding him. When his eyes cleared, he blinked down into the main hall, seeing a cluster of men, all dressed in black, hefting two unconscious bodies between them. It didn't take a genius to work out what had happened, and for a horrible moment, Jock couldn't move. Two shots, two limp bodies. His heart pounded in his chest and his mind went blank, fixated on the image of his friends being carried away.

Then one of the bodies stirred, moaning a little as he was dragged towards the cellar door, and Jock's breath came back all in a rush, so that he almost fell against the banisters as his arms went weak with relief. Jack would be fine, of course, and Hugh was still alive. For now. Of course, the shots could just have been disabling, or they could have been warnings, or they could have been fired by Jack or Hugh in self-defence.

Forcing himself to stop, Jock sat back from the banisters, trying to get his brain to work again. Running through endless permutations wouldn't get him anywhere. He needed to think and he needed to act. He was on his own, left to deal with a group of hostile unknowns with who knew what intentions and what firepower. And he had – he checked his gun – six bullets with which to do it. Great. Thank you, gentlemen. He cursed his friends silently as he began to move, because right now, he really wasn't in a mood to be reasonable. He needed to either hole up somewhere and wait it out, or he needed to take out as many of the enemy as he could and find out who was behind all of this. If he'd been on his own, he probably would have chosen the former, but the shots were echoing his memory, too loudly for him ignore. Given his hit rate so far, it wasn't going to be enough to just hope he stumbled across them. Time to go hunting.

The rain was still lashing at the windows as Jock crept down the servants' staircase to the kitchen, and the door to the yard was rattling on its hinges so badly that he didn't worry too much about the noises he was making. There was no key anywhere in sight, so he waited for a moment, until a loud gust of wind came whistling along the back of the house, then he put his should to the door and shoved, feeling something start to give. He waited for another gust, blinking against a flash of lightning and taking advantage of the rolling thunder to step back and kick hard at the lock. It gave way, with a splintering crack that Jock thought could probably have been heard in Glasgow. He'd worry about that later. Lifting one hand to protect his eyes from the driving rain, he stepped out into the night.

As expected, there was a large van parked in the courtyard, blocking Jock's view of the car. He peered cautiously round the corner of the building, trying to see how many men were standing guard. One was sheltering in the cab, while another was lurking near the main gate. He would have been invisible in the darkness, except the cigarette he was smoking glowed red, a bright light in the darkness.

Careless. Jock's Major would have had his guts for garters if he'd done that during his service. He watched as the fire sparked then dimmed again, then moved slowly out of sight. There was no way to be sure, but Jock suspected it meant the guard had turned his back. Only one way to find out.

Someone up there must have liked him, because just as he went to move, a bright flash of lightening filled the sky. Jock was running before his eyes had readjusted, trusting his memory and sense of direction to run towards the van. As he'd hoped, the driver was still blinking, trying to get rid of the afterimages when Jock pulled the van door open and dragged him out by his collar. Jock jumped aside as he fell, barely hesitating before kicking the man in the stomach then hitting over the head with his gun. It hadn't been a silent action, but it was near enough and Jock didn't hear any warning cries as he ran towards the archway, trying not to fall in the deepening quagmire of the yard. The sentry opened his mouth to shout, shutting it quickly as he looked down the barrel of Jock's gun.

They were out of the worst of the storm, although the wind was blowing the rain almost horizontally under here. Jock shivered, feeling the water seep through his jacket and trousers. He was in no mood for games.

"Who do you work for?" he asked, half-yelling to be heard over the gale. His prisoner carried on staring at the gun, face blank and mouth tightly shut. Jock tried again. "What do you want?" There wasn't even a flicker in the man's eyes. Stepping back a little, Jock took a deep breath and forced himself to think. He'd seen three men so far, all wearing the black outfits that he'd assumed were a uniform of some kind. But hired thugs didn't usually come with uniforms, and they certainly did a better job of watching their backs. The man in front of him had his hood pushed back, raindrops rolling over his head which was recently shaved. In the next flash of lightening, Jock saw that the hood was attached to a long coat, almost like a cloak, and the clothes underneath were simple black cotton as well. Combined with the almost serene look in the man's eyes, Jock was starting to get a bad feeling about this.

He must have looked distracted, because his captive suddenly lunged towards him, moving faster than Jock had expected and slamming him back into the other side of the archway. Cold fingers closed over his on the gun, while the others tried to clutch at his throat. Jock took half a second to brace himself against the wet stonework, then he shoved back, getting his free hand to his attacker's face.

It wasn't how he'd been taught to fight. That was all fisticuffs and weapons and sporting chances and fighting fair. And he'd believed in it, right up to the moment that his first platoon had been decimated by sniper fire in France. There, he'd learned that you did what was necessary to keep yourself and your men alive. Then Jack Harkness had arrived on his doorstep, and Jock had learned how to do those necessary things without flinching. So he didn't hesitate to stick his thumb into the other man's eye.

Even over the rain, he heard the horrible, wet sound and felt the stickiness of blood and worse on his hand. The man howled in pain, lifting his face to the sky and screaming, without taking his hand from Jock's throat or the gun. This was not good. Pulling his hand back, Jock aimed a punch at the side of the man's face, hoping to hit some of the damage he'd caused and shock him into letting go. The fingers on his skin hesitated, but were back a second later, trying to close on Jock's windpipe.

Desperate now, Jock shifted his attention to his other hand, locked tight in his attacker's along with his gun. Moving slowly, and gasping for air, he turned his wrist, trying to get leverage to pull free of the wall, if not the grip. For a moment, he thought the other man was going to be too strong for him, and he tried to lean away from the hand that was closing on his throat. Then he felt something give, found that his hand could move, and he didn't hesitate. With as much strength as he could muster, he brought the gun round, waiting until it connected with the other man's ribs. Then he pulled the trigger.

The noise was awful, echoing in the enclosed space as the smoke drifted upwards, catching in Jock's nose and throat. In front of him, his attacker convulsed for a moment, then slowly fell to the ground, his hand still twitching as though trying to grip Jock's hand or throat. There was no way to tell if the injury would be fatal in the long run, and Jock didn't have the stomach to finish the job off.

Turning back to the yard, he ran as best he could, not stopping until he reached the back door again. He paused for a moment to hold his hand under the stream from an over-flowing gutter, rinsing the traces of blood from it before he went back inside. Every part of his suit was dripping, and he wiped his gun on the tails of his shirt, which were moderately drier than the rest of his clothes. Tucking them back in, he headed into the main house, wincing as his shoes squeaked on the floorboards.

With the storm raging outside, it was doubtful that anyone had heard the shot, and Jock stopped in a patch of moonlight to glance at his watch. Less than an hour had passed since Jack had woken him up. It felt like longer. He was hesitating, wondering whether it would make more sense to try to find Jack and Hugh, or if he'd be better off trying to take out more of the intruders first, when he heard footsteps ahead of him.

Walking very slowly and carefully, he crept towards the door into the hall, timing his steps to match the ones he could hear coming down the stairs. The door was half-open, but he didn't dare try to see out, not wanting to risk being seen in turn. He stepped into one of the deeper shadows, hoping he wasn't breathing too loud, and tried to listen.

"...later." The voice was low and barely audible, and Jock shifted closer, praying that the floorboards wouldn't creak under him.

"He was hurt pretty badly," another voice replied. "Should we check on them?"

"Only to see that they're still down there," the first speaker said. "We don't have time to play doctors and nurses."

"Of course, I only meant-"

"There's too much at stake for us to get distracted now. Afterwards, we'll find out what they know, if they survive, and dispose of them. For now, just keep an eye on them. We can't afford to be distracted tonight." The speaker paused, drawing in a deep breath. "It is time."

"It is time."

Jock heard the front door open, and ducked back against the wall as a gust of wind caught the door he was hiding behind, blowing it open. He needed to move fast. There was a slim possibility that they'd think the injured men were Jack or Hugh's handiwork, but it wasn't a risk he was prepared to take. 'Still down there' the first speaker, who'd seemed to be in charge, had said.

Turning, Jock pushed at the cellar door behind him, taking out his gun when it opened under his touch. It didn't sound like they'd posted a sentry, and the staircase appeared to be empty as it descended into the darkness. He closed the door behind him, keeping one hand on the wall as he carefully made his way down the steps, trying not to stumble in the pitch black. There was another door at the bottom, he remembered, and this time he had to fumble around for the door handle, cursing when he found it locked. Which was to be expected, of course.

What he hadn't expected was to find the key in the lock. Careless. But then the invaders thought they were now alone in the house, and were probably acting accordingly. Jock really, really hoped they kept making mistakes like that. Turning the key, he opened the door a fraction, still not entirely sure what he was going to find on the inside.

It seemed to be his night for surprises. As he pushed the door further open, someone threw themselves against it from the other side, nearly knocking him over and sending his gun flying. He ducked instinctively, so that the blow aimed for his head brushed over his hair.

"Major Goody?" Just inside the doorway, Hugh was holding what looked like a lump of rotten wood, brandishing it like a sword. His face was a mixture of embarrassment and concern as he helped Jock up again, brushing a handful of dust from the front of his suit. "Sorry about that, sir."

"Understandable under the circumstances, Jones." Jock retrieved his gun, checking it before looking back to Hugh. "You alright?"

"Fine, thank you, sir."

"And Jack?" The blank mask that came down over Hugh's face told Jock all he needed to know. "Where is he?"

The cellar was actually lighter than the main house, thanks to a cracked oil lamp that was barely glowing, its flame flickering and sputtering from time to time. It didn't seem to be doing much except casting strange shadows on the walls and over Hugh's face as he led the way to the far side of the room, where Jack was lying. It was hard to be sure of anything in this kind of light, but Jock thought Jack looked pale, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips parted, obviously struggling to breathe. As he came closer, Jock could hear a strained, wet noise every time Jack's chest rose and fell. He knew that sound.

"I can't be sure, but I think he's bleeding internally. The bullet hit him in the back somewhere, and there's blood in his lungs," Hugh said unnecessarily, kneeling down and checking what looked like a rough dressing on Jack's hip. "He keeps coughing it up. The second didn't do too much damage, but it didn't need to."

"It's a miracle he's still breathing," Jock said, crouching on Jack's other side. As he did so, Jack stirred a little, opening his eyes just a fraction. Hugh was there at once, taking Jack's hand in his and speaking in a low, reassuring voice.

"It's alright. Major Goody's here. Don't try to move."

"Jock?" Jack blinked a few times, looking round in the darkness. "Nice work. When are we getting out of here?" He coughed a little, his face contorting into a grimace as he did so. "Damn, that hurts."

"I think Hugh and I will have to handle this one," Jock said softly, putting a hand on Jack's shoulder.

"Like hell." Turning his head a fraction, Jack looked at Hugh, holding his gaze for a long moment. "Let me help."

Jock frowned, shifting his attention from Jack to Hugh, who had turned his face away to stare at the floor.

"We've had this conversation already," he said, so quietly that Jock nearly didn't hear the words over the sound of the storm outside.

"And I was right last time, too." Jack coughed again, stopping to catch his breath and Jock saw red spots on his lips. "Hugh."

Feeling like the gooseberry at a school dance, Jock looked from one man to the other. "Is someone going to explain to me what's going on?"

Since Hugh still had his eyes fixed on the ground, Jack swallowed with obvious effort and said, "I can heal completely, but not like this. Not while I'm alive."

The emphasis on the last word made Jock blink, realisation dawning. Carefully, he sat back on the cold, dirty floor and blew out a long breath. "You're asking a lot."

"He always does." As Hugh turned back towards them, the cellar was lit by a flash of lightening, and Jock bit the inside of his mouth, trying not to say anything. He was used to Hugh Jones, head of Torchwood Three, quiet, efficient and always professionally blank. The look of sheer, raw pain on the man's face made Jock want to look away quickly, pretend he hadn't seen it.

And the worst of it was, Jock was fairly sure he agreed with Jack. Drowning in your own blood was a horrible way to die.

"We can't use the gun," he said softly, although Hugh started at the sound of his voice. "Not inside the house like this. It's bound to attract someone's attention."

Jack nodded slightly, still not taking his eyes from Hugh. Getting back to his knees, Jock forced himself to stay quiet. He didn't want to offer his own services, not only because he'd already tried to kill a man with his bare hands once tonight and really, really didn't want to have another go. There was something passing between Jack and Hugh, a conversation that he wasn't a part of and stood no chance of understanding. He looked away, staring up at the small window set high in the wall, watching the raindrops run down it and bracing himself for the next clap of thunder.

He didn't jump when it came, listening to the noise roll over the house and shake the window panes again. It was the cold hand against his that startled him, and he looked down into Jack's strained face.

"You still with us?"

"Are you?" Jock's voice sounded odd in his own ears, too hoarse and clipped.

"Jock." The word wasn't much more than a whisper, Jack's eyes saying more than his voice. Jock had seen that look too many times not to recognise it, the strange peace of a dying man.

Gripping the hand that had touched his, Jock cleared his throat. "I'll check we're not about to be disturbed."

He tried not to stagger as he got to his feet, brushing some of the dirt from his knees and not looking back as he made his way over to the door. All he actually succeeded in doing was making his hands even dirtier, the dust clinging to damp cloth, then to his palms as he tried to get them clean. Undoing his suit jacket, he wiped his hands on his shirt, bringing them away cleaner than they had been, if not exactly dirt-free.

Through all his fussing, he made sure he kept his back to the far corner of the room, not sure whether he was granting privacy or sparing himself. He took his gun out and carefully wiped the last of the water from it, not sure whether to put it away or hold onto it for now. They weren't going to remain undiscovered forever, but he didn't want to use it inside unless he had to. It was going to be hard enough to stay undiscovered just walking around. Firing guns all over the place was only going to make things worse.

A sound made him turn, eyes drawn to the gently lit corner, where Hugh was crouched over Jack. At first, Jock wasn't sure what had caught his attention, then he heard it again and realised it was Jack, speaking in a low, broken voice. Hugh was shaking his head, bowing low as Jack reached up a hand to grip the back of his neck. The strange tableau was suddenly lit by the storm, and in the glare of light, Hugh looked like he was asking for Jack's blessing, or maybe just praying for mercy. He lifted his head again, and his face gleamed wetly in the next flash of lightening. Then the room was darker again, and Jock had to blink to try to clear his eyes from the afterimage.

He could have looked away, of course. That had been the point of coming over here, to give them the privacy they needed. He should have looked away.

And he couldn't.

As he watched, Hugh pulled his jacket off, folding it carefully, while Jack closed his eyes again, tipping his head back a little, only the slow rise and fall of his chest an indication that he was still alive. Very slowly, Hugh reached out and put a hand on Jack's exposed throat, wrapping his fingers round to the side. Jock really, really wished he didn't understand, hadn't sat through lectures on the ways to kill someone if you were unarmed, on the position of arteries and veins, on how much pressure was needed to cut the blood supply to the brain. Not a lot, but enough, and even in the dim lamplight, Jock could see Hugh's fingers digging into the side of Jack's neck.

Jock was half-holding his breath himself when Hugh picked up his folded jacket and put it over Jack's face, pressing down with his hand. A brief shudder ran through Jack's body, although he had to be unconscious by now. The movement must have been a reflex, pure reaction to the sudden lack of oxygen. Hugh had his back to Jock now, but Jock could see the force he was using to push the cloth against Jack's face, the grip that his hand still held on Jack's throat, the tightness in his shoulders and back as he hunched over, seeing it through to the end.

Unable to watch anymore, Jock turned away, fighting to get himself under control. Hugh was doing the job that he didn't have the stomach for, however right it was. It was impossible to get used to the idea that Jack was always going to come back to life, that the cold, limp body was going to be warm and alive again. He put a hand against the wall, steadying himself and trying to listen. All he could hear was the rain driving against the walls and windows, the wind howling around the towers and turrets of the house. There was no sound at all from the corner of the cellar.

He waited for what felt like an eternity, digging his fingers into the rough brickwork that crumbled under his touch. Eventually, he couldn't stand it any longer, and he turned to see what was happening. Hugh was still kneeling by Jack's body, his jacket on the floor beside him. He was holding one of Jack's hands in his, keeping his head bowed and body bent as though in prayer. As before, Jock knew he was the intruder here, into something that ran deeper than the casual affection he'd always known about. Jack had trusted Hugh to do this, asked him, knowing he would say yes.

Jock couldn't begin to understand what that meant, couldn't grasp the kind of bond that could survive under this much strain. What he did understand was Hugh's closed eyes, and the way he kept running his thumb over the back of Jack's hand, as though trying to warm it again. Slowly, he crossed the room, lowering himself to the floor on Jack's other side as before and looking down at the now peaceful face.

"Sorry." The word wasn't much more than a whisper, but Jock looked up sharply, surprised to find that Hugh had opened his eyes and was looking at him. Hugh's face was dry now, his eyes wide and dark as he met Jock's puzzled look. "It's always hard."

"You're apologising to me?" Shaking his head, Jock tried not to laugh, because he had a feeling it would come out more hysterically than he intended. "Jones. Hugh, I can't-" He broke off, still shaking his head. "He trusts you."

"And now we have to trust him." Hugh shifted his gaze to Jack's face, still not letting go of the pale hand in his. "I hate the waiting."

"How long, do you think?"

"Anywhere from a few minutes to an hour. It's not an exact science."

They sat in silence, and Jock could feel the cold seeping into his skin through his wet clothes. He ached, bone deep and weary from too little sleep and the down from the adrenaline high. When his head dropped to his chest for the third time, he roused himself and looked over at Hugh, who hadn't moved.

"Has this happened before?"

It wasn't quite what he'd meant to ask, but Hugh seemed to pick up the meaning behind it. He shook his head. "He asked, but I couldn't. Not then."

"I don't blame you."

"He said I had to trust him, that he'd be alright. He promised me that he'd be alright." Hugh's voice was low and steady, but the hand that wasn't holding Jack's shook a little.

"He will." Jock said it as firmly as he could, not letting himself doubt it. "We've seen him come back from worse than this."

Hugh said nothing. After another minute or so, Jock stirred himself again, getting to his feet and stretching his stiff shoulders. "We can't stay down here forever. Sooner or later they're going to figure out there are more of us, or someone's going to come check on you. I take it your plan had only got as far as rushing whoever came in through the door?"

With his usual deadly seriousness, Hugh said, "I had a piece of wood to hit them with, sir."

This time, Jock let himself laugh. "I'm sure that would have done the trick, Jones. But let's see if we can get out of here before that's necessary, shall we?"

"Do you have a plan, sir?"

"More or less." Jock thought for a moment. "We have no idea what's going on here, except that it's a lot bigger than we thought. I suggest we get to the car and get out of here, come back with reinforcements another time."

"What about the storm, sir? It's going to be pretty bad driving."

"It's going to be pretty bad here," Jock pointed out. "Better to take our chances with the moors."

Hugh didn't look convinced. "We don't know the roads, and the car wasn't meant for this kind of thing."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Apart from waiting it out? There's a lot of rooms in this place, sir. It'd take them a long time to find us."

It was tempting. Jock hated the idea of just turning and running, but he wasn't sure what good they could do by lurking round the house, with one gun against that gang. They were getting exactly nowhere like this. He was trying to think, tapping one hand against the wall, when Jack took a huge, gasping breath.

Hugh, who hadn't let go of Jack's hand at all, jumped violently, leaning forwards and helping Jack to sit up, shifting so that he could support him from behind. Jack coughed for a moment, struggling to breathe, then he tipped his head back, eyes closed. He was pale, with the lamplight highlighting the bright colour on his cheeks, emphasising the hollows and planes of his face and throat. Still, looking near-death was probably step up from actually being dead.

Coughing a few more times, Jack shook his head weakly.

"I really hate that."

"Hello to you too," Jock said, waiting for Jack to lift his head and look at him before chancing a half-smile. "Good to have you back."

"Good to be back." Jack rolled his shoulders a little, managing to lift his head, but not much more than that. "What's happening?"

"You were only gone a few minutes," Hugh said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, as though he didn't have both arms wrapped around Jack's chest, and his voice wasn't muffled where his chin was pressed to Jack's shoulder. "The Major thinks we should leave."

Glaring at Hugh, Jock turned his attention back to Jack. "I don't see what we can do here."

As Jack started to struggle to his feet, Jock held out a hand, helping him up. He still seemed a little unsteady, and he didn't resist as Hugh came round and pulled an arm over his shoulder, supporting him on the other side.

"Jock, it's Sarah Harding." Jack's voice was still rough, and he tried to clear his throat before speaking again. "Sarah Harding is running this show."

Jock stared dumbly at Jack for a long moment. "What?" he said at last. "I don't understand. I thought she was in London."

"Obviously not. I'm alright, Hugh." Untangling himself from Hugh, but keeping one hand on his shoulder, Jack just about managed to stand on his own, turning to face Jock. "There's something bigger going on here, you know that. We can't just walk away."

"I was planning on driving." Still, Jock knew he was outvoted. "Fine." He threw his hands up. "What do you suggest?"

Jack opened his mouth to speak, stopping as a sound rose above even the noise of the storm. The howl cut through the wind and the rain, making the hairs rise on the back of Jock's neck and his fingers clench around his gun.

"What was that?" he asked, seeing his own shock mirrored on Jack and Hugh's faces. Both of them shook their heads, and they stood in silence for another moment, listening to the weather batter at the house. Jock was just starting to think that he'd imagined it, that it had just been the wind gusting harder or catching in the guttering, when the howl came again, echoing in Jock's mind and triggering every instinct he had. He wanted to run, find somewhere to hide, anywhere to get away from the creature that could make a noise like that.

Once it had died away again, Jack shook his head. "You know, I hate to say this."

"Then don't." Hugh ran a hand through his hair, giving Jack an annoyed glance.

"Say what?"

Pausing for what Jock was fairly sure was dramatic effect, Jack drew in a long breath. "It's a full moon tonight."

It took Jock a moment to catch on. Then he gave a nervous laugh. "You're not serious?"

"What? You've seen ghosts, shapeshifters, flying saucers," Jack waved his hands expressively. "Yetis! And this is a step too far?"

"Well, of course, but-" He didn't even want to say the word, which was ridiculous. But that howl had bypassed his rational mind and gone straight for the primitive part, stirring up fears that he hadn't even known he'd had. Telling himself he was being absurd, Jock looked Jack in the eye and said, "You're talking about werewolves."

"Why not?"

"Because they're just a myth."

"Like vampires."

"Yes, like- Hang on. You're saying vampires exist?"

"The ULTIMA affair," Hugh said softly. "The bodies were drained of blood."

Jock had forgotten that, and he hadn't particularly wanted to be reminded. "Still. There was a perfectly rational explanation for how those people were transformed."

"And I'm sure there'll be one for this." Jack was moving now, heading for the door. To Jock's eye, he still looked to be staggering a little, but Jock also knew that there was no arguing with him when he was like this. "But right now, I'm more concerned with finding out what the hell werewolves are doing in a Scottish castle."

"You'd prefer them in London?" Hugh grumbled as he and Jock trailed after Jack. He had, Jock noticed, left his jacket behind.

Their luck was never going to hold forever, but Jock had hoped it would last further than the top of the stairs. Fortunately, Jack was apparently feeling a lot better, because he met the man with an elbow to the face, knocking him to the ground before he could cry out.

"Looks like we got ourselves a prisoner," Jack said, with a gleam in his eye that made Jock distinctly uncomfortable. "And put that thing away," he added, nodding to Jock's gun. "The last thing we need is to start firing shots all over the place."

Jock's jacket was sodden and out of shape, and the weight of the gun nearly pulled it from his shoulders. Swearing, Jock went to tuck it into his belt, only to find that he hadn't put it back on after taking it off to sleep. Hugh came to his rescue, lifting the gun out of his hands and shoving it through his own belt before going to help Jack. Together, they dragged the unconscious man along to the dining room, while Jock brought up the rear, glancing over his shoulder from time to time. There didn't seem to be anyone down there, just like when he'd been prowling around earlier on. It had been useful then, but now it was starting to bother him. Because if no one was around in the main house, where were they all?

Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he followed the others into the dining room, and shut the door firmly behind him. Hugh was lighting one of the storm lamps again, while Jack tied their prisoner to a chair with one of the curtain ties.

"What are you going to do?" Jock asked, getting a shrug in reply.

"Ask him some questions." The tone was more or less what Jack sounded like when he was trying to sound innocent. Jock had yet to find it convincing.

"The ones I encountered earlier showed a distinct disinclination to be helpful."

"Maybe you just didn't ask the right questions. Or maybe you didn't ask them in the right way."

"You think you can persuade him?"

Jack shot him a dark look. "If you're going to start complaining at this point, you can go hunt down the werewolf yourself."

"You're still convinced it's a werewolf."

"Unless you have any better ideas."

Letting that go for the moment, Jock folded his arms. "Assuming it is, what do you plan to do?"

"Find the werewolf. Kill the werewolf."

"Up to your usual subtlety, then."

"What do you suggest?" Jack tied off the last knot, standing and mirroring Jock's posture, arms wrapped round his chest and chin lifted.

"Do you even know how to kill a werewolf?"

"I thought you didn't believe in werewolves."

"Jack." From the other end of the room, Hugh gave them both warning looks. "The Major's got a point. And I don't think his gun is loaded with silver bullets."

Jack deflated a little, looking away from Jock and unfolding his arms to rub at the back of his neck. When he looked back, some of the fierce energy was gone from his expression. "Sorry."

"It's that damn howl." Jock winced as the high, piercing call echoed through the house again. "It's got us all on edge."

Sparing a glance for Hugh, who seemed to back to his normal, placid self, Jack smiled ruefully. "Something like that. Look, I'll admit it's a fair point, but exactly what do you suggest we do instead?"

"Intelligence gathering." Relaxing a little himself, Jock frowned, thinking. "I haven't heard anyone except our friend here moving around the house, and he was probably coming to check on us. The only place we haven't been is the observatory tower, right at the far end of the North Wing. That must be where they are."

"Probably got a better view of the moon there," Jack said, leaning on the table in front of him. "What I don't get is why. Why is she doing this?"

"You're sure it was Sarah Harding?" It was hard to imagine the good looking young woman Jock remembered being mixed up in something like this. Even if she hadn't pulled the trigger herself, she'd let her men shoot Jack, and she'd been willing to let him die to further their cause, whatever that was. The conversation he'd heard in the hallway earlier echoed in his head, and he shivered as the next howl tore through the night. He hadn't known it was her at the time, but he'd heard the low intensity of her voice, the dedication that he associated with fanatics and madmen. Sarah Harding didn't fit well into that picture at all.

He repeated the conversation to the others, and Jack nodded. "If they miss tonight, they won't get another chance for a while. Which means we need to stop them now, before they disappear back to wherever they came from."

"We are the children of the stars. We are the sons of the moon. We are the offspring of the dark. We walk in the light of the night."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "I think our friend has woken up." Turning, he went over to the bound man, crouching in front of him.

"We are the sons of the moon. We are the offspring of the dark. We walk-"

"Yeah, we got that bit." Jack shifted closer, peering up into the man's face. "What's your name?"

"I am a son of the moon."

Glancing at Hugh, Jock got a minute shake of the head in reply. At least he wasn't the only one in the dark here.

"What do you want?" As Jock watched, Jack got back to his feet, walking slowly away from the man as he spoke. "Tell me what you want and we won't hurt you."

"I am the offspring of the dark. You cannot harm me."

"Really?" Jack opened the sideboard, running his eyes over the contents, and Jock was about to step in, to say something and stop this, when a hand gripped his arm.

"Not yet," Hugh whispered, nodding to Jack, who was lifting something from the sideboard, hiding it in his hand as he turned back to his prisoner.

"If you tell me what I want to know, I won't hurt you."

"I walk in the light of night. I do not fear you."

"Maybe not." Jack grinned, slowly closing the distance between them. "But I think you fear this." He pressed his hand to the side of the man's face.

The man screamed. It was a terrible sound, quickly muffled by Jack's hand over his mouth, but Jock still glanced nervously towards the door. When he looked back towards the seated man, he swore under his breath. There was a long, angry red streak along the man's face, just visible under Jack's fingers. Jack was holding something gleaming in his other hand, which he dropped, quickly bringing his hands together and slamming them into the back of the screaming man's neck. The cry cut off abruptly.

"What the hell was that?" Swallowing hard, Jock came round the table to get a better look.

"I don't know what she's done, but if the whole werewolf thing doesn't work, it looks like Sarah could have a good career as a microbiologist." Jack straightened up, passing Jock the object he'd dropped. It was a thin silver knife. When Jock just returned it with a puzzled look, Jack sighed. "He's part wolf already, somehow. I'm assuming it's an infection of some kind, sort of makes him allergic to the silver."

"Can we get it out of him?" Hugh asked.

"Who knows." Lifting the man's head by his hair, Jack looked at the red mark. "It's pretty bad, I'd say. But what I want to know is how come he's not actually a werewolf?"

"He was not worthy enough."

Jock spun on his heel, cursing himself for stopping paying attention to the door. Behind him, Sarah Harding was watching them all with a thin, cruel smile. "You seem to have made a remarkable recovery, Jack. I'm impressed. Perhaps you will be worthy after all."

"To be turned into a monster?" Jack's voice was low and steady, almost calm. If you didn't know him.

One of the men standing with Sarah stirred, hands twisting round the stick he was holding, and she shook her head to stop him. "It's alright. They just don't understand."

"Then explain it to us. Sarah." Jock risked a step forwards, trying to see a trace of the woman he remembered. He'd only met her a few times, but right now, he'd take every chance he could get. "What are you doing?"

She considered him for a long moment, in which Jock felt uncomfortably like the prey in front of the hunter, then she said, "I can do much better than that, I can show you." She reached up to her throat, unfastening the cloak and its long hood. Then she gave them all a long, appraising look before sweeping out of the room, saying over her shoulder, "Bring them."

Jock hesitated as the men closed in, not sure whether they were going to try to fight their way out. The odds were nearly three to one against, but he didn't like the idea of just going quietly. Behind him, he heard Jack sigh, then something drop to the carpet. Glancing over his shoulder, Jock saw that Jack was holding up his hands, now empty of the silver knife, and was letting the men grab him and twist his arms behind his back. Hugh was being relieved of the gun, and when two of the others came towards Jock, he let them pull him towards the door.

"I don't know," Jack said, as they were dragged into the hallway and up the stairs. His voice was oddly conversational, and Jock tried to find that comforting. "People only ever want me for my body."

Go to part three