Spectr 2, Tome 1 : Mocker of Ravens

John Starkweather was not having a good night.

“Stop! Federal agent!” he bellowed. Not surprisingly, the figure currently fleeing arrest didn’t obey.

Thunder grumbled off to the west, barely loud enough for human hearing to register. The oppressive heat of the July night had him perspiring even before the chase began. Now his suit stuck to his skin, and sweat ran into his eyes, stinging them with salt.

He blinked rapidly, not daring to look away in case he lost the suspect. A series of brutal murders had ripped through the homeless population, and the mauled flesh and half-eaten bodies showed all the earmarks of late-stage lycanthropes. The guy running from John might or might not be one of those responsible, but his yellow eyes, snarling mouth, and superhuman speed suggested his innocence wasn’t very likely.

On a straightaway, John would have had no chance of keeping up. Fortunately, they ran through a residential district on Charleston’s lower east side, not far from the waterfront. Houses loomed close against either side of the narrow street. The wildly uneven bricks making up the sidewalk would have been hazardous even without the frequent steel utility been hazardous even without the frequent steel utility accesses jutting up through them.

Forget about keeping up—John would be lucky not to break his leg.

The suspect scrambled over a narrow iron gate between two of the old houses. Without pause, John clambered over after him, the gate’s decorative swirls offering plenty of handholds. He dropped to the ground on the other side and found himself in a driveway barely wide enough for a single car. His shoes sent echoes up from the mix of bricks and pavers making up the driveway. Did the lycanthrope live here? Or had he just hoped the gate would keep John out?

Either way, the suspect had made a mistake. The driveway opened out into a tiny courtyard, surrounded on all sides by thick green hedges, which abutted the wooden siding of the houses. The smell of green growing things and damp earth flooded the small space. Gas lanterns, installed throughout Charleston’s historic district, illuminated the little courtyard. A window unit air conditioner hummed to life overhead, water dripping from it into one of the hedges.

The runner stood waiting for John. The soft light of the gas lanterns revealed the acne-pocked face and scraggly moustache of a teenager.

A teenager whose eyes were a terrible, baleful yellow, and whose mouth turned up into a grin showing off inhumanly sharp teeth.

There came a scuff of claws on ancient brick from behind John. He spun, heart hammering. Two shapes made their way up the driveway behind him. Unlike the first suspect, these had made the full transition to werewolves: their bodies covered in matted fur, their lips straining around jaws filled with oversized teeth, their bestial eyes wild with the need to kill, to rend, to devour.

“You Specs think you’re so smart,” the teen sneered. “But you ran right into our trap.”

John shook his head. “No. You ran into ours.”

A dark shape dropped a heart-stopping three stories from a nearby roof. Boots thudded on the old brick paving just a few feet behind the two lycanthropes.