But Turco had also lunged at the attacking beast and intercepted the muscular body in mid-air. They both crashed into Giovanni and the three went down in a tangle of arms, claws, and fangs.
Giovanni dropped the Beretta and tried to wrestle the wolf with his bare hands, while Turco attempted to bring his magical blade to bear and still avoid the slashing teeth and claws. The wolf was damnably quick, out-maneuvering both men and making the three a blur that the giant Manfredo could do nothing about.
Giovanni kept the jaws away from his throat by pushing the red-eyed head away. Turco struggled with the sheathed dagger. If the Jesuit had been right, then the wood scabbard was shielding the wolf from the silver blade. Giovanni tried to shift the balance of the three squirming bodies to give Turco a chance to draw the blade.
But the wolf seemed to predict each attempt. Giovanni could either avoid the snapping jaws or help Turco. And the wolf knew it. He could read the monster’s intelligence in its demon eyes, which were neither animal nor human.
Turco grunted when the wolf clawed his face, but his grunt turned to a tortured scream — his cheek had been torn open and his jaw dislocated. Still barely managing to deflect the beast’s fangs, Giovanni realized with horror that the monster’s swipe had ripped Turco’s left eye from its socket and it hung from its optic nerve leaving behind a black hole in which he swore he could glimpse hell itself.
“Shoot him!” he shouted at Manfredo, who was frozen in place with his pistol extended, trying to draw a bead on the monster without striking either human. “Damn you, shoot him!”
Turco opened his mouth and screamed incoherently as the wolf suddenly gained the advantage and its snapping jaws tore the partisan’s clothing to shreds and dug savagely into his belly.
Giovanni felt the gush of hot blood and intestines wash over his chest and pried himself out from under the dying partisan and the savage monster. As he rolled out from under the two, it was clear Turco was dead.
“Bastard, shoot him now!”
Manfredo snapped out of his trance and placed the pistol mere centimeters from the back of the wolf’s head. The crash of the gunshot deafened Giovanni. Manfredo fired again and again, hot brass splattering from the breech. The slugs tore through the wolf’s skull and exploded through Turco’s head.
The wolf snarled and turned its blood-spattered muzzle toward Manfredo. It lunged and clamped its jaws on his gun-hand. Manfredo screamed as the wolf shook its head and tossed the severed hand and the pistol into the darkness.
Manfredo scrambled away, trying uselessly to stem the bleeding from the jagged stump. But before he could get clear, the wolf leaped off Turco’s body and its jaws closed on the giant’s unprotected groin. The demonic monster began shaking the shrieking partisan violently, blood gushing into its mouth and scattering like scarlet raindrops.
Operating now on instinct tinged with fear and rage, Giovanni scooped the dagger from the ground near Turco’s body and slid it out of its wooden sheath.
In the darkness, the blade seemed to glow with a moonlit sheen.
He drew the wolf’s attention from Manfredo, but before pulling away, the beast ripped into the wounded giant’s groin once more. Giovanni knew enough anatomy to figure the jetting blood meant an artery has been torn.
Manfredo would bleed out if Giovanni didn’t kill the wolf.
6
The monstrous wolf’s eyes burned with supernatural intelligence.
What did Giovanni have?
A damned dagger from the Vatican and a drunken Jesuit’s crazy story…
And a mission: he had a son to find.
The wolf advanced, snarling. Its bloody muzzle seemed to smile as Giovanni backed up slowly. Before he could refine his plan the monster was in the air.
Giovanni had feinted left and sold it well enough that the wolf went for him. While the wolf was committed to its attack, Giovanni sidestepped to the right. At the last second, while their bodies were in brushing contact, he brought the silver blade up and jabbed it deep into the monster’s side before sawing with heart-clenching fury.
The wolf shrieked in pain; an unholy sound that hurt Giovanni’s ears.
The blade furrowed the beast’s fur and skin with ease, parting its flesh as if he were made of dough.
The stench of burning flesh and fur rose in a plume of disgusting smoke.
The wolf fell in a heap and flipped, attempting to lick his blackening wound closed, but its side was split and its organs and intestines were spilling out in a bloody jumble. The smoke continued to pour from the widening gash as if its innards had caught fire.
Holy fire?
Could it be true?
Pressing his advantage, Giovanni plunged the blade through the beast’s right eye, into its brain. It died as soon as he slid the blade out, collapsing in a heap that now appeared to be burning from the inside out.
Body quivering, the wolf seemed to blur and Giovanni fell back and watched in wonder as it changed from animal to human and back again until it finally took the form of a naked man.
Gasping and wheezing, Giovanni stumbled as he tried to get farther away from the horror.
He checked Manfredo, but the partisan had died in a pool of his own blood. He stood for a moment, crying dry tears for the two heroic partisans who had given their lives to help him find his son, then he did as they had done with others’ bodies.
Giovanni found the scabbard he had dropped and bent to retrieve it.
He gasped. Suddenly his right upper chest felt as if it had been split open and he straightened and bent over again so quickly he almost fainted. Slowly, he patted his destroyed blood-drenched clothing and realized that some of the blood had to be his own. He scrabbled through the ruined shirt and hissed in pain as he found the source, a series of deep gashes and a ragged wound.
Gesu’ e Maria, he mumbled, I’m wounded.
Fangs or claws?
Did it matter?
His skin was bruised and rippled around the wounds, the flesh beneath blackening into a series of plum-colored circles. The bleeding appeared to have stopped — a blackened crust of blood was already hardening around each laceration.
He hastily rearranged the torn clothing to cover the hideous wound, hissing at the excruciating pain he felt as the fabric dragged across his flayed skin.
Gently he bent again, wincing, and retrieved the scabbard. Then he sheathed the dagger.
Did it hum in his grip?
He gathered his wits, found his bearings, and realized he was only a couple buildings away from his own. He retrieved the Beretta submachine gun and slung it painfully over his shoulder. One of his comrades’ pistols went into a pocket. The dagger remained in his hand, comforting.
Hunched over in pain, and fearful of being spotted by another German patrol, he hugged the shadows and found his way home.
The building seemed unfamiliar and he had to check the address plate twice to make sure he had indeed reached his own home. His family’s airy apartment was one of four located on the fifth floor. The lights in the lobby were out, but there was moonlight filtering through the skylight above him.
He shuffled up the stairs, the preternatural quiet frightening. Soon he was on his own floor. In the near-darkness, he saw that his apartment door was ajar.
Inside, the foyer was dark. His heart beat rapidly and his wound throbbed. He resisted the urge to touch it.
“Franco?” he whispered hoarsely. “Franco, are you here? It’s your father.”
After checking the small bedroom off the foyer, he advanced down the corridor. Franco’s room was empty. The next room was the bedroom Giovanni shared with his wife, but it, too, was empty.