ONCE BITTEN

NINE: AIMEE SPENCER

I

He leaned round to stare through the iron rods of the gate towards the house. The drive curved towards the garden at the front, where the water from a small fountain glistened in the starlight. Beyond lay the house itself, a dark shape rising up against the night sky. The only light showing from within appeared to be a glimmer around the shutters of a downstairs room and a faint glow from two of the rooms upstairs.

As he surveyed, one of the upstairs lights went out. No carriages on the driveway, which meant hardly anyone inside, and fewer still awake at this hour, although some were.

Aimee Spencer was likely to be staying in either the servants' quarters or one of the guest rooms, depending on the status accorded to her by her host. He hoped it would be the latter since household servants often shared a room.

He glanced round and reassured himself he remained alone and unobserved, and approached the gate, clearing it with a standing jump. He padded up the drive, laying his paws down.

It would be better if he could find a way into the house without having to climb and be revealed by the full moon responsible for his transformation. He kept to the path around the side of the house, which ran under a window where a sliver of light shone from beneath the shutter.

He stopped to peer through the narrow gap between the bottom of the shutter and the worn, flaking window frame. Beyond lay a room with bookcases. The glow of a fire came from a grate with chairs either side. Facing the window an elderly man sat reading a book.

Opposite him a woman, her grey hair arranged in a bun. As the werewolf studied, she rose and walked to the old man, kissing him on the forehead, followed by a brief exchange of words before she left the room and closed the door. The old man returned his attention to the book.

The werewolf lowered himself down from the window and continued following the path to the corner of the building and round the side. Shrubs and bushes spread out across the garden, with a tall brick wall marking the boundary between this house and the next.

Along the side of the house, another door; he tested the handle , but it was locked. He found the metal door of the coal chute and considered using it to gain entry, where the owner of the house might initially mistake him for an inquisitive dog.

But when his metamorphosis ended, he would still be covered in coal which might lead to questions being asked.

He continued searching until he found a window close to the ground a short distance beyond. Two panes in a frame enough for him to wriggle through. It appeared likely the window provided light for the cellar.

The werewolf, struck the pane of glass with a sudden, savage blow and the sound of a sharp crash and the tinkle of glass falling on the floor inside, followed.

Careful not to snag his fur on the jagged edges of the window, he eased himself inside, pausing to listen for any sound of movement or voices indicated the alarm had been raised, but the house remained still and silent.

His heart beat rapidly and his senses were strained to their limit. He didn't feel any fear, but excitement and exultation, the same sensations he experienced when stalking his victims. He would put an end to the prey who had eluded him.

For an alpha male, the injury to his pride intolerable.

With his blood-lusting eyes he swept his penetrating vision around the cellar. The ceiling curved above a long space running from the back to the front of the house. The walls were lined with wine racks, mostly empty, and shelves.

A number of travel chests and boxes filled with toys and old clothes. Halfway along the wall a flight of steps led up to the ground floor. He tested his weight on the first riser. It creaked, but not enough for concern, and he climbed the steps towards the door at the top.

The brass handle moved, and he drew the door towards him. He looked out onto a corridor, off the entrance hall. A lamp with a weak bulb provided enough light to see by, but with his temporary nocturnal vision this was not required.

He moved with stealth into the corridor, ears straining for any sound. All was still.

Then a noise behind him and he turned with speed. A faint glow came from the bottom of a door along the corridor. He guessed it would be the same room he had peered into from outside.

He padded towards the door and then pushed. In front of him he saw the chair by the fire where the elderly man had been sitting, but now it was empty.

"What the devil?"

He spun towards the voice and saw a man in a thick cardigan in the act of slotting a book onto the shelf. At almost the same time, the old man turned towards him, lifting the book to throw it as he opened his mouth to raise the alarm.

The werewolf raised itself onto his two back legs, towering over the old man.

The old man knew his fate, in seconds his throat will be ripped out, his flesh consumed, blood staining the carpet.

ii

Tired as she was, sleep did not come to Aimee Spencer. She was in a strange house, where the mistress of the house had been told a lie about her line of work. If the mistress of the house had accepted her husband's explanation, she must surely harbour suspicions about her.

Despite the need for sleep. Aimee had left a small oil lamp burning in case she had to stir and dress. Her clothes hung over the back of a chair at the small desk against the far wall, and she lay naked under the thick quilt. Her gaze shifted from the moulded ceiling rose and moved over the details of the room. The framed images of horses, the small wardrobe, the bookcase filled with bound volumes of classic works...

Her thoughts switched back to Lord Chandos and his wife. He had treated her kindly, if not warmly, though had to be expected. She was not a family friend, nor an invited guest. Merely a prostitute who his lordship had fallen for.

As such, she determined she would try to be unobtrusive. He had asked her to remain in her room as much as possible to avoid the two servants, who would be curious about the visitor turning up after dark. Lord Chandos had decided to tell them she happened to be a daughter of a distant relative, and not his kept woman.

An amiable couple, Aimee thought, which made her feel worse about how she had ended up like this. Her father had been a respected and successful partner in a legal firm had mixed with the wealthiest and most powerful people in London. All changed when her father died and her mother had married another man, whose total mismanagement of the business forced to sell the family share for a pittance.

The last twist of the knife came when her mother died of alcoholism, she had no choice but to move to the East End of London.

She settled on a one bedroomed flat, with rats and fleas on the sheets and sell her body, to pay the rent and a small amount of food.

Then she met Lord Chandos, and he stopped her becoming lone of the rats from her room which scurried for shelter as she rained down angry blows with her shoes. She shuddered at the memory and shrank down a little further beneath the quilt.

A faint crack and tinkle of glass sounded from somewhere outside the window. Or had the sound come from inside the house? A cold tremor rippled down her spine and lay still, breathing lightly as she listened.

No further sound followed. It might be one of the servants. A dropped tray, broken glasses, or maybe a bowl. A myriad of possibilities, but none of them put her mind at rest.

She sat up on the edge of the bed. Unsure what to do and as much as she wanted to find out what had caused the noise, it would appear to be unseemly, not to mention suspicious, to be found wandering around the house half-naked by her hosts or one of the staff.

The prospect of being forced to leave this comfortable haven filled her with dread.

"Damn..."

She muttered, and turned up the oil lamp and proceeded to dress in the cold air. She put on her coat to add another layer of warmth, then picked up her shoes and tiptoed to the door.

The door gave a squeal of protest from the hinges, and she gritted her teeth anxiously and paused before easing the door open a fraction of a centimetre at a time until she had enough space to slip out of the room.

It was dark in the corridor, with only the faintest glimmer of light cast through the door behind her and from somewhere at the bottom of the stairs. She reached the staircase down into the hall, then as she saw the silhouette of a dog emerging from the gloom.

It scanned the staircase, left to right, and one long, snake-like movement. When it was done, it did the same thing again, replicating the action exactly. Finally, it turned and stepped back into the half-light of the bottom of the stairs, pausing, and looking straight at Aimee. She stood motionless, soundless, staring right between the bannisters, right into the darkness.

Move, she told herself. She breathed in and as she did, the sound immense; every noise amplifying in her ears, every beat of her heart and every blink of her eyes. She expected to be able to hear something approach, but the house appeared silent now. No footsteps. No creaks.

Nothing moved.

Nothing made a sound.

And then a floorboard creaked.

She didn't move. Didn't breathe. She couldn't risk any noise

She looked down the steps, into the darkness. The house was an antique, weary, and old, and every footstep through it would be mapped by a succession of groans.

At the top, she made out vague shapes she had come familiar with: a long, cylindrical window on the right, cut into the outside wall; then the first of three bedrooms.

The one at the top of the stairs being hers -- the tiniest fragments of light coming in through its windows and spilling out on to the landing.

Nothing else.

Another creaking floorboard and a sound of sniffing. Like an animal trying to pick up a trail.

What should she do? The others must be warned. Her hosts had placed her in the family wing, which meant their own bedroom must be close by. She approached the first door and opened it. The bed looked empty and crossing to the other side of the corridor, she tried another room. This had a four-poster bed with a canopy, the kind of furniture would have been more at home in castle rather than this suburban house. A soft, guttural snoring came from the bed.

Aimee discovered the countess was sleeping alone. She pulled the quilt back and shook the woman's shoulder.

"Lady Chandos, wake up."

She whispered urgently.

"Wake up!"

Lady Chandos snorted and tried to shake off the hand on her shoulder.

"Wake up, I said."

Aimee shook her again. Harder this time.

"What...what is it?"

Lady Chandos mumbled. Her body suddenly stiffened as she saw the dark shape looming over her, and she shuffled up in the bed.

"What is the meaning of this?"

She demanded.

"What on earth are you doing in my room?"

"Quiet. A wolf is in the house."

"What are you talking about, girl?"

"A great big bloody wolf, prowling up and down in your house."

"Where's my husband?"

"I didn't see him. I didn't hear him either. I think we're in danger. We have to hide, or get out of here at once."

Aimee tugged at her hand.

"Please get up."

The other woman climbed out of the bed and put her slippers before wrapping a shawl over her quilted nightdress.

"Have you got anything upstairs we can protect ourselves with?"

Aimee asked.

"We need help."

"Yes...yes, a Webley Revolver, in the library downstairs."

"I'll go."

"No, wait. It's not easy to find. I'd better go."

Lady Chandos moved towards the door, then stopped.

"You need to hide, girl."

"Hide? Where?"

"Go to the end of the corridor; there's a small hatch over a dumb waiter. You can use it to get down to the kitchen and there's any sign of trouble, use the kitchen door to get outside and go for help."

She stepped back and took Aimee's hand.

"Don't stop for anything. Understand?"

Hurry along the corridor, Aimee found the hatch and slid it to one side to reveal a dark space. She reached in and touched around with her hands. Enough room for her to huddle inside. She climbed in, closed the hatch, and groped around until she found the thick cables which controlled the ascent and descent of the dumb waiter. She pulled on one and the small cage lurched up a fraction. Switching to the other, she eased it up and the dumb waiter began to sink towards the kitchen.

III

At the top of the staircase, Lady Chandos glanced down into the hall. Hearing the sound of a brief commotion. A voice began to cry out in surprise but abruptly silenced. She flinched back from the wooden rail.

She smelt something then. A horrible, degraded odour, like decaying compost, coming upstairs. She swallowed, almost like she had to, just to try to get the smell out of her throat and nose. But the stench didn't go away. It was drifting up the staircase like discarded flakes of invisible skin. She swallowed again, and again, and again, but couldn't get rid of it.

In the dark, she could make out her hands: blanched white, like sticks of chalk, veins slithering through from wrists and knuckles. As she paused faint, indistinct noises, and she became uncertain whether it was coming from inside or outside the house. The wind could have been a whisper. The fall of rain on the roof could have been someone softly padded around.

Stopping for a deep breath, she started the descent. As she tried to rein in the impact of her full weight on the stairs, they groaned and shifted. She kept to the right, her back against the outside wall, and as she got halfway, she paused and looked through the railing down into the corridor.

As she took a couple of steps further, a floorboard shifted beneath her, and she paused waiting for any kind of reaction from any of the rooms. But all which echoed back was more silence.

Something moved. Faster, more determined this time, as if it suddenly realized where she was. Then it stopped. Sniffed the air once more. As it breathed out, I smelt it again. Its decay. Its stink. She held her breath, desperate not to swallow. Desperate not to make a noise.

She couldn't make out what it was as the night absorb its entire body.

Her heart started pumping faster. She took two big steps, and midway, she peered through the gap in the bannister once more. For a moment nothing but shadows. But then things began to emerge: the edges of furniture, the wardrobes, and the lights of the street, like the tiniest speck of paint beyond the glass.

She moved forward with stealth, almost stumbling, into the darkness of the landing. Heart thrashing in her chest, head thumping and let everything fall into place around her, like a bough breaking.

A noise caused her heart to tighten and her body fill with dread, snaking down her back and legs. Eyes unblinking, revealing no fear, a stalking predator. Anticipation of having her throat torn open was enough for her to face the darkness.

The wolf's presence electrified the air, its energy filling the room. She had seldom sensed such a controlled strength of will emanating from anyone, let alone a wolf. She shook, but something deep within her turned to steel. Everything around her amplified as it grew hyper-aware of her surroundings.

She looked into the gloom, taking a breath, cautioning myself not to panic as the dog continued to creep towards her, its haunches high, his head and shoulders lower, a brittle kind of tenseness in its manner. She shuffled backwards, as the killing machine growled at her.

Standing at the foot of the staircase with her back towards the dark void of the house. No escape.

The wolf inched forward on the floor in front of me, swelling to a frightening size. Tail still, shoulder muscles bunched, haunches quivering, he prepared to launch himself at me.

Lady Chandos held her breath and then it went for her. Fast and strong, She lost her balance and toppled backwards, hitting the back of her head hard and the impact reverberated through her body like a wave.

She landed with a thud. She didn't roll over and jump straight to her feet but came to rest in heap, her right ankle gripped by intense pain which for a moment it blinded her, and she crouched on all fours like a wounded animal, confused and almost sightless with fear.

Shaking her head, trying to drive away dizziness. She tasted blood on her lips and bruising forming along the lines of her jaw, back and legs.

Lady Chandos believed she landed in one of her own nightmares, which she had dreamt on many occasions, whimpering, and drenched in sweat, the dream where she screamed and screamed where no sound came out. She got up.

She had lost her bearings. Stumbling, she whimpered with pain, went down on her knees. She couldn't go on, but knew she had to. She crawled along the floor in the darkness, blind and scared and closed her eyes and willed herself to listen.

No sound of movement at all.

She opened her eyes. She made out the contours of the wolf growling in the darkness. Through the strains of darkness, the colour of its coat gave it a sinister otherworldly look. A shadow, a mere shadow.

The sight of the wolf caught her like a punch. She tottered, her leg gave way, and she fell to the floor.

Lord Chandos screwed her face up in anguish as she hoisted herself to her feet. She put a hand out in front of her, as she shuffled sideways in the direction of the living room. Her back pressed up against the wall. As her fingers brushed the door frame, she listened. The noise of the rain lessened.

For a moment, a cold shudder ran down my back. She kept on staring into the darkness trying to force her eyes to see more. No light at all. Not a hint of it. No edges, no shapes or definition, only the night. Nothing else.

She swallowed, and in the silence, the noise was immense. She tensed, expecting some kind of reaction.

All she got was silence.

Then a gentle squeak of a floorboard; one tiny moment of sound carried along the hallway like a gunshot. Blind in the dark already, she closed her eyes once more, trying to focus her other senses, trying to understand what the wolf planned doing.

Then she realized.

Six feet away. Maybe less.

They were right next to another.

A terrible sensation rose up from deep within her stomach, through her chest and into her throat. Fear, nausea, and a sense of entrapment.

She opened her eyes and staggered backwards into the lounge. The wolf followed, its movement smooth and fearless.

She wanted to run. Wrench open the front door and race out into the safety and open air of London.

The wolf's eyes were staring not at her but into her. They were extraordinary eyes, hungry, piercing, like red hard stones. The nausea was like bile in her mouth. Her tongue swollen like a cow, huge in her mouth.

And then without warning he came at her once more.

Iv

As the dumb waiter bumped against the buffer bars in the kitchen. Aimee climbed out. She needed to be ready to run at a moment's notice. The kitchen was brightly illuminated by two gas-lights, and she glanced round at the counters and the twin cookers, with pans hanging from hooks on a rail above.

The shelves of the dressers on the opposite wall were filled with plates and bowls and racks of cutlery.

On the far side of the wooden table which dominated the centre of the room was a steel sink and a draining board with a pile of dirty plates and pots to one side and steam curled up from the sink.

The outflow was blocked by vegetable matter. The sink overflowing, water running down the side and onto the tiled floor, flooding around the far end of the table. Crimson tendrils curled out within the expanding puddle.

She swallowed and walked around the table. The family's housekeeper lay with her arms splayed out. She examined the body, and blood oozing from a wound in the throat. She was lying on her back, with her clothes disarranged. I touched her arm, which was quite warm from the joints upwards.

Her eyes were open. Her bonnet was off and lying at her side On closer examination she observed the deceased's body and legs were still warm, although her hands and wrists were quite cold. This led Aimee to surmise she could not have been dead for more than half an hour.

Aimee glanced around, cold with fear, recalling Lady Chandos had gone to fetch a gun. Who else had the wolf butchered? Who was still left alive? No other sound apart from the running water. Lord Chandos must have been downstairs, in which case he must be dead too.

Aimee feared she might be the only one left now, and she had to fight off a wave of paralysing fear at the prospect. She could not face the wolf. She must try to get out of the house and escape.

Rushing to the kitchen door, she grasped the handle and turned it, but the door remained locked. She rattled it frantically, then stopped dead, realizing she had been making too much noise.

"The key."

She hissed through gritted teeth, and turned back to the housekeeper's body. Leaning down, she braced herself and searched her pockets. She patted down the skirt, trying to find something solid in the material. After a few minutes she stood up holding a metal ring with several keys hanging from it and returned to the door.

The first two did not fit and the third did go in freely but then refused to turn. As she fumbled for the next one, footsteps passed through the room overhead.

"Come on, come on."

She muttered as she thrust the key clumsily at the lock. This time it turned, and the weathered door unlocked with a soft click. She withdrew the key and tugged the door open. It came towards her swiftly on well-oiled hinges and hit her hard on the chest.

She reeled backwards, struggling to keep her balance, and her arm flailed and caught a jar of preserved fruit on shelf. It toppled, and she could only watch helplessly as it plummeted towards the tiles and exploded deafeningly in shards of glass and syrupy juice.

Upstairs, the footsteps of the wolf stopped, then pounded back across the ceiling. She recovered her balance and stepped out into the freezing darkness, hauling the door back into its frame behind her and locking it.

A small flight steps with a covered fuel store for the cookers were to one side. Inside, bags of coal and empty sacks lay piled. A few paces from the bottom of the steps, the pathway leading round the house. Tempted to run, but knew she would be unlikely to outpace her pursuer. The image of the dead woman in the kitchen came back to her vividly.

She did not want to die.

The wolf started rattling the door, followed by a dull thud against the inside. She stared in terror and hurried down the steps, keeping close to the edge. Taking a wide stride, she backtracked on herself to the fuel shelter and hunched beside the coal sacks, hurriedly covering herself with the empty bags until she could just see over the top of them.

An instant later, a splintering crash followed as the lock shattered and the burst open. Laboured breathing followed as the wolf rushed down the steps. The wolf fur is as black as the raven's wing. The fur, short over the body and longer at the neck, smooth and shiny. His stance, confident and body muscular, this wolf knew how to take care of herself.

The wolf howled and Aimee sensed a bolt of icy terror pierce her body as she sat motionless, not breathing as she stared out from under the sacks. She cupped a hand to her mouth. He turned and strode way along the path, its movements are fluid and without apparent effort.

Aimee waited until the wolf was out of sight, and hesitated a moment longer, steeling her nerves. Then sweeping the empty sacks aside, she emerged from the fuel store and tiptoed down the steps and along the path. At the corner of the building, she paused and peered round. The wolf now twenty paces or so ahead of her, heading towards the gate.

Once he had disappeared through it, she emerged from cover and ran down the drive, pulling the gate open and sticking her head out. In the evening-light he could be a huge dog, but dogs don't move the way wolves do in a choreographed motion, flowing over the earth.

In the other direction a hansom carriage raced up the street, and it came to a halt, right where she stood. A tall man in a constables uniform stepped out of the cab and ran over to Aimee.

"Are you all right, Miss?"

"Yes...yes, I am."

"We've had reports of a large dog in the area."

She pointed in the direction the wolf had taken.

"He went that way."