Moonscorn

Chapter Four

Hysteria thought about going in for a good, well-deserved rant about how they had needed a werewolf out there to take the other one down, how they didn't have a bloodbath, how she'd proven that she was capable of controlling herself plenty of times, or else she'd be in one of the freezer's downstairs herself. How the mission, such as it was, had been accomplished in the end, regardless of how it had been done.

But there was no arguing with Persephone because, unfortunately, as much as Hysteria hated to admit it, she was right. There were procedures in place, as unfair and archaic as they were, and she had agreed to follow them. Technically it was on pain of death.

"You going to say something about how lucky I am to be alive?"

"You've got free board and lodging, gym access, all the Netflix you could want, and all we ask for is a few small science tests and very controlled use in the field."

"I'd like to have a fucking boyfriend. To go out. Have a life."

Persephone sighed. It was the same sigh a mother makes when they're really upset that they have to be cruel to be kind. Not that Hysteria would recognise it from real life, but she'd seen enough on that free Netflix to get the gist.

"It's the best I could do," Persephone said. "Work with me, here. I'm trying."

"You sound like them," Hysteria said.

"Ouch. Stick another one in me, why don't you?" She said it with great dollops of typical British sarcasm, but Hysteria thought she sounded as though she had actually scored a hit on her boss. She thought she might feel bad about it after she hung up, but at this point in time there was too much blood boiling for her to care.

"What do you want me to do whilst I'm stuck here then, boss?"

"The usual. Keep working out, keep the brain sharp. Do your primal exercises. Allow the doctors to do the usual. We still need you fighting fit for when you come out next."

"And when will that be?"

"Depends on what happens in Whaterly."

Hysteria frowned. Scratched a large gash stitched up behind a bandage on her left arm. "We didn't kill the thing then?"

"We did. But Raven's been sent back."

"Why?"

"Classified. I'll send you the redacted reports from our previous visits across now. Maybe that'll satisfy your curiosity."

It wouldn't, but Hysteria knew Persephone enough to know that she wouldn't be likely to get anything better than that.

"Is there anything else, Hysteria?"

"A metric ton of stuff."

"Wonderful. Rant about it to the wall. I've got to go."

"You going to drop in at any point during my incarceration and say hello to me in person?"

"Not on your life. I'm not that brave."

Hysteria hung up. She went to the kitchen and grabbed a can of coke out of the fridge. Sat down in front of the TV, screen off, and drank. It was cold. Just how she felt.

The more she sat there, the more vague memories came back to her. The more she remembered fighting the other wolf. The more she remembered salivating, smelling flesh nearby, meat. Blood.

She shuddered. Suddenly the coke didn't taste so great, and she put it down.

She double checked the date on her phone. Tuesday. Waning moon, only a few days from full. Not terrible, but enough to be an influence, even tucked away inside with no windows. And, according to the weather app, a clear night. Moonlight directly overhead, shining down on her, no thick cloud cover in the way.

Her anger starting to cool, she started to feel it. Feel her insides begin to churn. She slowly drew her legs up, bare feet on the sofa, and hugged herself. Nights like tonight were always long and hard. She wondered if she should use the TV to ask Dr Kratis for something to knock her out, but she knew he'd say no. The protocol was to have her learn to deal with the lunar influences down here, to learn how to control herself. That was what the doctors ordered, what was prescribed, what all the exercises were for.

She could feel it. If she sat still enough, even as the moon was just rising, she could sense it inside, drawing on her energy. She could feel whatever it was in her bloodstream, microbes or cancerous cells or whatever the scientists hadn't quite identified yet, growing animated. Feel them start to fizz, to bubble, to get lively like schoolchildren cooped up in a bus with piles of sweets and chocolate. It would get worse as the night drew on. Her bones would ache and her skin would prickle with hairs trying to push through. More than that, her mind would begin to ache. Show her things that couldn't be there, whisper to her. Her focus would lapse. Her thoughts would become disjointed. The wolf would try to take over and worship its mistress.

In the corner of the room was a large upright slab of metal. Cut into it was an indentation specifically designed for her. All she had to do was step into it and restraints would automatically lock around her wrists and arms, fixing her in place. She wouldn't move, bite, or kick; she would be tied down until the system told someone it was all over and she could be unlocked.

Hysteria refused to look at it. Too many nights locked up in it, of her own volition, of sometimes being forced into it. It was her beast's straitjacket, as cold and harsh and medieval as anything belonging to witch hunters of bygone ages. The wolf in her wanted it destroyed, smashed into a thousand tiny pieces, but she wouldn't. She had tried, of course. Smuggled in a crowbar and gone at it. Screwdrivers even, to take the manacles off it. But they'd put it back together again every time.

The beast inside her wanted to run wild and ravage.

The Conservatory wanted her lucid and logical.

Hysteria was both Jekyll and Hyde at all times, subservient to anger and reason, to benefactor and slave master, to the primal and untamed. She rocked on the sofa, banging the heel of her hand against her head, calling for it to stop. Of course it wouldn't. She knew it wouldn't. She tried breathing exercises, counting to ten, all that bullshit that never helped because it had been designed by people who had never gone through it. They were human. She was not.

The night drew on. She turned on the TV and hoped it would drown out the pain as her head throbbed and her jaw ached as it tried desperately to stretch out into a muzzle.

Find moonlight. Let me out. Just for an hour.

"I can't," she whimpered. "I'm sorry. I can't help you."

The faces tattooed on her arm watched her. The girl, her inked ghosts, and her ravenous demon, fought against each other in the silver glow of 21st century electronics. All were bound together, and all were utterly alone.