Page 87 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
rattling shriek loud enough to scour demons from their nests. They began to jump up and down, flail long arms, batter the bars of their cages.
All the ones that were still alive, that is. Macaque and chimpanzee and owl monkey corpses—
skeletal and oddly human—littered the bottoms of cages, as worthless and forgotten as yesterday’s newspaper.
The scream that tore from him came from someplace deep down in his soul that he hadn’t known existed.
Death was a thing he was well accustomed to, a steadfast companion of his life for so many years it was as much a part of him as his own flesh. But torture...torture of thousands of innocent creatures so helpless they had no chance of escape, no ability to voice their misery and pain...this was something he’d never come face-to-face with, and his mind almost could not comprehend the evil of such a thing.
This was no animal shelter. This was an animal testing facility.
So humans could have their cosmetics, their perfumed soaps, their dryer sheets and sudsier shampoo, all of it paid for by the blood of millions of animals just as alive and aware and able to suffer as the keepers who mutilated and tortured them.
He ripped the solid metal door off its hinges and flung it aside. It collided with a loud, echoing crash against the corridor wall. The overhead motion-sensor lights in the testing lab blinked on, illuminating the horror in Technicolor while he ran like a madman through the room, roaring, smashing things, blind with rage. Banks of desks and computers and filing cabinets were destroyed, screw-top glass canisters in a tall, open cabinet exploded into sprays of caustic chemicals as a chair went flying into them, an island of square metal worktables in the center of the room sporting sinks and chain restraints crumpled like aluminum foil under his fists.
The monkeys shrieked bloody murder all the while, the dogs howled, the rabbits began to scream and wriggle, desperate to flee, unable even to turn their heads to look in his direction. The cats, crouched and bristling, just stared at him, ears flat against their Frankenstein heads.
Heavy footfalls and shouting voices from down the corridor told him someone was on the way.
Multiple someones, most likely guards, most likely the armed ones who’d escorted Bartleby inside.
Through his rage, Xander gathered his wits and removed another of his disposable cell phones from a pocket in his pants. He took photo after photo, then switched the video function to record and panned the room.
“You’ll be out of here soon,” he promised the screaming animals, his voice raw in his throat.
“Just hang on a little while longer.” He repocketed the camera and spun around just in time to see three armed guards appear in the doorway. They froze when they saw him standing amid the chaos.
Like marionettes, their jaws unhinged in shock.
“Fermo! ” one of them shouted after a moment of stunned silence. He hoisted the Glock .44 he’d drawn from the holster at his waist. The others followed suit. “Fermo, o spariamo! ”
Stop or we’ll shoot.
“Be my guest, assholes!” Xander shouted, furious. Then he lunged at them.
They got off three shots before they toppled like bowling pins under the full force of his weight. They crashed to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. Cursing in Italian, one of the guards tried to wrench free of the stranglehold Xander had on his neck, but Xander bore down and felt bones snap with the brittleness of dry twigs. Slack-jawed, the guard fell still. The other two scrambled to their feet and started firing rounds into him, but when he leapt up, unharmed and snarling, they backed slowly away and started jabbering like frightened birds.
More running footfalls from somewhere far beyond the destroyed door. More faint shouts from unseen men. The monkeys’ banshee shrieks drilled into his brain.
Xander smashed his fist into the face of the second guard, and blood spurted from his shattered nose. He slid to the floor and toppled to his side, where he lay unconscious, still as a corpse. The last guard lunged at him, but Xander was too fast, his instincts too honed. Xander had him by the throat with one hand squeezed around his larynx before the man had taken a full step, then lifted him hi
gh, entirely off the floor.
The guard clawed at his hand, but his grip didn’t loosen. He tried to cry out but managed only a wheeze, eyes rolling, face beet red. His boots kicked out and met resistance: Xander’s shins.
“Where are they keeping the third animal?” Xander shouted. This bastard knew everything, knew what went on in this torture chamber, and turned his eyes away for the sake of a paycheck. “The panther that was separated from the other two! Where are they keeping him?”
The guard tried frantically to escape. His eyes bulged from their sockets, veins popped out along his neck. He gasped, trying to speak. Xander heard a choked please, and it enraged him so much he saw red as the final shreds of his restraint began to snap.
“Oh, I’m sorry, are you in pain?” Xander hissed. He jerked his head toward the cages of animals. “Should we pour some toxic goo in your eyes and see if that makes it better? Or maybe slap some corrosive chemicals on your skin that will melt it away? How about a little impromptu surgery where I implant something into your skull so I can study how your brain waves spike when you’re injected with a heart-stopping load of carcinogens?”
The guard took a swing, but Xander only leaned back, easily avoiding his fist.
“I’ve got everything I need right here to turn you into something from a horror movie, my friend, so you better start talking, and quick,” he snarled.
His lips peeled back over his teeth, his canines elongated as the Shift began to pound through his blood, heating cells, electrifying. With a sound like a faint exhalation, a fine nap of black fur sprang from the pores all over his body. Amost there, so close, only a slight twinge in his injured side held him back from fully completing the turn and tearing the man’s throat out with his fangs.
Yes, the beast in him roared, clawing just under his skin, writhing to be set free. Yes!
