Lesson Two of Practical Interrogation: know when to cut your losses.
‘Loose bricks,’ Irene ordered in the Language, ‘hit those werewolves.’
The bricks hummed through the air like fast-bowled cricket balls, slamming into the oncoming creatures with audible cracks and crunches. Irene found herself wincing at the screams and whines, in spite of her awareness that the werewolves had probably been about to kill her. At least this probably wouldn’t kill them. It took silver, fire, decapitation or practically chopping one to bits to kill a werewolf.
But it would hurt them.
She scrambled to her feet, picking up a loose half-brick on the way, and walked towards the four downed werewolves. They were lying on the ground now, in puddles of their own blood. One of the lupine-form werewolves was clearly unconscious. The other was curled up, licking frantically at a shattered paw, and cringed away as Irene approached. The two more human-formed ones were both conscious – one of them lay sprawled on the ground, with visible hollows in his ribcage, while the other was nursing a shattered right arm and shoulder.
‘Talk to me,’ Irene said, keeping her voice calm and practical. ‘Tell me what’s going on, and why you kidnapped me.’
The werewolf with the broken arm tried to snarl. Brick shards had ploughed across one side of his face, but the gashes were already closing up, leaving his fur and teeth matted with blood. ‘You’d better start running, woman, while you’ve still got a chance—’
‘Ten out of ten for bravado,’ Irene said, then realized how much she sounded like Coppelia. The thought made her frown. ‘Look, do you want me to kill you? We both know that if I throw enough bricks at you—’
The half-turned werewolf lunged at her. Irene had been ready for that and stepped back, avoiding a slash from his clawed left hand. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Werewolves, assume human form.’
Using the Language on living beings was always awkward. They tended to resist it, you needed incredibly precise terminology, it had to be something physically possible and you needed to be careful not to accidentally include yourself in any imperatives. Junior Librarians were encouraged to avoid it, unless they really knew what they were doing – or, of course, for the classic reason that I’ll die otherwise. Here, Irene could be reasonably sure that as she wasn’t a werewolf, she wouldn’t be affected. Which made life simpler. For her, at least.
The werewolf who had attacked her jerked away, claws melting back into his hand as it shortened to a normal human one. His toothed muzzle resolved into an unshaven face, his naked skin pale in the darkness. Fresh blood ran from the wounds on his shoulder and arm. The others were seized by the Language as well, their bodies painfully contorting as Irene’s words forced them back into human form. The three conscious ones screamed: the unconscious one simply lay there, his body flopping and jerking on the floor as it shifted into that of a young man.
Even in the near-darkness, they had one obvious thing in common. They were young men, no more than student age, and while they were mostly muscular and well built, none of them had the sheer muscle and lithe power that she’d seen before, in other adult werewolves. Irene recognized their faces now, and remembered that she’d thought they were students when they’d met her at the British Library.
Perhaps this was the time to access her inner Coppelia, or even her inner Kostchei. ‘What on earth do you think you’re playing at?’ she demanded, stepping forward.
The werewolf cringed back, his eyes still catching the light more than a normal human’s eyes would, but wide and disconcerted. ‘What did you just do?’ he demanded, his voice rising in panic. ‘What did you do to us?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Irene said briskly. ‘It’s not permanent. But I want you to think, for one little moment, about exactly how much it would hurt to have more bricks hit you while you’re like this. Use that mind of yours, such as it is, to imagine what it would feel like to have a brick go smashing through your skull and turning your brain into grey goo.’ She took another step forward. ‘Now are you going to behave? Or do I need to make my point again?’
He cowered back in front of her, turning his head to one side and baring his neck. ‘I submit!’
Irene was tempted to toss the half-brick up and down in her hand, but common sense pointed out that it was heavy and she’d either hurt her hand or drop the brick, which would spoil the intimidating effect. ‘Some answers, then. Who hired you? What can you tell me about them? And where’s the folder I was carrying?’
Her victim shuffled back to join the other conscious werewolves, who were huddling together, their hands running over their fellows’ bodies as though they could restore their normal hairy forms by pure force of will. And I don’t know how much longer the Language will keep them that way, so let’s not give them time to think . . .
‘It was a woman,’ the first werewolf stammered.
‘Yes?’ Irene said encouragingly. ‘And?’
‘Well, she was a woman,’ he said, giving a perfect description of approximately fifty per cent of the world’s population. ‘Nicely dressed.’
‘I am not in the market for half-answers,’ Irene snapped. ‘What did she sound like? Upper-class, or regional accent? What sort of nice clothes was she wearing?’ An idea about what werewolves might notice flickered through her mind. ‘And what did she smell like?’
‘She was wearing far too many veils for good taste,’ one of the other werewolves said wearily. He cradled a broken hand against his chest. Freed of the snout and fur of his wolf form, he was well-shaven and skinny, and his accent was middle-class London. ‘Nice scent. Spicy. Obvious she didn’t want to be recognized. Veils on her face and hair, expensive coat, gloves . . .’