London, January 1945 – Churchill War rooms

  The ornate office was a picture of British elegance. Polished oak paneling, tall windows draped in velvet, and the faint scent of tobacco smoke lingering in the air. Emmett Granger sat in one of the carved chairs just outside the room, one leg stretched out, the other knee bouncing with restless energy. His hat sat on his lap, and a cigarette dangled loosely from his lips. The ashtray, provided by a kind but brisk receptionist, was already filling up.

  He glanced at his watch, though he didn’t much care for the time anymore. How long had it been? He grunted and took another drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke curl out of his nostrils.

  The door suddenly creaked open, and Lucas Halloway stepped out. Gently shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. He looked exactly like Emmett remembered. Same disheveled professionalism. His tie was loosened around the neck, top button undone, suit wrinkled just enough to let you know he hadn’t slept properly in weeks. His hair was neater than usual, though, and the glint in his eyes was alert. Watchful.

  “Emmett,” Lucas said with a small smile. “Been a little bit.”

  Emmett flicked ash into the tray and leaned back in the chair, eyeing him with a mix of familiarity and wariness. “Couple years now. How you holding up?”

  Lucas shrugged, hands slipping into his pockets. “Same shit, different day. You though…” he gave Emmett a long, deliberate once-over, gaze settling on the eyepatch, the sunken cheeks, the scars. “…Shit, no offense, pal. You look rough.”

  Emmett gave a small nod, grinding the cigarette out in the ash tray and sighed. “Getting chewed on tends to take the edge off a man’s good looks.”

  Lucas winced at the phrasing but didn’t argue. “I read the report. Some of it, anyway.”

  “Which one?” Emmett muttered. “There’s about six versions, all of them with different endings.”

  Lucas didn’t answer. He just gave that same tired, knowing look. Then he nodded toward the door behind him. “You know what this is?”

  “Nope.” Emmett leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But I’m guessing it ain’t about medals or apologies.”

  Lucas chuckled dryly. “Not even close. Something… unorthodox.”

  Emmett raised a brow. “Unorthodox how?”

  “You’re kind of the expert now,” Lucas said, tone even but laced with gravity. “At least on this side of the war. They’re going to pitch you something… strange. Might be the strangest goddamn thing yet.”

  “Good news is,” Lucas added, tapping the side of the door with his knuckle, “from what I gather, you can say no.”

  Emmett leaned back, fingers lacing together over his cap. “That right?”

  Lucas nodded. “They’ll still try to charm you. Maybe lean on you a bit. But no one’s putting a pistol to your back.”

  Emmett snorted. “Not yet.”

  Lucas cracked a grin. “You always were good at sniffing out the fine print.”

  “Big man in there?” Emmett asked, motioning to the door.

  Lucas tilted his head. “Churchill?”

  “No. Donovan.”

  Lucas shook his head. “Not yet. He’s wrapped up with a different briefing. But he’ll want time with you after. One-on-one.”

  Emmett sighed through his nose and adjusted his uniform jacket, brushing off lint that wasn’t there.

  “You sure they’re ready for me?” he asked, standing slowly.

  Lucas’s smile faded a little. “Ready as they’ll ever be.”

  Emmett nodded once, grabbed his hat, and followed Lucas through the double doors.

  The air inside was thick. Not just with pipe smoke and cologne, but with expectation. The room stretched long, the polished mahogany table lined on either side with men in uniform and well-fitted suits. Some wore the drab olive of the British Army, others the sharper cut of American intelligence. One man, off to the far left, had a white lab coat draped over the back of his chair.

  Every man turned to look at him.

  Not all of them stared, but a few made no attempt to hide it. Their eyes went straight to the left side of his face. Where the eyepatch sat like a brand, and the thick scar tissue ran from his cheekbone down to the edge of his jaw like lightning frozen in flesh. One or two of them tried to look away quickly, as if embarrassed they’d been caught. Others kept watching, analyzing.

  Granger didn’t blink.

  But then his gaze caught something in the far corner of the room, and his steps slowed.

  A large easel had been wheeled in. Slightly off-kilter, its brass legs crooked with age, and it held a series of mounted black-and-white photographs. Beside it, a rolling pinboard displayed even more images, all thumbtacked in place in neat, clinical rows.

  And what the images captured made the bottom fall out of Emmett’s stomach.

  The wolfmen.

  One image showed a body stretched out on a steel exam table, its eyes half-open, jaw slack, lips curled back to reveal rows of predatory teeth. Another had been cut open, chest cavity peeled apart with long clamps, each organ meticulously labeled in cramped handwriting.

  There was one, where the thing had been propped upright in a steel brace like a butchered marionette. The fur was matted with blood, its midsection blown inward like it had taken a shell at close range. Its arms hung limp at its sides, as if it was still trying to stand.

  Emmett stared.

  His stomach sank through the floor.

  “Oh, hell,” he muttered, not quite under his breath.

  A few of the seated men exchanged small glances, some smirking faintly like they'd been waiting for that exact reaction. The man in the lab coat scribbled something down with far too much interest.

  Lucas stepped up beside him and gave him a small, wry glance. “Like I said, Emmett,” he murmured, nodding toward the long table, “unorthodox.”

  Emmett didn’t answer. His eye stayed fixed on the photo of the upright corpse.

  A British colonel seated near the center leaned forward. Mid-fifties. Hawk-nosed. Gray mustache clipped neat and sharp. His uniform fit too well for someone who ever fought in it.

  “Lieutenant Granger,” he said, gesturing to the open chair across from him. “Please. Have a seat.”

  Emmett didn’t move at first. His fingers tightened slightly on the brim of his cap.

  Then he gave a shallow nod, walked to the chair beside Lucas, and sat without a word.

  The British colonel cleared his throat and rose slightly from his chair, giving Emmett a firm, practiced nod.

  “Colonel Richard Pritchard,” he said. “Appreciate you joining us this morning, Lieutenant.”

  He motioned loosely to a few of the men seated nearby. An older American officer with a clipboard, a thin-lipped Brit in navy blue, the man in the lab coat.

  “You’ll pardon the odd arrangement. We’ve gathered a mix of perspectives for this matter. Again, thank you for your time.”

  Emmett gave a respectful nod in return, straightening a bit in his seat. “Of course, sir.”

  Colonel Pritchard reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a slim silver cigarette case, its surface gleaming softly in the filtered light. He cracked it open, plucked one for himself, and offered the case across the table.

  Emmett held up a hand. “No thank you, sir. I brought my own.”

  Pritchard gave a small nod and tucked the case away. Emmett reached into his coat, retrieving a dented old tin. The hinge creaked as he opened it, revealing a few crooked cigarettes. He pulled one free, struck a match from the brass box near the ashtray, and lit up with a smooth, practiced motion. The scent of burning tobacco drifted into the room, joining the existing cloud of smoke.

  He let out a slow breath and glanced again toward the photo display in the corner.

  “When I first saw one of those things,” he said, voice rough with smoke and gravel, “I thought I was losin’ my goddamn mind.”

  A few of the men around the table chuckled lightly. The man in the lab coat leaned forward, folding his hands atop a stack of folders. His blond hair had thinned down the middle, combed back in deliberate, clinical order.

  “You weren’t,” he said simply. “They’re real. And wearing the uniform of the Wehrmacht, no less.”

  Before Emmett could reply, Colonel Pritchard raised a hand and cleared his throat. His tone was sharp, no-nonsense.

  “I prefer to keep meetings like this focused,” he said. “So I’m turning it over to the gentleman with the details. Mr. Halloway.”

  He gestured to Lucas, who offered a small nod of appreciation.

  Lucas set his cigarette case down beside his notes, then looked directly at Emmett.

  “Alright,” he began, tapping the edge of the table with one knuckle. “We all know the war’s not over, not yet. But it’s close. The Germans are losing ground every hour. And that means the question of what comes next is rising up faster than we’re ready for.”

  He gestured loosely to the photographs behind Emmett.

  “That,” he said, “is part of what comes next.”

  Lucas opened his pack and tapped a cigarette loose, but didn’t light it right away.

  “More than a few German researchers have defected recently. Scientists, engineers, lab techs. What they’ve been working on... well, let’s just say it ain’t just jet planes and radio systems. A lot of what they’ve built is… like this. Off the books, shady even by Nazi standards.”

  He flicked his lighter, igniting the cigarette and drawing in a breath.

  “That’s where the so-called wolfmen come in.” Lucas said exhaling smoke.

  Emmett nodded toward the boards. “So. What exactly are they?”

  The man in the lab coat adjusted his glasses, his voice calm.

  “We… don’t know,” he said after a moment, as if he hated saying it out loud. “Not completely. Best we can tell, it’s a…”

  “An abomination,” Colonel Pritchard said cutting in. Speaking with an almost amused tone.

  Emmett turned his head and gave a small nod, smoke curling from his nostrils. “I’d… agree with that.”

  The lab coat man didn’t flinch at the interruption, but his lips twitched slightly before he sighed and continued.

  “As I was saying. Whatever they are… they’re not natural. Not even close. It appears the Nazis have been dabbling in what we assume to be forced genetic experimentation. Splicing. Modifying.”

  He stood from his chair and walked over to the images, motioning with a piece of chalk to the massive ribcage of one of the corpses.

  “These aren’t mythical creatures,” he said clearly, firmly. “There’s no magic. No curses. No transformation by moonlight. These things are engineered. Born… or grown, in a way that combines predatory genetics with human anatomy and cognition.”

  He tapped the creature’s forehead in the image. “What you’re looking at is a wolf, more or less. Given the posture, tool-use potential, and decision-making capacity of a man. These are not monsters from a storybook, Lieutenant Granger. They’re predators that can reason.”

  Emmett leaned forward slightly, the cigarette pinched between his fingers. “So… what? Some kind of man-shaped wolf?”

  “In crude terms,” the scientist nodded. “Anthropomorphic, yes. Bipedal. Dexterous. Capable of speech, using firearms as you know, and of course capable of strategy.”

  The scientist continued, almost with a hint of enthusiasm he probably shouldn’t have shown. “Whatever the Nazis have done, they’ve succeeded. Biologically, at least. These creatures are the product of a process. One we can’t yet replicate. One we don’t understand.”

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  Emmett exhaled slowly, his eye flicking once more to the display. The creatures in the images, felt like they were watching him now.

  Lucas glanced toward the man in the lab coat, who gave a subtle nod, as if confirming the conclusion.

  Emmett leaned forward slightly, his hands resting over his knee.

  “You want to capture one alive,” he said.

  A few heads nodded around the table. Lucas grinned faintly.

  “Catch on fast, huh,” he muttered.

  He pointed the cigarette toward Emmett for emphasis.

  “If we can take one alive, there’s a chance we can get it to talk. Learn where their made, how their made, and who’s making them.”

  Lucas leaned back in his chair now, his tone steady but serious.

  “The only problem is their presence on the Western Front has dropped off a cliff. Best we can figure, the Nazis are pulling their little monsters back to the homeland. They’re consolidating as the Russians March closer to Berlin.”

  He took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke upward.

  “But here’s where it gets tricky. The Russians.”

  Lucas gestured again, this time with a slight edge to his voice.

  “We’ve had multiple reports out of the Eastern Front. The Soviets have seen these things, fought them. And knowing how the Reds operate, it’s only a matter of time before they capture one. If they haven’t already.”

  Emmett looked between Lucas, the Colonel, and the other gathered faces.

  “So we’re not trusting the Russians with this.”

  A few of the men chuckled. The British officer two seats down gave a quiet shake of the head.

  Colonel Pritchard’s face remained composed, but his tone carried an edge.

  “We may share a battlefield at present, Lieutenant. But the moment this war ends, so does the illusion of unity. Our ideals do not align. And we cannot afford for Moscow to get their hands on a strategic edge like this. A man who can create something like this… well, suffice it to say we want him.”

  Lucas nodded, rapping his knuckle’s lightly against the table.

  “Which brings us to why you’re here.”

  Colonel Pritchard leaned forward slightly, folding his hands on the polished table.

  “Your activity in France over the past three years,” he began, “and the manner in which it ended… places you in a rather unique position, Lieutenant.”

  His tone wasn’t patronizing. If anything, there was a weight behind the words. Respect, maybe. Or at least recognition.

  “You’ve seen more than most. Operated in conditions most men wouldn’t come back from. And of course, your own encounter with these creatures. That alone gives you experience we consider… invaluable.”

  Emmett said nothing, just watched the man, the cigarette held loosely between his fingers as the smoke drifted upward in thin, lazy strands.

  Pritchard glanced briefly at the others before continuing.

  “That said, we understand you’ve paid a price for it. Your injury is not minor. And no one here would blame you if you chose to step away. You’ve more than earned the right to decline.”

  He paused, giving the words time to hang in the air.

  “But if you believe,” he added, more carefully now, “that your condition won’t slow you down, and if you feel there’s still something left in you for this. We would greatly appreciate your involvement in this endeavor.”

  Lucas nodded once, tapping his index finger softly against the table.

  “To our knowledge,” he said, “you’re the only man to survive a close-quarters fight with one of these things. A direct encounter. And walk away.”

  His eyes flicked to Emmett’s eyepatch.

  “More or less.”

  There was no humor in his voice. Just fact.

  A silence settled over the room. Emmett took one last drag of his cigarette, eyes downcast, watching the burn crawl toward the filter.

  Then he exhaled, slow and steady. The smoke curled upward as he flicked ash into the tray.

  He spoke quietly, but the words carried just fine in the still room.

  “Who am I working with?” His tone wasn’t eager. It wasn’t bitter, either. Just resigned.

  Lucas gave a faint smile and leaned back slightly.

  The car rumbled steadily through the war weary streets of London, its tires hissing on wet cobblestones. The winter sky hung low and gray over the city, casting a heavy gloom that even the gaslights struggled to push back. In the backseat, Emmett Granger sat with his cap resting loosely in his lap, his remaining eye watching the blurred scenery pass by.

  Across from him, Lucas Halloway leaned an elbow against the door, his forehead brushing lightly against the cool glass as he stared out at the battered city. Sandbags were stacked knee-high around shopfronts and pub windows, anti-aircraft guns jutted skyward from empty lots, and entire blocks bore the blackened scars of past bombings.

  Lucas exhaled slowly, almost to himself, before turning his head toward Emmett.

  “You really up for this?” he asked, his voice low but steady.

  Emmett huffed through his nose, not quite a laugh. He dragged a hand over the stubble on his jaw and leaned his head back against the worn leather seat. “Wouldn’t’ve said yes otherwise.”

  Lucas nodded slightly, accepting the answer even if it didn’t quite settle his mind. After a pause, he asked, “How’s it been… with just the one eye?”

  Emmett shrugged, the motion tight across his broad shoulders. “As good as it can be,” he muttered. He turned his head to glance out his window, catching sight of a troop of young boys in uniform hauling a sandbag line across a street. “Depth perception’s shit. But it won’t slow me down.”

  Lucas grunted, a small sound of acknowledgment. His fingers drummed absently against his knee. He hesitated, then asked the question that had been nagging at him since the meeting.

  “Why’d you say yes, Emmett? After everything? France… the Resistance... hell, you coulda’ packed it up, hopped a ship stateside. Never look back.”

  The car slowed at a busy intersection, and Emmett turned to look out the window. Across the street, a team of British soldiers were servicing a flak gun, their movements methodical, faces drawn tight with exhaustion. Sandbags and concertina wire choked the sidewalks.

  Emmett watched them silently for a few moments before answering.

  “Honestly,” he said, his voice quiet, almost reflective, “I don’t know. Maybe...” he paused, chewing the thought over like a piece of tough meat, “maybe I just don’t have anything better to do.”

  Lucas studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. There was something in Emmett’s voice. Not resignation exactly, but something hollowed out. Like a man who had already bled out and just hadn't realized it yet.

  Lucas didn’t argue. He just sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Well. Let’s take a look at the bodies first. Donovan supposed to meet us there.”

  Emmett turned his head slightly, giving him a sidelong glance. “What’s your read on all this, Lucas?”

  Lucas chuckled dryly, pulling a tin of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He popped it open with a flick of his thumb and tapped one out. “Honestly?” he said, striking a match and cupping it against the weak draft from the window.

  He took a long drag before answering.

  “Kinda bullshit,” he said bluntly, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Feels like a lotta wasted effort. We’ve got real enemies. Guns, tanks, jackboots. Not some fairy tale gone sideways.”

  He tapped ash out the window and shook his head. “But it ain’t my call. Brass says jump, I start climbin’.”

  Emmett grunted in agreement.

  The car continued winding its way through London’s battered veins, finally turning down a narrower street hemmed in by old brick buildings. It wasn’t a flashy part of the city, the architecture here was practical, industrial. Tired.

  Ahead, a tall red-brick building loomed. It looked like it had once been a municipal mortuary. Wrought iron gates flanked the short drive, and sandbags were piled in clumsy heaps along the front steps.

  A faded plaque over the entrance still read: City of London Public Mortuary - Established 1885.

  The place had clearly been hastily repurposed. An army lorry was parked near the service entrance, and a pair of Home Guard soldiers stood at a checkpoint, their rifles cradled loosely in their arms. The car pulled through the gate with a slow groan of its suspension.

  Emmett leaned forward slightly, eyeing the building.

  Lucas exhaled a long plume of smoke and tossed the spent cigarette out the window. “First time seeing ‘em... in person at least. I’m guessing the photos don’t do them justice.” he muttered.

  Emmett stared at the mortuary’s heavy oak doors, remembering the creature that had thrown him like a rag doll, the stink of wet fur and blood clogging his lungs.

  He shook his head once. “You have no idea.”

  The car eased to a stop near the entrance. The driver killed the engine with a sputter and a metallic click.

  Lucas adjusted his coat, opened the door, and climbed out into the cold gray afternoon. Emmett followed, polished shoes hitting the cracked pavement with a dull thud. As he straightened up, he caught a faint whiff of something on the air. Disinfectant and decay.

  The cold bit at Emmett’s face as he and Lucas made their way around the back of the building. Salt crunched under their shoe’s, scattered in thick patches along the worn stone steps leading down into the basement level. At the top of the stairs, two Home Guard soldiers stood watch, bundled tight in greatcoats and thick scarves. Their breath misted in the air, their faces flushed red with cold.

  One of the guards, a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and a rifle slung over his shoulder, raised a hand to halt them. His voice was tight with the effort of not shivering. “You two got business here?”

  The other guard squinted at Emmett, his gaze catching on the eyepatch, lingering for just a beat too long before darting away. Emmett didn’t bother reacting. He was getting used to it.

  Lucas nodded calmly, already fishing a folded piece of paper from inside his coat. He handed it over with a small smile. “Lucas Halloway. And this is Emmett Granger.”

  The guard took the paper with a gloved hand, glancing over it while jerking his chin at his companion. “Check the clipboard, would ya’?”

  The second guard shuffled over to a small wooden shack huddled against the side of the building. He yanked open the battered door, fished out a clipboard from within, and flipped through the damp, curling sheets of paper. After a moment, he nodded, turning back toward them.

  “They’re good.”

  The first guard handed the paper back to Lucas, offering a strained, almost sympathetic grin. “Enjoy the freakshow, gents.”

  Lucas gave a short nod, tucking the paper away as he and Emmett started down the steps. At the bottom, they came to a heavy metal door with a black and white sign bolted to it: NO ENTRY WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION.

  Lucas grabbed the knob and pushed it open. A gust of cool, but far less punishing air washed over them, bringing with it the clinical tang of disinfectant and something metallic, almost like pennies.

  Lucas shuddered in relief and stripped off his overcoat, hanging it neatly on a rack bolted by the door. Emmett followed suit, hanging his hat beside it before falling into step behind him.

  The corridor beyond was dimly lit, lined with pipes that hissed softly overhead. The muted sound of voices drifted toward them. Men chatting in low tones, the occasional muted laugh, the shuffle of papers and clinking of metal.

  As they moved deeper, they passed clusters of men in lab coats who broke off their conversations to glance their way. More than a few sets of eyes landed on Emmett, lingering just long enough to register the scars, the ruined side of his face. Some nodded politely. Others offered strained, polite acknowledgments before returning to their work.

  Emmett breathed deep through his nose, tasting the sterile coldness in the air. It didn’t feel like a place for the living. It was a place to sort through death. Dissect it. Understand it.

  Lucas moved with purpose, following the signs bolted haphazardly to the wall. They turned a corner and pushed through a heavy swinging door, the sound of it clanging against the frame echoing briefly.

  Inside, the space opened into a larger room, and there they were.

  Rows of steel tables, cold and clinical. On them, sprawled beneath harsh fluorescent lights, were the bodies.

  Emmett’s boots slowed to a stop. Lucas stood beside him, silent.

  They weren’t like the pictures. The photos had caught something of them, sure. The elongated limbs, the fur matted with dried blood, the sharp, predatory jaws. But up close? You could see the weight of them. The reality.

  They were monstrous, but they weren’t fantasies. They were flesh and bone, muscle and sinew. Wolf-like heads, lupine muzzles filled with teeth meant for shearing. Thick, corded limbs that could've once thrown a man like a doll. Their bodies bore the rough architecture of humanity, but twisted. Stretched into something stronger, leaner. And despite the fact they were laid open like hunted game, there was still a terrible sense of potential about them, like coiled springs wound tight even in death.

  Lucas let out a long, low whistle. “Holy hell,” he muttered under his breath. His eyes roamed over the nearest table, disbelief plain on his face. “How in the hell do you even make something like that?”

  Emmett didn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself to, not with the bitter taste rising in his throat. He drifted closer to one of the tables where a creature’s chest cavity had been split wide open, its organs removed, stainless steel tools scattered nearby.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said sharply.

  Emmett stopped short, blinking down at a man in a lab coat who raised a gloved hand to halt him. “Sorry, sir. I’ll need you to keep a little distance. We’re still cataloguing the tissue samples.”

  The scientist’s voice faltered slightly as he caught sight of Emmett’s face, his gaze flicking from the eyepatch to the deep scars carved into his skin.

  Recognition settled over him like a heavy quilt.

  “You’re… you’re him, aren’t you?”

  Emmett’s lone green eye met his, cool and unreadable.

  The man swallowed thickly, then motioned him to follow. “Follow me please,” he said, voice lower now, almost deferential.

  Lucas followed as Emmett was led to another table tucked closer to the wall. This one, unlike the others, had been sutured back together. Not neatly, but enough to preserve its shape. The fur had been cleaned of blood. The jaws hung open slightly, revealing broken canines and a cracked snout.

  And across its throat, an ugly, brutal gash. A wide, bloodless slice that had practically sawn the creature’s head halfway off its shoulders.

  Lucas exhaled quietly beside him. “It’s him, ain’t it?” he asked, voice rough.

  Emmett’s eye stayed locked on the dead thing. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

  “Yeah,” he said flatly, his voice low and cold.

  He could hear it again. Hear the growl, the desperate spite in its voice as it fought to keep Emmett’s knife from it’s throat.

  "You might kill me! But you’ll never forget what I did to you! I claimed your eye, ruined your face!"

  The memory hit him like a punch to the gut.

  The scientist adjusted his glasses and gestured toward the sutured specimen on the table. His gloved hand already reaching toward the corpse’s head.

  “Physiology is remarkably lupine at first glance,” he said. “Obvious traits, fur, tail, full muzzle, complete dentition consistent with large Canis lupus.” He gently turned the creature’s head toward them, and tapped the side of the skull with a latex-covered knuckle.

  “But here's the oddity,” he said. “Cranial volume. Larger than a typical wolf. Frontal lobe especially. You’d think with all this...” he motioned vaguely to the jaw and broad skull, “...that it’s all animal instinct. But structurally? That brain’s human, or comparable in every major way.”

  Lucas let out a slow breath beside Emmett. The scientist continued, walking around the table.

  “It’s the hands that drive it home,” the man muttered. He reached down and lifted the creature’s left arm. The thick limb sagged heavily in his grasp, the fur short but coarse. He took hold of the hand and raised it for them to see.

  It was human. Or close.

  Thick fingers, long and dexterous, lined with sinew. Pads absent, fur covering the back of the hand and fingers. But the nails. Blunt, curved, black were unmistakably canine.

  “Almost a man’s hand,” the scientist said, turning it slightly. “But it ends like a beast’s.”

  Emmett didn’t respond. The left side of his face pulsed. Deep beneath the scar tissue, a dull, old ache stirred memory, clawing its way back to the surface.

  Lucas glanced at him but said nothing.

  The scientist moved lower along the body, casually lifting the sterile cloth that had been draped over the lower half.

  “And then there’s this,” he muttered. “Reproductive organs are intact. Male, clearly. But chemically castrated.”

  Lucas frowned. “Castrated?”

  The man nodded. “Yes. Chemically, not surgically. Hormone suppression, likely administered continuously. It allowed them to mature past puberty, but then, everything drops off. No further testosterone development. It’s... precise. Purposeful.”

  “Why?” Lucas asked.

  The scientist shrugged, eyes still locked on the body. “Control, perhaps. Psychological suppression. Or maybe something to do with hybrid behavior. Pack dominance, aggression, mating drives. Difficult to say for sure, but it wasn’t accidental. It’s engineered.”

  He lowered the cloth back down and removed his gloves with a snap. “So far, every recovered specimen has been male. All chemically sterilized. But...” He glanced between them, expression tight. “There’ve been reports. Scattered, unreliable. But consistent enough to note. Claims of females among their ranks. Not many. But enough.”

  Lucas leaned back slightly, murmuring, “Interesting...”

  The scientist nodded once. “That’s one word for it.”

  Lucas turned to Emmett, brow furrowed, but didn’t say anything for a long moment. The silence in the room thickened, broken only by the hum of lights and the faint rasp of Emmett’s breathing.

  “Thanks, Doc,” Lucas finally muttered. “We’ll take it from here.”

  The scientist gave a brief nod, gathered his clipboard, and quietly slipped to the otherside of the room.

  Emmett remained where he was, staring down at the corpse. His eye never left that black-nailed hand.

  His own fingers twitched. Once.

  Lucas laid a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding. “C’mon,” he said quietly. “Let’s get what we came for.”

  Emmett nodded once, the motion stiff, and turned away.

  They approached a metal desk where a thin man in wire-rimmed glasses sat flipping through a thick sheaf of papers. He looked up as they approached, his face lighting up in recognition.

  “Here for the report, sir?” he asked, rising halfway from his chair.

  Lucas nodded. “Should be two copies.”

  The man rifled through a drawer and pulled out two heavy manila envelopes, thick with documents. He handed them over without ceremony.

  Lucas passed one to Emmett with a dry smile. “Reading material,” he said. “Covers everything we’ll want to know about these things.”

  Emmett took it, feeling the weight of it in his hand like a lead brick. He gave a grunt that could’ve meant anything. Thanks, or maybe just acknowledgment.

  Lucas jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Big guy’s upstairs. Let’s go talk to him.”

  Without another word, they turned and made their way toward the stairwell.