Return of the Wolf Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

already fed; perhaps it wouldn’t attack her as long as she remained calm. The young woman had no idea how much human intelligence the monster had and she didn’t want to provoke him by making any sudden movements.
    The Wolf Man cocked his head to one side and looked at Joan. The eyes, which had seemed so satisfied a moment before, suddenly changed. They became almost sorrowful. He put his large left hand over Stevens’s face, dug his claws into the cheeks, chin, and forehead and placed the professor’s head on the floor. He moved it carelessly, as though it were an overripe melon. Then, noticing Joan’s horrified eyes, the werewolf glanced down at the dead man’s face. When he looked back at her, he seemed almost ashamed.
    Breathing again, Joan took a small step back. She had it in mind to move away slowly and shut the laboratory door. Her Gypsy blouse was heavy with sweat. It clung stubbornly to her arms and chest. Even the soles of her feet were damp.
    The werewolf growled menacingly. Joan did not take a second step. The Wolf Man stood nearly straight, his hands held waist-high. Though his claws scratched the air slowly, Joan didn’t get the feeling that he was going to attack. He reminded her of the springer spaniel she’d had as a child. Baby Ruth would sometimes rake the air when she was asleep. These were like the reflexive twitches of a creature in a trance. Even when the Wolf Man began padding toward her there was nothing threatening in his manner. Perhaps because the eyes had grown melancholy even the werewolf’s bloody muzzle seemed tragic rather than grotesque.
    As he approached, the Wolf Man turned his head to the side. He crouched slightly and bayed. When the cry ended, the werewolf drew a short breath and howled again. Only this time the sound was different. It resembled a human moan and it became more manlike with each moment. Then, as the first lemon-yellow light of dawn glinted off the broken glass in the window frame, the Wolf Man began to change. His powerful chest, arms, and thighs deflated slowly. His black snout smoothed and became less swarthy. He stood more erect and his hands dropped to his sides, the fingers limp. Most incredibly, the light brown fur began to disappear. It evaporated in layers, taking most of the splattered blood along with it. It retreated to the forehead, cheeks, and chin; then to the hairline and beard; and finally to the jawline and ears. When it was gone, the eyes changed. Their sadness became the deepest despair Joan had ever seen.
    The man who had been a wolf looked at her.
    “Forgive me,” he said in a deep, pitifully anguished voice. He looked at his hands and then tore them through his longish black hair. “God, forgive me!”
    Joan swallowed hard. The sweat on her blouse cooled quickly as she tried to focus on the tall, brawny figure and not on the butchered remains of Professor Stevens.
    And then it came to her. “I know you,” she said.
    The man lowered his hands and looked at her.
    “You’re the man who threatened Count Dracula at the masquerade party this evening,” she said.
    The forlorn eyes were suddenly alert. “Count Dracula! Where is he?”
    “He’s dead,” Joan replied.
    “I know that,” said the man. “He’s been dead for five centuries.”
    Joan stared at him. Despite everything she’d witnessed tonight, she wasn’t prepared to go quite that far.
    “Where is his body?” the man pressed.
    “On its way to the Florida Keys, I would imagine. You and Count Dracula fell into the sea. If that was you, I mean.”
    “It was,” he said. “But—is that all that happened to Dracula?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Was anything else done to his body?”
    “I don’t understand.”
    The man touched his chest. “Was a stake driven through his heart? Was his body exposed to daylight?”
    “Not that I’m aware of.”
    The man’s look of pain deepened. “Then he may have survived,” he said ominously. “Count Dracula can only be slain