The Second Birth of Frankenstein (The Department 19 Files #5) Read Online Free Page A

the back of his head, and everything went black.
    Wallace opened his eyes. Somehow, despite the numbing cold and the pain in his bound wrists and ankles, he had fallen asleep, or at least passed out with exhaustion. The fire burned low in front of him, barely more than embers, giving off no heat that he could feel, the darkness around it deeper than ever. Surrounding it, packed tightly together, were his colleagues. The men were all asleep, the watch cancelled, or simply abandoned.
    He twisted his limbs to the extent of their range, and was relieved when feeling began to return to them. He was not susceptible to frostbite, but nor was he certain that he was immune to it, and the conditions he found himself in were a recipe for disaster if his flesh turned out to be as fragile as that of normal men. He was about to shout for the rest of the men to wake up, for no other reason than spite, when he heard something moving in the darkness.
    It was a scratching sound, low and barely audible. Something moving through snow that was mostly ice. Wallace tipped his head back and inhaled deeply, searching the air for the strong animal scent of a bear or a wolf, and found neither. The scratching paused, then began again, more urgently. Fear, which was an entirely unusual sensation for John Wallace, trickled through him. The light cast by the fire extended barely a foot beyond the smouldering wood, far enough to illuminate the outlines of his colleagues, but little else. Around him, the landscape was black, and empty.
    The sound came again, fainter this time, more distant, as though whatever was making it was moving away. And suddenly Wallace understood.
    “McTavish!” he bellowed. “Grant! Paterson! Awake now, for God’s sake!”
    The men around the fire popped up as though they had been stung by hornets, their eyes wild with fear in the pale orange glow of the fire. McTavish was first to his feet, his knife in his hand.
    “I’ll cut yer bloody throat,” he shouted. “Keep makin’ that racket and see if ah dinnae, ye foul thing.”
    “Build up the fire,” shouted Wallace. “We need light.”
    “Why, for God’s sake?” asked Grant.
    “It’s Scott,” he said. “Check him, and see for yourselves.”
    McTavish narrowed his eyes, then turned to the rest of the men. “Build ’er up, lads,” he said. “Then we’ll see, aye.” As the men piled wood on to the embers, he pulled an oil lamp from his pack, and lit it with a burning stick from the fire. Yellow light spilled from its glass, along with the familiar smell of whale oil, and McTavish stomped round the fire to where Scott had been lying.
    He stopped dead, staring down at the ground. The watery lamplight illuminated the patch of snow where Scott had been, confirming instantly to Wallace that he had been right.
    Scott was gone.
    “Whit devilment is this?” asked McTavish, then turned towards him. “You! What ha’ ye done wi’ him?”
    “Do you not see my bindings?” asked Wallace, his voice low. “This is not my doing, and you know it.”
    “He’s gone?” asked Paterson, his voice trembling. “Why would he have gone? His injuries were terrible.”
    “Whit ye askin’ me for?” spat McTavish, rounding on the young man. “I dinnae huv aw the answers fur ye. Think fer yersel, ya wee shite.”
    “There’s a trail,” said Grant, peering down at the snow. “It looks like he crawled.” He took three careful steps away from the fire, and pointed at the ground. “The tracks stop here.”
    “Stop?” asked Paterson. “How can they stop? Are there no footprints?”
    “Not one,” said Grant, softly.
    “Perhaps he flew,” said McTavish, and laughed, a loud bark with no humour in it. “Danced awa’ intae the sky wi’ the fairies.” He spat thickly into the fire. “Spread oot an’ find him. He cannae be far.”
    Wallace shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “There’s something hungry out there.”
    McTavish stormed across the campsite