The Company of Shadows (Wellington Undead Book 3) by Richard Estep Page A

perhaps?”
    Caldwell dismissed that notion with an angry shake of the head, thought (but did not say) I do not tell you how to do your job, sir, so pray extend to me the same courtesy. Wellesley’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and it was only then that Caldwell recalled with some trepidation the vampire’s ability of reading mortal minds, when they so choose. Had Wellesley perceived his disobedient thought? If he had, then he seemed unwilling to act on it, which came as a great relief.
    “No, sir, I have not. Until very recently, the strength of Captain Campbell’s pulse has been extremely poor – caused, no doubt, by the great volume of blood that he lost during his struggle with the undead. Morphine has the effect of slowing the respiratory rate and weakening the pulse even further, which could have been extremely dangerous – if not fatal – for Captain Campbell. I therefore had no choice but to withhold analgesia from him, as dismaying a prospect as that may be.”
    “Captain Campbell’s wounds were not caused by the risen dead, Doctor.” Arthur regarded him levelly. “They were inflicted by a were-tiger. The creature who is named Jamelia, daughter of the Tipu Sultan.”
    Caldwell’s eyes narrowed. “Then his physiologic sea change suddenly makes a great deal more sense to me.” The doctor place a hand firmly on top of Campbell’s skull, clamping it in place as best he could, and with the fingers of the other hand slowly prised open one sweat-slicked eyelid. The iris underneath was now a pale yellow in color. Of greater concern was the fact that the ink-black pupil was no longer round: instead, it had taken on the shape of a thin, almond-like vertical slash.
    Like that of a cat.
    As though triggered by the sensation of light falling on his exposed eyeball, the captain’s muscles gave an almighty spasm. The buckle on the strap that secured his right wrist gave way, unable to withstand the sudden spastic jerk. Caldwell and his orderly took a step back. Wellesley held his ground, silent and immobile. The left wrist strap went next. Rather than bend at the waist to free himself from the ankle straps, Campbell instead clutched at his temples, howling as though his skull was about to burst.
    Which apparently, it was.
    Something was taking place behind the tortured Scotsman’s face. His yellow eyes screwed tightly shut again, but Caldwell and Wellesley could see them bulging out of their sockets, as though pushed from behind. His nose came next, slowly beginning to protrude forward until it began to look like more of a snout than anything else. The sound of cracking cartilage which accompanied the warping of Campbell’s facial features made even the seasoned doctor wince, although the vampire general remained impassive, simply watching the grotesque events play out on top of the makeshift operating table.
    Campbell opened his mouth to scream, only for several of his teeth to elongate, sinking downward and rising up to meet one another. With an almighty crunch, his jaw dislocated, pushed and stretched out to the limit of its tolerance. Still the face elongated, the brow straightening and becoming somehow flatter. More catlike.
    Fingernails became sharp black talons, extending outward from the quick and slicing a series of bloody parallel grooves in the captain’s face. He barely seemed to notice, so great was his overall sense of pain, as trails of blood ran down the side of each cheek in rivulets, oozing from the twin sets of new lacerations. Barely had the first drop of blood reached his chin than it was absorbed, matting the orange and black tufts of hair that were sprouting from Campbell’s pores with unbelievable speed. The same hair was emerging all over the captain’s body. The doctor and his assistants had already cut away his shirt prior to treating his wounds, but his grey trousers remained in place – to afford him a little dignity, if nothing else. Now they began to tear, splitting down the