Somewhere in the benighted house a door opened and closed, but the drink and the steam made him feel quite aloof from events elsewhere. The sauna was another planet; his, and his alone. He put the drained glass down on the tiles and closed his eyes, hoping to drowse.
Breer went to the gate. There was a hum of electricity off it, and the sour smell of power in the air.
“You’re strong,” the European said. “You told me so. Open the gate.”
Breer put his hand on the wire. The boasts were true: he felt only the slightest tremor. There was just a cooking smell and the sound of his teeth chattering as he started to tear the gate apart. He was stronger than he’d imagined. There was no fear in him, and its absence made him Herculean. Now the dogs had started to bark along the fence, but he just thought: let them come. He wasn’t going to die. Perhaps he would never die.
Laughing like a loon, he ripped the gate open; the hum stopped as the circuit was broken. The air was tinged with blue smoke.
“That’s good,” said the European.
Breer tried to drop the section of wire he was holding, but some of it had welded itself into his palm. He had to tear it out with his other hand. He looked down incredulously at his seared flesh. It was blackened, and smelled appetizing. Soon, surely, it must begin to hurt a little. No man-not even a man like him, guiltless and sublimely strong-could receive a wound like this and not suffer. But there was no sensation.
Suddenly-out of the dark-a dog.
Mamoulian backed off, fear convulsing him, but Breer was its intended victim. A few paces from its target the dog leaped, and its bulk struck Breer center chest. The impact toppled him over onto his back, and the dog was swiftly on top of him, jaws snapping at his throat. Breer was armed with a long-bladed kitchen knife, but he seemed uninterested in the weapon, though it was within easy reach. His fat face broke into a laugh as the dog scrabbled to get access to the man’s neck. Breer simply took hold of the dog’s lower jaw. The animal snapped down, clamping Breer’s hand in its mouth. Almost immediately it realized its error. Breer reached around the back of the dog’s head with his free hand, grabbed a fistful of fur and muscle, and jerked neck and head in opposite directions. There was a grinding sound. The dog roared in its throat, still unwilling to let go of its executioner’s hand, even as blood sprang from between its clenched teeth. Breer gave the dog another lethal wrench. Its eyes showed white and its limbs stiffened. It slumped down onto Breer’s chest, dead.
Other dogs barked in the distance, responding to the death-yelp they’d heard. The European looked nervously to right and left along the fence.
“Get up! Quickly!”
Breer loosed his hand from the dog’s maw and shrugged the corpse off. He was still laughing.
“Easy,” he said.
“There’s more.”
“Take me to them.”
“Maybe too many for you to take on all at once.”
“Was this the one?” Breer asked, kicking the dead dog over so that the European could see it better.
“The one?”
“That took off your fingers?”
“I don’t know,” the European replied, avoiding Breer’s blood-spattered face as it grinned at him, eyes sparkling like an adolescent’s in love.
“The kennels?” he suggested. “Finish them off there.”
“Why not?”
The European led off from the fence in the direction of the kennels. Thanks to Carys, the layout of the Sanctuary was as familiar to him as the palm of his own hand. Breer kept pace with him, stinking of blood already, a spring in his heavy step. He had seldom felt so alive.
Life was so good, wasn’t it? So very good.
The dogs barked.
In her room Carys pulled the pillow over her head to shut out the din. Tomorrow she’d pluck up her courage and tell Lillian that she resented being kept awake half the night by hysterical hounds. If she was ever going to be healthy she’d have to start learning the rhythms of a normal life. That meant going about her business while the sun shone, and sleeping at night.