She's just a little girl, Tom thought, and then he found his breath. "She's almost dead."

The shadow shook its head. "She's almost alive." And then it fed him some more.

Cole could hear the berserker coming.

If he kept going at this pace he would reach the access road first, then he had a mile to run before he was back onto the main road. And even then, there was no guarantee that anyone would stop for him. Not looking like he did, bloodied and battered and carrying a corpse.

"Where are you?" he said, and inside he wanted her back. He wanted to feel the nearly dead girl in his mind, because her voice gave him purpose. He so wished to hear her, because his aim was to silence that voice forever as he should have done ten years before.

You were too cruel then, Natasha said, surprising him. He had not sensed her creeping into his mind. Perhaps she was hiding, down in his subconscious with the living shadow of his hate. Or maybe she had always been there.

"Cruelty's childish," he said. "I'm over it."

Don't you want to know?

Behind him he heard the sounds of pursuit. Feet slapping through the knee-high ferns that smothered the hillside. Hands pushing aside branches. The noises were coming closer, however hard Cole ran. And Natasha, light as she was, was slowing him down. He should shoot her here and now, three rounds to blow off her head, and then he could leave her for them to find. The final insult. They would be free again, but Natasha would be dead.

But did he want to know? Did he really? Did he need to? And the answer was yes, had always been yes. That was why Sandra Francis had died at his hand, after all. There was no other reason, and he could no longer pretend that her death had been a necessity. She died because she had refused to tell him how they had made Natasha special.

"No," he said, and Natasha laughed.

Cole paused. She had laughed! And it had not been down there in the darkness, where lay all the knowledge he denied and the desires he refused to acknowledge. Natasha had laughed out loud, perhaps because she had seen those desires.

"That was you!" he said.

"I … can …" She said no more. He looked down at the bundle in his arms. It had spoken. Not dead, but dreaming, she said in his mind, and now I'm coming back again.

"No you're not," Cole said. He ran on, holding the berserker close to his chest with one hand, grabbing at thin tree trunks and hauling himself up the slope with the other. He dug his feet in, leaned forward, ignoring the pain in his thigh that felt as if his flesh were melting and running from his leg. Soon there would be only bone left but he would push on, because his cause was inbred, it was instinct. Nothing would swerve him from the path, and—

Then why aren't I dead already? It's because you can't. It's because you need to know. Kill me now and I'll always be a mystery, and you'll never understand why you buried me alive. You killed yourself doing that, didn't you Mister Wolf? Didn't you, Cole? I know because I've been to that place in your mind, that underground. And I've talked to the shadow of you.

"What is it?" Cole shouted. He paused, shaking the girl's corpse and hearing the crackle of weak things breaking. But she did not scream. Instead she opened her mouth and whispered, something so light that it told itself only to the dark. "What?" He leaned closer.

The pistol in his belt was forgotten. The sound of pursuit grew louder, but he did not care. Now, here, he would discover a truth that had haunted him for a decade. "What?"

"They …"

Cole only caught the first word, so he brought her closer to him, turning his head so that she could whisper into his ear.

"They made me the mother of the future," Natasha said. She came to life, warm and shifting, and before Cole could let go she had buried her teeth in his throat.

Cole tried to scream, but he heard it only in his mind.

Tom was being dragged through the dark. The shadow had revealed itself as Sophia as she bent before the flames to scoop him up, but she had changed. Her face was bashed and bloody, her hair matted, one side of her scalp burned and bubbled. And her eyes had changed the most. They reflected the flames and gave back only sadness, as if the fire told her unwanted truths.

"Lane?" Tom croaked.

"He's gone," Sophia said. "What do you think you were eating?" She held him beneath the arms and he was looking up at her face, upside down. She glanced down and a tear hit his cheek. "Dan as well. My son. I heard him screaming. He couldn't escape the fire. That's no way to go, not for anyone."

"Eating?"

"You have silver in you. We're immune, and Lane's flesh will help you."

"But—"

"Please!" Sophia said, her voice breaking. "Please, just leave it. It's done." She grunted as she dragged him, and Tom wondered why he did not feel nauseated. Why, in fact, he still felt hungry. The red meat was heavy in his stomach, and he could sense the goodness radiating out from there.

"I was shot," Tom said. "Cole shot me again. I felt it… I can feel it. Heavy, like a block of ice in my chest." This fresh pain made his back feel like a tickle. "I should be dead."

"It's not easy to kill a berserker." Sophia hauled him off the road, heading down a slope into a thicket of trees and shrubs. Hidden from the road she set him down and dropped beside him.

Tom had so many questions vying for attention that for a while he could ask nothing. The tang of meat was still rich on his tongue. His muscles burned, his veins carried fire around his body, and he was sweating so much he thought he must be seeping blood. But Sophia did not spare him a glance. He saw the burning cars reflected in her eyes, as if she were imprinting the sight on her memory.

"There is no home, is there?" he said at last. In his pain, his mind was an oasis. And in his mind loose ends were coming together, and understanding bloomed like a blood-red rose.

Sophia shook her head. "Natasha's mother was always so protective," she said. "How you can protect someone by telling such lies, I never knew. We argued about it. We fought. But Natasha was her child, and really I had little say."

"Home is where Natasha said you berserkers come from."

Sophia chuckled, a surprisingly light sound against the continuing roar of flames. "Berserkers come from Porton Down," she said. Tom saw the truth in her eyes, and that truth lay in her humanity. He had seen her as a raging monster and a vicious killer, but now, eyes reflecting the fire of her son's and husband's funeral pyre, she was as human as he.

"They made you," he said.

Sophia nodded. "We were normal families. Lane was army, as was Natasha's father. They used science, and something more arcane, and they gave us our cravings. They made us monsters. And now Natasha has made you."

Tom closed his eyes. "I think she started yesterday. Cole shot me in the back. Natasha kept me alive."

"And you her."

"She wants me to be her daddy. But …"

Sophia stood and grabbed him beneath the arms once more. "You'll survive. Now we have to get farther away from the road. There'll be police on the way, and more army. We'll be going soon."

"Natasha?"

"She's fine," Sophia said. She glanced up at the emerging stars and smiled. "She's just given Mister Wolf his answer."

"Steven," Tom gasped. "Steven! If there's no home, then where's my son?"

Sophia looked over her shoulder to see where she was going, avoiding his eyes. "We buried him in a forest in Wales," she said. "He fed us for a while."

Cole looked up. Sarah, the image of her parents, stared down at him. She held Natasha in her arms, and in the darkness the little girl seemed to be still again.