Wolf Angel by Mark Hobson (best e reader for manga .TXT) 📕

kitchen he saw she had changed into jogging bottoms and a loose jumper. The coffee machine was gurgling away on the counter and she poured him a drink, then leaned back against the wall, sipping from her own cup and hugging it for warmth.

She peered up at him, the faintest of smiles on her lips. He could almost feel the tension sloughing off her.

“So what happened?” she whispered.

Pieter blew air out between his lips, and then shrugged. “Probably best not to go into details too much,” he told her. “But he got the message.”

Lotte nodded, more to herself if anything. “It’s a mess. I was stupid to let things get that bad, I really shouldn’t have.”

“Hey, there’s only one person to blame here, and you and I know who that is.”

“I know, but I could have asked you for help sooner. To even let that creep control me like that. I never thought I’d be so…weak…feeble…to allow that.”

“He was manipulative, and he thought he had you trapped in an impossible situation. A real nasty piece of work. I come across men like that all of the time, and the one thing they all have in common is this weird ability, almost like an affinity, to home in on the vulnerable and frightened. I’m fairly certain you probably aren’t the first woman he has done that kind of thing to.”

Lotte listened, and then her brow furrowed as something occurred to her, the alarm making her shudder. “He knows where I live. He’s never been here, but he has my address and contact details.”

“Hey, don’t panic. He’d have to be an absolute moron to come around, and I think even Bart isn’t that much of a dimwit. Another thing guys like that have in common is that they don’t like confrontation, especially with men. They are cowards essentially.”

Lotte looked around nervously, at the doors and windows. She didn’t seem very convinced at his reassurances.

Licking her lips, she nodded, and then moved across to a wooden dresser lined with plates and saucers, and reached up for a small delftware pot on the top shelf. Opening the lid she tipped out a key into her hand, and then held it out to him. “This is a spare set, for the front door and also the main door at the bottom of the stairs. Would you have it? Just in case? It’ll make me feel a lot better.”

Pieter took it and slipped it in his jacket pocket.

“You can use it anytime you like, just to let yourself in and out. Even if I’m not here. I’m sorry for been a complete wuss,” she smiled weakly, and Pieter smiled back.

They moved into the main lounge, taking their drinks with them, and sat by the small coffee table. Here they chatted about the situation for a long while, Pieter trying to put her mind at rest, speaking in a gentle voice, and by the time he left the apartment he thought she seemed more positive and reassured.

“Try not to worry,” he told her in the doorway. “You’ve had a horrid ordeal, but I’ll deal with everything.”

It was early evening by the time he reached his own place, a tall and elegant canal house with a bell gable. The Singel tended to be quiet after dark with most of the nightlife across the far side of Dam Square, and this was the main reason for choosing the area as his home.

The house itself, four stories high, was, like most Amsterdam homes, ridiculously narrow. Each floor was accessed by twisting and rickety wooden staircases, with the rooms small and cramped. Even so, he spent most of his time in the living areas on the top two stories. Here there was the living room/lounge, a kitchen with a table big enough for just 2 people, and off the hallway a pair of side-by-side bedrooms, one big and one small. On the next floor up, at the very top of the house, was the tiny attic room right under the gable, with its dusty window looking out across the city. This he used as his office and den.

Parking his car in the garage built into the ground floor, Pieter dragged himself wearily up the stairs.

Preparing a quick microwave meal, he grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and went up to the attic, squeezing his frame through the narrow doorway.

The small room was basic, just an old wooden desk near the window on top of which was an old PC. Against a back wall was a tatty couch, the upholstery full of holes, which sagged every time he sat in it. Covering the floor was a square and threadbare rug. Cobwebs were strung from the roof joists. The place could do with a good clean and a lick of paint, but Pieter thought that would spoil its charm, and anyway he liked the musty smell. Some nights he came up here to do a bit of work or to sit and read under the room’s bare bulb. He even sometimes liked to just sit in the dark to gather his thoughts. But tonight he was just too deadbeat to do any of these things. Instead he slouched on the couch and ate his food, drinking his beer from the bottle. His body ached, and he rubbed and massaged the back of his stiff neck, wondering if he had pulled a muscle during his ruckus with Bart.

Finishing his meal, Pieter put the plate to one side and pushed himself to his feet with a groan. Taking his beer, he strolled over to the room’s grimy window and looked out across the rooftops of Amsterdam.

Overhead, the clouds parted briefly, revealing the full moon.

He slept fitfully, disturbed by vivid dreams.

He was trapped in a dark and square room, a room that had no windows or doors. He lay naked on the floor, and when he tried to rise something cold and slick moved beneath him. He reached down and recoiled in horror when