Wolf Island by Darren Shan Page A

“The human factor. What silly beings we are.”
    Antoine looks at Timas oddly, then leads us out of the room, into a smaller laboratory. There are several people at work,
     some in white coats, others in normal clothes. Glass cases line the walls. I go cold when I see what’s in them — hands, heads,
     feet, ears, bits of flesh and bone, all taken from deformed humans… from
werewolves.
    “What is this?” I croak.
    “Unsettling, aren’t they?” Antoine remarks, studying a pair of oversized eyes floating in a jar of clear liquid. “I’m not
     convinced it’s necessary for them to be displayed in so lurid a fashion, but our technical geniuses insist —”
    “What the hell
is
this?” I shout, losing my temper.
    Antoine blinks at me, surprised by my anger. Then his expression clears. “How thoughtless of me. These remains come from relatives
     of yours. I must apologize for my insensitivity. I never meant to cause offense.”
    “Don’t worry about that,” Shark says, squeezing my shoulder to calm me. “But Grubbs is right — what is this place? It looks
     like Frankenstein’s lab.”
    “To an extent it is.” Antoine sighs. “This is where we experiment upon many of our unfortunate specimens. As you know, we’ve
     been trying to find the genetic source of the Grady disease for decades, searching for a cure. Our experts need a place to
     dissect and reassemble, to study and collate. It’s an unpleasant business, but no worse, I assure you, than any institute
     devoted to animal experiments.”
    “These aren’t animals,” I snarl. “They’re human.”
    “They were once,” Antoine corrects me. “Now…” He makes a face. “As you said, your uncle was attacked by werewolves. You didn’t
     qualify that because you don’t think of them as humans with a defect. When the genes mutate, the specimens become something
     inhuman — although, if we ever crack the rogue genes, perhaps we can restore their humanity.”
    Timas has wandered over to a computer console. “I assume all of your results and data are backed up here.”
    “They’re stored on a mainframe,” Antoine says, “but they’re accessible through most of the computers in the building if you
     have clearance.”
    “You still use mainframes?” Timas tuts. “How primitive.” He runs a finger over the keys. “I’d like to study your records.
     I know nothing of lycanthropy. I find myself intrigued.”
    “Sorry,” Antoine says stiffly. “Our database is off-limits to all but the most strictly authorized personnel. As I’m sure
     you’ll agree, this is a sensitive matter. We wouldn’t want just anybody to have access to such incendiary material.”
    “This is all very interesting,” Meera butts in, “but it doesn’t explain about Prae Athim or what you said on the roof regarding
     the missing
specimens.
”
    “I’m coming to that,” Antoine says patiently. “Trust me, this will be simpler if we proceed step by step.” He walks ahead
     of us and turns, gesturing around the room. “As I was saying, we’ve been extremely busy, cutting specimens up, running tests
     on live subjects, introducing various chemical substances into the veins of random guinea pigs in the hopes of stumbling upon
     a cure.”
    “Any luck?” Shark asks.
    “No,” Antoine says. “We’ve plowed untold millions into this project — and others around the globe — with zero success. If
     not for the continued support of wealthy Gradys, and our dabbling in parallel medical fields, we would have faced bankruptcy
     long ago.”
    “‘Parallel medical fields’?” Meera echoes.
    “We might not have unraveled the mysteries of the Grady genes, but our research has led to breakthroughs in other areas. As
     a result, we have become a worldwide pharmaceutical giant. Steroids are our speciality, though we’re by no means limited to
     so finite a field.”
    Antoine looks like he’s about to give us a breakdown of the Lambs’ success stories. But then,