Clem knelt in the brush listening to his friends make noises that men's throats should never make. He desperately wanted to go to them, but he wouldn’t be able to do much good until he loaded the shotgun in his hands. The night was chilled, but sweat poured down the back of Clem’s neck and across his forehead dripping into his eyes. He tried to calm down and still his shaking hands but the screaming and howling made it impossible to concentrate. Clem had heard about the malice of the wolves of Alaska, but he and his friends had taken every precaution: food was hanging away from camp in animal-proof containers, the garbage was likewise secured and distant, and their campsite was clean and tidy. They hadn’t seen any evidence of a den or recent wolf activity around the campsite. It just didn’t make any sense for the wolves to attack them in the middle of the night without any provocation.
Clem loaded both barrels with buckshot and lamented that he was unable to find the deer slugs in the chaos. He chambered the rounds and took a deep breath. The screams had subsided now into moans and whimpers, and Clem knew it was too late to save his friends, but he could still hear the beasts tearing the camp apart, so he knew it wasn’t too late to exact some revenge. He eased around the tree and tried to make out movement in the darkness. The fire had gone out and the night was moonless, but Clem had always had excellent night vision. He saw a furry shadow, and took aim even though something about the shape seemed wrong. The shotgun blast thundered and blazed in the night, and a sharp, feral cry told Clem that he hit his mark. He took refuge behind the tree again and pulled more ammunition from the pocket of his jacket.
Clem opened the gun once more, but before he could reload he heard snarling rapidly approaching his hiding spot. He shouldered the gun and got a hand hold on the tree. He wouldn't be able to outrun the wolves, but wolves couldn't climb trees. Clem heaved himself up and swung his leg onto a branch. He was reaching up for another hand-hold when he felt a claw wrap around his leg and he was yanked down. Clem hit his head on the trunk of the tree and bright stars exploded in front of his eyes. He was stunned and confused as he felt himself being picked up and thrown against the tree. He felt hot fetid breath on his face that reeked of blood. Clem struggled to focus his eyes, but he was now aware that the creature was not a mere wolf.
The beast lunged and Clem instinctively thrust the shotgun into its jaws, but still felt a blinding pain as the teeth sunk into his shoulder. The thing shook him viciously then abruptly let him go, and let out a pained sound. Clem's body toppled over limply and he was subjected to a kick in the face from a boot. Wolves with boots? Clem thought dully as a dragon of pain breathed its fire through his body, and consciousness ebbed away.
Clem loaded both barrels with buckshot and lamented that he was unable to find the deer slugs in the chaos. He chambered the rounds and took a deep breath. The screams had subsided now into moans and whimpers, and Clem knew it was too late to save his friends, but he could still hear the beasts tearing the camp apart, so he knew it wasn’t too late to exact some revenge. He eased around the tree and tried to make out movement in the darkness. The fire had gone out and the night was moonless, but Clem had always had excellent night vision. He saw a furry shadow, and took aim even though something about the shape seemed wrong. The shotgun blast thundered and blazed in the night, and a sharp, feral cry told Clem that he hit his mark. He took refuge behind the tree again and pulled more ammunition from the pocket of his jacket.
Clem opened the gun once more, but before he could reload he heard snarling rapidly approaching his hiding spot. He shouldered the gun and got a hand hold on the tree. He wouldn't be able to outrun the wolves, but wolves couldn't climb trees. Clem heaved himself up and swung his leg onto a branch. He was reaching up for another hand-hold when he felt a claw wrap around his leg and he was yanked down. Clem hit his head on the trunk of the tree and bright stars exploded in front of his eyes. He was stunned and confused as he felt himself being picked up and thrown against the tree. He felt hot fetid breath on his face that reeked of blood. Clem struggled to focus his eyes, but he was now aware that the creature was not a mere wolf.
The beast lunged and Clem instinctively thrust the shotgun into its jaws, but still felt a blinding pain as the teeth sunk into his shoulder. The thing shook him viciously then abruptly let him go, and let out a pained sound. Clem's body toppled over limply and he was subjected to a kick in the face from a boot. Wolves with boots? Clem thought dully as a dragon of pain breathed its fire through his body, and consciousness ebbed away.
“I heard he was a Russian warlock who was being hunted down by the Germans during World War II and that he escaped to the U.S. so that the Nazis couldn’t use his powers to take over the world.”
“Don’t be a moron. He was part of that cult that summoned a demon over in Siberia. What’s that place called? T-something?”
“Tunguska?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Where all the trees were blown up and shit!”
“Would you two idiots shut up? People are starting to stare at us.”
David picked up another of the alchemical-looking apparatuses, this one with a ceramic basin and curved, cloudy, glass outflow pipe. It lay on the folding table among various plates, cups, and normal, though old, kitchen implements.
“Maybe he was just a chemist or made meth,” he said tossing the item back on the table.
“No, no, I know that this old guy was into some weird shit,” Tommy insisted. “We just gotta keep looking.”
The day was grey and the air smelled of dead leaves and fall rain. David peered around the yard in front of the brooding gothic mansion. The estate sale of the dead man sprawled out in front of the place and gave the impression that the house had disgorged its contents through the huge iron doors. A sparse mixture of curious neighbors, and intrepid bargain hunters wound their way back and forth between the tables, furniture, and piles of miscellaneous items that were vaguely sorted according to room. He, Tommy, and James didn’t blend in well with their ripped jeans, black, death metal shirts, and various piercings. They had already been searching for something cool and occult for a half-hour, and though keen at the start David’s interest had waned over time. Most of what they had seen so far was just junk, old junk, but still junk, and David really just wanted to go buy a six-pack and get hammered.
He wandered away from James and Tommy who were examining some old bottles and found a chair between a wardrobe and an ancient refrigerator that hid him from their view. He flopped down into the chair which creaked angrily at his invasion. David leaned back in the chair and was about to close his eyes when the carved designs on the side of the dark wooden wardrobe caught his eye. They were actually quite gruesome with depictions of soldiers fighting terrible monsters of varying descriptions while a large dispassionate entity, presumably some sort of god, loomed overhead. The soldiers were obviously at the losing end of the deal with most being dismembered, eaten, or burned alive by the hoard of beasts.
Finally something interesting, thought David. He rose from the chair and sauntered over to get a better look. The wood was so dark that it was nearly black and it seemed extremely thick as well. It was large enough that several people could probably fit inside of it, but old enough that such a stunt might cause it to collapse. As David followed the carvings around to the front, he found more of a sedate scene with the soldiers preparing for battle and bidding farewell to the women and children. Most of the faces were serene, but now and then David could pick out a look of terror or sadness, and one of the children’s faces was frozen in a creepy grin like she knew what was about to happen to the soldiers just around the corner. The doors had large tarnished handles and were locked by an ornate and impressive key that protruded from an oddly-shaped keyhole.
David scanned around and saw no one paying attention to him, so he turned the key and felt the locking mechanism doing its work before hearing an audible click. The door didn’t open, so David tried one of the knobs and then swung the heavy door open. Inside the wardrobe seemed dark and stolid and a musty odor wafted from the interior that smelt of old clothing and wood. The door held a full length mirror on the inner side, but the silver was so badly tarnished that David couldn’t really see his reflection in it. He was a little disappointed to see that the interior appeared empty, but as his eyes adjusted to the dimness he spotted drawers lining the back wall. Again, he glanced around to make sure no one was watching him, then David stepped up and inside the wardrobe and shuffled his way to the back. His body blocked some of the gloomy exterior light, but he could see well enough when he began opening drawers, to see that they were all empty.
“Damnit!” he breathed, standing, and slamming the last drawer shut. When he did, he heard a small metallic noise. David bent down and opened the drawer again, but still saw nothing inside, so he pulled the drawer completely out and spied a key at the back of the shaft. He reached back and palmed it then looked at the back of the drawer. There were brittle pieces of old masking tape which must have secured the hidden key to the drawer. David slid the drawer back into place and then appraised the key. It looked similar to the massive key for the wardrobe’s outer door, but only in miniature. David was really excited now. He scrutinized the inside of the wardrobe looking for a keyhole but found nothing, so he jumped outside and began examining the outside.
Just as he was getting frustrated and thinking that the stupid little key could open anything anywhere in the entire estate sale from a jewelry box to a diary, David noticed a tiny keyhole on the back corner of the right side of the wardrobe. It was very hard to notice against the dark wood because it was right at the crook of a soldier’s neck. He’d been very lucky to spot it, and desperately wanted to jam the key in and see what was inside, but at that moment a lady in a dark grey suit walked over to him. She looked him over more closely and the smile that she’d had affixed to her face drooped slightly. She noticed the open door of the wardrobe and her eyes became even less friendly. She cleared her throat.
“I see that you’re admiring the antique wardrobe. The estate is willing to entertain any offer above twenty-five hundred for this piece.”
David considered his options: he could just split and try to come back later when she wasn’t watching to open the secret compartment, he could go get James or Tommie and give them the key, then try to distract her so that they could open it, or he could try a little sweet talking. He smiled confidently.
“It is a really awesome piece, but obviously too rich for my blood.”
The woman nodded and stood her ground.
“Buuuuut, if I show you something that could up the price for the estate, will you give me a discount on what’s inside?”
The woman hesitated.
“There isn’t anything inside. It’s empty.”
David shrugged slowly.
“Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t. I’d love to show you, but I need a little something in return.”
The woman’s eyes raked the side of the wardrobe, but since she didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, she didn’t see the tiny keyhole. David could sense her curiosity piquing. He pegged her as probably some kind of antiques appraiser.
“O.K. Show me and I promise to give you a discount.”
It was a very vague promise, but David had a knack for knowing when people were bullshitting, and this lady wasn’t. Also, this was probably the only way of doing this that wouldn’t get him in more trouble with the law. He held out his hand to her.
“Shake on it then?”
The woman reached out a manicured hand and shook David’s once. He had the key palmed and dropped it into her hand.
“Oh!” She gazed down at the key in her hand. “Where did you find this?”
“It was taped to the back of one of the drawers inside.”
“And you know what it opens?”
David pointed at the side of the carved soldier’s neck with his index finger.
“I think so.”
The woman’s eyes sparkled as she fit the key into the small hole and turned it gently with her thumb and index finger. They both heard it when something near the bottom of the wardrobe released, and David squatted more quickly since he was wearing jeans instead of a skirt. A little drawer had opened at the bottom edge of the wardrobe and he pulled it gently out while the woman was bending down. The drawer was just big enough for the book inside. It was some kind of old journal with a carved wooden animal head on the front. A wolf head.
“Don’t be a moron. He was part of that cult that summoned a demon over in Siberia. What’s that place called? T-something?”
“Tunguska?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Where all the trees were blown up and shit!”
“Would you two idiots shut up? People are starting to stare at us.”
David picked up another of the alchemical-looking apparatuses, this one with a ceramic basin and curved, cloudy, glass outflow pipe. It lay on the folding table among various plates, cups, and normal, though old, kitchen implements.
“Maybe he was just a chemist or made meth,” he said tossing the item back on the table.
“No, no, I know that this old guy was into some weird shit,” Tommy insisted. “We just gotta keep looking.”
The day was grey and the air smelled of dead leaves and fall rain. David peered around the yard in front of the brooding gothic mansion. The estate sale of the dead man sprawled out in front of the place and gave the impression that the house had disgorged its contents through the huge iron doors. A sparse mixture of curious neighbors, and intrepid bargain hunters wound their way back and forth between the tables, furniture, and piles of miscellaneous items that were vaguely sorted according to room. He, Tommy, and James didn’t blend in well with their ripped jeans, black, death metal shirts, and various piercings. They had already been searching for something cool and occult for a half-hour, and though keen at the start David’s interest had waned over time. Most of what they had seen so far was just junk, old junk, but still junk, and David really just wanted to go buy a six-pack and get hammered.
He wandered away from James and Tommy who were examining some old bottles and found a chair between a wardrobe and an ancient refrigerator that hid him from their view. He flopped down into the chair which creaked angrily at his invasion. David leaned back in the chair and was about to close his eyes when the carved designs on the side of the dark wooden wardrobe caught his eye. They were actually quite gruesome with depictions of soldiers fighting terrible monsters of varying descriptions while a large dispassionate entity, presumably some sort of god, loomed overhead. The soldiers were obviously at the losing end of the deal with most being dismembered, eaten, or burned alive by the hoard of beasts.
Finally something interesting, thought David. He rose from the chair and sauntered over to get a better look. The wood was so dark that it was nearly black and it seemed extremely thick as well. It was large enough that several people could probably fit inside of it, but old enough that such a stunt might cause it to collapse. As David followed the carvings around to the front, he found more of a sedate scene with the soldiers preparing for battle and bidding farewell to the women and children. Most of the faces were serene, but now and then David could pick out a look of terror or sadness, and one of the children’s faces was frozen in a creepy grin like she knew what was about to happen to the soldiers just around the corner. The doors had large tarnished handles and were locked by an ornate and impressive key that protruded from an oddly-shaped keyhole.
David scanned around and saw no one paying attention to him, so he turned the key and felt the locking mechanism doing its work before hearing an audible click. The door didn’t open, so David tried one of the knobs and then swung the heavy door open. Inside the wardrobe seemed dark and stolid and a musty odor wafted from the interior that smelt of old clothing and wood. The door held a full length mirror on the inner side, but the silver was so badly tarnished that David couldn’t really see his reflection in it. He was a little disappointed to see that the interior appeared empty, but as his eyes adjusted to the dimness he spotted drawers lining the back wall. Again, he glanced around to make sure no one was watching him, then David stepped up and inside the wardrobe and shuffled his way to the back. His body blocked some of the gloomy exterior light, but he could see well enough when he began opening drawers, to see that they were all empty.
“Damnit!” he breathed, standing, and slamming the last drawer shut. When he did, he heard a small metallic noise. David bent down and opened the drawer again, but still saw nothing inside, so he pulled the drawer completely out and spied a key at the back of the shaft. He reached back and palmed it then looked at the back of the drawer. There were brittle pieces of old masking tape which must have secured the hidden key to the drawer. David slid the drawer back into place and then appraised the key. It looked similar to the massive key for the wardrobe’s outer door, but only in miniature. David was really excited now. He scrutinized the inside of the wardrobe looking for a keyhole but found nothing, so he jumped outside and began examining the outside.
Just as he was getting frustrated and thinking that the stupid little key could open anything anywhere in the entire estate sale from a jewelry box to a diary, David noticed a tiny keyhole on the back corner of the right side of the wardrobe. It was very hard to notice against the dark wood because it was right at the crook of a soldier’s neck. He’d been very lucky to spot it, and desperately wanted to jam the key in and see what was inside, but at that moment a lady in a dark grey suit walked over to him. She looked him over more closely and the smile that she’d had affixed to her face drooped slightly. She noticed the open door of the wardrobe and her eyes became even less friendly. She cleared her throat.
“I see that you’re admiring the antique wardrobe. The estate is willing to entertain any offer above twenty-five hundred for this piece.”
David considered his options: he could just split and try to come back later when she wasn’t watching to open the secret compartment, he could go get James or Tommie and give them the key, then try to distract her so that they could open it, or he could try a little sweet talking. He smiled confidently.
“It is a really awesome piece, but obviously too rich for my blood.”
The woman nodded and stood her ground.
“Buuuuut, if I show you something that could up the price for the estate, will you give me a discount on what’s inside?”
The woman hesitated.
“There isn’t anything inside. It’s empty.”
David shrugged slowly.
“Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t. I’d love to show you, but I need a little something in return.”
The woman’s eyes raked the side of the wardrobe, but since she didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, she didn’t see the tiny keyhole. David could sense her curiosity piquing. He pegged her as probably some kind of antiques appraiser.
“O.K. Show me and I promise to give you a discount.”
It was a very vague promise, but David had a knack for knowing when people were bullshitting, and this lady wasn’t. Also, this was probably the only way of doing this that wouldn’t get him in more trouble with the law. He held out his hand to her.
“Shake on it then?”
The woman reached out a manicured hand and shook David’s once. He had the key palmed and dropped it into her hand.
“Oh!” She gazed down at the key in her hand. “Where did you find this?”
“It was taped to the back of one of the drawers inside.”
“And you know what it opens?”
David pointed at the side of the carved soldier’s neck with his index finger.
“I think so.”
The woman’s eyes sparkled as she fit the key into the small hole and turned it gently with her thumb and index finger. They both heard it when something near the bottom of the wardrobe released, and David squatted more quickly since he was wearing jeans instead of a skirt. A little drawer had opened at the bottom edge of the wardrobe and he pulled it gently out while the woman was bending down. The drawer was just big enough for the book inside. It was some kind of old journal with a carved wooden animal head on the front. A wolf head.
Tommy kicked a discarded pop can and sent it tumbling down the sidewalk and into the street as he took another swig from the paper-wrapped bottle of cheap whiskey. It had been over a week since he’d tattooed David with the blood from the phial they’d found and still nothing had happened. Tommy was still so pissed off that he could spit. It should’ve been him. He should’ve made David give him the tattoo. Sure David had found the journal, but he was a wuss and he really didn’t believe. Damnit! All of it was wasted. I could’ve been…Tommy gripped the bottle to chuck it into the brick wall of the office building he was passing, but then thought better of it. He was nearly broke and taking out his anger on the whiskey bottle wasn’t going to change anything. Ah, screw it, he thought. Maybe there was more blood somewhere. Yeah, they should break into that old man’s mansion and have a look around. He might’ve had a whole secret lab or some shit! Wait…naw…James and David wouldn’t go for it, not now. He’d have to do it himself.
Tommy dodged through an alleyway and stopped in front of the back door to the abandoned apartment building they’d been using as a hangout lately. He wanted to go to the mansion tonight, but he’d promised those losers that he’d meet them here, and he didn’t want them to get suspicious. Glancing up and down the alley to make sure he wasn’t spotted, Tommy deftly squatted and maneuvered his way through a gap in the boards over where the door used to be, taking care not to spill his whiskey. Once inside he stood and brushed off his jeans. A demonic symbol on his black shirt featuring his favorite band glowed in the darkness. Tommy really wanted to listen to some of their songs backwards, but you needed a record player and the vinyl to do it right. Tommy listened for a moment in the darkness, but he didn’t hear the guys. David was probably sulking and James might’ve already been passed out by now.
Tommy took another long pull from the whiskey bottle, leaving only a few swallows. He wasn’t feeling like sharing with the group tonight. His throat burning with low quality booze, Tommy coughed then started down the hallway to the stairwell. He’d tread this way enough times that, despite the lack of light, he was able to find the stairs with little difficulty. Heading down into the basement, he carefully moved over a missing step and avoided touching the rickety banister. When he reached the bottom, he could see a wan light spilling out from a crack beneath the door of one of the apartments. He crept up to the door, grasped the knob and then flung the door wide open.
“Ooooga boooga booo!”
James, who had been lounging on the threadbare, mouse-infested couch, fell onto the floor. David, hunched in a corner on a less than hygienic mattress, barely stirred.
“You asshole!” shrieked James, “You nearly gave me a freaking heart attack!”
Closing the door, Tommy snickered. “Didn’t scare David, you just must be a pussy.”
“David’s too busy trying not to hurl, you’re still an asshole,” said James, retaking his position on the couch.
Turning on David, his anger flaring, Tommy made a mock face of concern. “Awww, poor big, tough David is sicky-poo?”
David looked up at Tommy with bloodshot eyes. “Screw you Tommy. You probably gave me Hepatitis with that stupid blood,” he rasped.
Tommy had to resist the urge to kick David in the face. He had tried to give his friend awesome powers and this was the gratitude he got?
“Does ickle, wittle, whiny Davie want a bottle? Wanna go night-night?” Tommy downed the rest of his whiskey. “Oh, sorry, no more bottle, guess the baby will just have to cry now.”
Closing his eyes, David leaned his head back on the browning wall and gave Tommy the finger. Tommy flopped down into the sad excuse for an armchair wincing as one of the springs dug into his rear.
“Ooo, naughty baby. Daddy might have to go get a belt and teach you some goddamn manners.”
As David opened his eyes and James stared at Tommy in shock, he realized that his voice had lost some of its teasing tonality. He shook it off.
“Throw me a beer.”
Hesitating for just an instant, James then reached down and opened the cooler next to the couch, producing a semi-cold beer that he tossed to Tommy. Tommy cracked the beer and took a long swallow. Grimacing, he brought the can down and looked at the brand name: Hamms.
“This tastes like piss!”
James grunted. “You don’t like it? Next time you get the homeless guy to buy the beer.”
In the corner David let out a moan. Tommy pointed at him. “See? David doesn’t like your crap beer either.”
James eyed David. “Dude. Are you O.K.?”
David didn’t answer. Breathing so hard he was practically panting and covered in sweat, his face was a mask of pain.
Tommy rolled his eyes. “If you’re gonna yak, can you do it in one of the other apartments please? I don’t want this one to reek of puke.”
David didn’t answer him, but instead started screaming.
James shot up off of the couch. “Tommy, I think he’s really sick. Maybe his appendix burst or something? We gotta go call someone, get someone…” James’ voice trailed off as David’s scream reached an ear-splitting pitch.
Standing, Tommy threw his beer at David and covered his ears. “What the fu-“
Tommy’s words lodged in his throat when he looked down at David. The other boy was writhing on the moldering mattress in agony while the muscles in his back and arms undulated and pulsed underneath his skin. Clawing at his own face, which was now lengthening and distorting, his screaming altered until it sounded more like a howl. Underneath the noise, Tommy heard the unnerving crunch of bones breaking. He stumbled backwards as dark brown fur began to sprout from David’s skin. Holy shit, it’s happening! David’s turning into a werewolf!
David stopped howling and knelt on the mattress, heaving breaths shaking his transformed frame. Tommy took a step towards him. David’s head whipped up and he growled, the look in his yellow, animal eyes making Tommy’s blood turn to ice. In a flash of claws and teeth, Tommy suddenly found himself on the floor. He heard someone screaming, but the sound was muted and distant somehow. He felt odd, cold. His eyes swam in and out of focus and he couldn’t seem to blink. Then a shadow fell over him and he felt a hot breath on his face. Damnit. It should’ve been me.
Tommy dodged through an alleyway and stopped in front of the back door to the abandoned apartment building they’d been using as a hangout lately. He wanted to go to the mansion tonight, but he’d promised those losers that he’d meet them here, and he didn’t want them to get suspicious. Glancing up and down the alley to make sure he wasn’t spotted, Tommy deftly squatted and maneuvered his way through a gap in the boards over where the door used to be, taking care not to spill his whiskey. Once inside he stood and brushed off his jeans. A demonic symbol on his black shirt featuring his favorite band glowed in the darkness. Tommy really wanted to listen to some of their songs backwards, but you needed a record player and the vinyl to do it right. Tommy listened for a moment in the darkness, but he didn’t hear the guys. David was probably sulking and James might’ve already been passed out by now.
Tommy took another long pull from the whiskey bottle, leaving only a few swallows. He wasn’t feeling like sharing with the group tonight. His throat burning with low quality booze, Tommy coughed then started down the hallway to the stairwell. He’d tread this way enough times that, despite the lack of light, he was able to find the stairs with little difficulty. Heading down into the basement, he carefully moved over a missing step and avoided touching the rickety banister. When he reached the bottom, he could see a wan light spilling out from a crack beneath the door of one of the apartments. He crept up to the door, grasped the knob and then flung the door wide open.
“Ooooga boooga booo!”
James, who had been lounging on the threadbare, mouse-infested couch, fell onto the floor. David, hunched in a corner on a less than hygienic mattress, barely stirred.
“You asshole!” shrieked James, “You nearly gave me a freaking heart attack!”
Closing the door, Tommy snickered. “Didn’t scare David, you just must be a pussy.”
“David’s too busy trying not to hurl, you’re still an asshole,” said James, retaking his position on the couch.
Turning on David, his anger flaring, Tommy made a mock face of concern. “Awww, poor big, tough David is sicky-poo?”
David looked up at Tommy with bloodshot eyes. “Screw you Tommy. You probably gave me Hepatitis with that stupid blood,” he rasped.
Tommy had to resist the urge to kick David in the face. He had tried to give his friend awesome powers and this was the gratitude he got?
“Does ickle, wittle, whiny Davie want a bottle? Wanna go night-night?” Tommy downed the rest of his whiskey. “Oh, sorry, no more bottle, guess the baby will just have to cry now.”
Closing his eyes, David leaned his head back on the browning wall and gave Tommy the finger. Tommy flopped down into the sad excuse for an armchair wincing as one of the springs dug into his rear.
“Ooo, naughty baby. Daddy might have to go get a belt and teach you some goddamn manners.”
As David opened his eyes and James stared at Tommy in shock, he realized that his voice had lost some of its teasing tonality. He shook it off.
“Throw me a beer.”
Hesitating for just an instant, James then reached down and opened the cooler next to the couch, producing a semi-cold beer that he tossed to Tommy. Tommy cracked the beer and took a long swallow. Grimacing, he brought the can down and looked at the brand name: Hamms.
“This tastes like piss!”
James grunted. “You don’t like it? Next time you get the homeless guy to buy the beer.”
In the corner David let out a moan. Tommy pointed at him. “See? David doesn’t like your crap beer either.”
James eyed David. “Dude. Are you O.K.?”
David didn’t answer. Breathing so hard he was practically panting and covered in sweat, his face was a mask of pain.
Tommy rolled his eyes. “If you’re gonna yak, can you do it in one of the other apartments please? I don’t want this one to reek of puke.”
David didn’t answer him, but instead started screaming.
James shot up off of the couch. “Tommy, I think he’s really sick. Maybe his appendix burst or something? We gotta go call someone, get someone…” James’ voice trailed off as David’s scream reached an ear-splitting pitch.
Standing, Tommy threw his beer at David and covered his ears. “What the fu-“
Tommy’s words lodged in his throat when he looked down at David. The other boy was writhing on the moldering mattress in agony while the muscles in his back and arms undulated and pulsed underneath his skin. Clawing at his own face, which was now lengthening and distorting, his screaming altered until it sounded more like a howl. Underneath the noise, Tommy heard the unnerving crunch of bones breaking. He stumbled backwards as dark brown fur began to sprout from David’s skin. Holy shit, it’s happening! David’s turning into a werewolf!
David stopped howling and knelt on the mattress, heaving breaths shaking his transformed frame. Tommy took a step towards him. David’s head whipped up and he growled, the look in his yellow, animal eyes making Tommy’s blood turn to ice. In a flash of claws and teeth, Tommy suddenly found himself on the floor. He heard someone screaming, but the sound was muted and distant somehow. He felt odd, cold. His eyes swam in and out of focus and he couldn’t seem to blink. Then a shadow fell over him and he felt a hot breath on his face. Damnit. It should’ve been me.
The dagger was cold against Christoff’s skin. Tucked into his belt underneath a loose shirt, Christoff tried to move normally without calling attention to the weapon and without its fine blade slicing into his abdomen. This wasn’t the way this was supposed to be done, but he couldn’t wait for the next full moon cycle. It had to be now. Rounding another curve in the hallway, he ignored the guard standing against the wall, brushing past him at a calculated pace: too slow, and he risked giving the guard an opportunity to stop him, too fast and it would look suspicious. Scowling deeply as he walked, Christoff thought not about what he was about to do, but rather why he was doing it.
He didn’t want to be Alpha, had never wanted to become Alpha. The power there came with responsibility and far too much diplomacy. Christoff’s already tense stomach tightened into a knot when he thought about having to deal with the Wolfkin Council, and being forced to show his belly to a bunch of weak-minded, pretentious, inbred fools. Tasting gall in the back of his throat, Christoff swallowed it down. How easy life had been just a few months before when Ivan needed only to wave a finger to unleash Christoff, the Vulke enforcer, to do what he did best: discipline, punish, remind, and when necessary, cull. Christoff hadn’t had to think, just respond to his Alpha, to the duty and loyalty pulsing through his veins.
But it was all ruined now. All it had taken was one pathetic boy to topple Christoff’s perfect world, and he wouldn’t rest until that pup’s blood stained Christoff’s teeth. A bumbling stray searching for answers, they’d taken him into their pack, given him food and shelter, and began his training as a Vulke foot soldier. Little did Christoff know the poison that the stray would introduce, and that Ivan would become obsessed with the notion that some doctor out there, some American female could threaten the Vulke. Had he known, he would have slaughtered the boy no matter what Ivan wanted. But the traitor had come, infected his Alpha’s brain with paranoia and then fled. Why Ivan refused to send Christoff after the pup, he could only guess, but he suspected that Ivan feared Christoff would kill the stray turned Vulke traitor before he could lead them to the doctor.
Christoff was ashamed of his Alpha. Talk of viruses and cures was madness, and to be threatened by a female was humiliating. Remembering this, Christoff’s resolve hardened. He needed to do this. He was the only one who could. Though so much damage had already been done, he would save his pack from the destruction Ivan’s feebleness had wrought, even if it meant having to feign submission to the Wolfkin Council and enduring the demands of leadership.
Finally, Christoff entered the last corridor and stared straight ahead as he approached the two elite guards stationed before a huge, scarred, wooden door. He stopped just a few paces in front of them, but didn’t look them in the eye. Even Ivan’s most elite guards were beneath him.
“I need to see him.”
The guards eyed one another and hesitated.
“Now.”
Christoff didn’t have to raise his voice. The single syllable left no room for argument, and the guards hastened to open the door for him. Entering the chamber, Christoff again became aware of the cool steel of the dagger. It wouldn’t be like this with that pup, with the traitor it would all be teeth and claws.
He didn’t want to be Alpha, had never wanted to become Alpha. The power there came with responsibility and far too much diplomacy. Christoff’s already tense stomach tightened into a knot when he thought about having to deal with the Wolfkin Council, and being forced to show his belly to a bunch of weak-minded, pretentious, inbred fools. Tasting gall in the back of his throat, Christoff swallowed it down. How easy life had been just a few months before when Ivan needed only to wave a finger to unleash Christoff, the Vulke enforcer, to do what he did best: discipline, punish, remind, and when necessary, cull. Christoff hadn’t had to think, just respond to his Alpha, to the duty and loyalty pulsing through his veins.
But it was all ruined now. All it had taken was one pathetic boy to topple Christoff’s perfect world, and he wouldn’t rest until that pup’s blood stained Christoff’s teeth. A bumbling stray searching for answers, they’d taken him into their pack, given him food and shelter, and began his training as a Vulke foot soldier. Little did Christoff know the poison that the stray would introduce, and that Ivan would become obsessed with the notion that some doctor out there, some American female could threaten the Vulke. Had he known, he would have slaughtered the boy no matter what Ivan wanted. But the traitor had come, infected his Alpha’s brain with paranoia and then fled. Why Ivan refused to send Christoff after the pup, he could only guess, but he suspected that Ivan feared Christoff would kill the stray turned Vulke traitor before he could lead them to the doctor.
Christoff was ashamed of his Alpha. Talk of viruses and cures was madness, and to be threatened by a female was humiliating. Remembering this, Christoff’s resolve hardened. He needed to do this. He was the only one who could. Though so much damage had already been done, he would save his pack from the destruction Ivan’s feebleness had wrought, even if it meant having to feign submission to the Wolfkin Council and enduring the demands of leadership.
Finally, Christoff entered the last corridor and stared straight ahead as he approached the two elite guards stationed before a huge, scarred, wooden door. He stopped just a few paces in front of them, but didn’t look them in the eye. Even Ivan’s most elite guards were beneath him.
“I need to see him.”
The guards eyed one another and hesitated.
“Now.”
Christoff didn’t have to raise his voice. The single syllable left no room for argument, and the guards hastened to open the door for him. Entering the chamber, Christoff again became aware of the cool steel of the dagger. It wouldn’t be like this with that pup, with the traitor it would all be teeth and claws.
The intensity of the prickling just under David’s skin increased painfully. He tried to ignore it. I can do this. I can do this. It took all of his concentration to hold off the change. Stumbling through the woods, he knew where his instincts were taking him, but he couldn’t stop himself. The gaping wound in his side filled in the cracks of his pain with agony. I should stop. I should try to stem the bleeding. These rational thoughts were faint and dissolved in the waves of pressure of the stilted change. The rage in him swelled as his thoughts drifted to the wound. Vivid images of the ambush, the knife, the fight, and David’s escape cut into his mind like daggers as he felt his control slipping away. Nonono! He wrested his mind away from his injury and forced himself to be calm again. His heavy-lidded eyes barely registered their surroundings and his senses were much too preoccupied to notice the cool autumn rain, but he felt with razor sharpness his proximity to her.
Suddenly his limbs ceased moving as a blinding light assaulted his sight. He was there. The exterior floodlight of the clinic shone like a beacon in the darkness. Shouldn’t be here. Need help. David wanted to turn away, but he could no more turn away from that light than a moth could turn away from a flame. His strength was ebbing and there was nowhere else to go. Then he spotted her through the window. Though he’d driven by the clinic, he hadn’t seen her in person yet. Much lovelier than her photograph, she flitted around the lab that he saw through the window like a firefly in a jar. He felt the draw of her pull him to the edge of the trees and almost out into the light. No! Sudden clarity. If she saw him, she wouldn’t come out. If she got too far away, she wouldn’t let him in. The back of the clinic was encased by a ten-foot tall fence around a concrete patio. He had to keep her inside of that fence, but get inside of it without her spotting him.
David’s brain tried to focus on a solution to the problem, and he immediately doubled over. A tearing sensation ripped through his body as he felt things start to shift inside of him. NO! Turning his attention back to staving off the change, David let his surroundings dim out of his perception. He found himself on the roof of the building. How he had gotten there became of little importance as he heard the door below him unlock.
Suddenly his limbs ceased moving as a blinding light assaulted his sight. He was there. The exterior floodlight of the clinic shone like a beacon in the darkness. Shouldn’t be here. Need help. David wanted to turn away, but he could no more turn away from that light than a moth could turn away from a flame. His strength was ebbing and there was nowhere else to go. Then he spotted her through the window. Though he’d driven by the clinic, he hadn’t seen her in person yet. Much lovelier than her photograph, she flitted around the lab that he saw through the window like a firefly in a jar. He felt the draw of her pull him to the edge of the trees and almost out into the light. No! Sudden clarity. If she saw him, she wouldn’t come out. If she got too far away, she wouldn’t let him in. The back of the clinic was encased by a ten-foot tall fence around a concrete patio. He had to keep her inside of that fence, but get inside of it without her spotting him.
David’s brain tried to focus on a solution to the problem, and he immediately doubled over. A tearing sensation ripped through his body as he felt things start to shift inside of him. NO! Turning his attention back to staving off the change, David let his surroundings dim out of his perception. He found himself on the roof of the building. How he had gotten there became of little importance as he heard the door below him unlock.
Evagio
Sketchbook clutched in his delicate hands, Evagio traipsed though the corridors of the manor house humming to himself. The situation with the stray and the doctor was very dramatic and likely to turn tragic. Inspiring. There’d been little so inspiring in the Wolfkin world in at least fifty years. Bega was even working on an epic poem about the affair, and though the outcome was yet to transpire, had written a moving ending with the Vulke tearing the doctor apart as she wept and clung to the slaughtered stray. Evagio was of the opinion that it would be even more stirring if the doctor lived to avenge her fallen stray lover and set fire to the Vulke Alpha. In any case, for the sake of the Art, it was best that things appeared so grim for the stray.
Pushing open a gilded, white set of double doors, Evagio took in his surroundings. The chamber was vast with a wall of windows brilliant with southern light. It was a chambre de la lumiére or room of light. Many of the old country manors had them to allow occupants to enjoy the benefits of natural light in the wintertime without having to brave the elements. In fact, to combat the draft from the windows, two huge fireplaces mirrored each other on the east and west walls of the room. Grey velvet cushioned sofas over muted Persian rugs were positioned in front of the fireplaces while lounge chairs that looked like they belonged on the deck of a turn of the century cruise ship spanned the breadth of the windows. Though the fireplaces were dark, the room air of the room was still warm against Evagio’s skin due to the streaming sunlight.
Closing the doors behind him, Evagio strode towards the windows and flung himself down in a central lounge chair. He flipped open his sketchbook to a fresh page and pulled a nub of charcoal from the pocket of his sleek, black pants. Letting his eyes adjust to the light, he focused on the view of the forest beyond. The dark, foreboding woods made a perfect contrast with the bright sun, and Evagio felt the creativity flow through him as he passed the charcoal back and forth across the paper. Sweat soon speckled his brow as his arm worked tirelessly, though his eyes never left the view outside the window. Time, marked by the position of the sun’s rays on the glossy hardwood floor, passed, the only sound the whisper made by the charcoal blackening the pages as Evagio turned and drew on one after the other.
The last of the charcoal crumbling to dust in his trembling fingers, Evagio finally looked down at the image on his sketch pad. His eyes moistened at the sight of the beauty his muses had sent him. Their message was clear: the doctor had to die tragically for the story to be perfect.
Pushing open a gilded, white set of double doors, Evagio took in his surroundings. The chamber was vast with a wall of windows brilliant with southern light. It was a chambre de la lumiére or room of light. Many of the old country manors had them to allow occupants to enjoy the benefits of natural light in the wintertime without having to brave the elements. In fact, to combat the draft from the windows, two huge fireplaces mirrored each other on the east and west walls of the room. Grey velvet cushioned sofas over muted Persian rugs were positioned in front of the fireplaces while lounge chairs that looked like they belonged on the deck of a turn of the century cruise ship spanned the breadth of the windows. Though the fireplaces were dark, the room air of the room was still warm against Evagio’s skin due to the streaming sunlight.
Closing the doors behind him, Evagio strode towards the windows and flung himself down in a central lounge chair. He flipped open his sketchbook to a fresh page and pulled a nub of charcoal from the pocket of his sleek, black pants. Letting his eyes adjust to the light, he focused on the view of the forest beyond. The dark, foreboding woods made a perfect contrast with the bright sun, and Evagio felt the creativity flow through him as he passed the charcoal back and forth across the paper. Sweat soon speckled his brow as his arm worked tirelessly, though his eyes never left the view outside the window. Time, marked by the position of the sun’s rays on the glossy hardwood floor, passed, the only sound the whisper made by the charcoal blackening the pages as Evagio turned and drew on one after the other.
The last of the charcoal crumbling to dust in his trembling fingers, Evagio finally looked down at the image on his sketch pad. His eyes moistened at the sight of the beauty his muses had sent him. Their message was clear: the doctor had to die tragically for the story to be perfect.
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Whitmore entered the room looking serious and impatient. His black suit was freshly pressed, his dark hair smoothed back, and his general appearance immaculate. Dark, razor-sharp eyes immediately locking in on Grant, Whitmore strode purposefully over to Grant’s desk and planted his feet.
“There’s been another sighting.”
Grant had surreptitiously watched the other man’s entrance, but pretended to be enthralled by the open chart on his desk.
“Hmmm?” He didn’t look up.
Whitmore’s jaw clenched.
“I said, there’s been another sighting. Another were-“
Grant held up a hand, finally glancing up and regarding Whitmore with his tired hazel eyes.
“Please don’t start that again.”
“That makes four sightings in two months.”
Grant sighed and closed the chart.
“Yes, plenty of crazies out there.” He glanced down at the calendar on his desk. “Full moon too. Nice. Fits.”
Whitmore glared down at him.
“These aren’t just nuts. These are reliable witnesses.”
Grants eyebrows lifted.
“Witnesses who claim to have seen werewolves.”
Whitmore dropped a folder down on Grant’s desk looking smug.
“There’s more. Each sighting was accompanied by a missing persons report.”
Flipping open the folder, Grant perused its contents.
“The people who reported seeing werewolves have gone missing?”
Whitmore slammed a hand down on Grant’s desk causing a widespread lull in both conversation and activity around the previously bustling room.
“No, dammit! Other people have gone missing at the same time the sightings were reported!”
It was Grant’s turn to set his jaw.
“Sit down and keep your voice lowered.”
A brief look of abashment flashed across Whitmore’s face and he sat, but then he straightened his back as his confidence returned.
“You can’t ignore these reports any longer. Three different states, four missing persons. We have to investigate.”
Inspecting Whitmore’s face, Grant could find no crack in his resolve to exploit. He nodded slightly.
“Fine. As long as you promise to say that we’re investigating missing persons possibly related to new gang or cult activity and not investigating werewolves.”
“Fine.”
Whitmore rose and turned away, taking several steps before he realized that Grant wasn’t following him.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“Let me finish up just a few things here. I’ll meet you outside in ten minutes.”
The waves of protest rolling off Whitmore were almost palpable, but he said nothing, turning away again and threading his way through desks and fellow agents to the exit. After watching Whitmore until his back disappeared through the double doors, Grant’s eyes scanned around the room for any sign that he was still under scrutiny due to his partner’s outburst. Once satisfied that this was not the case, Grant opened a drawer of his desk and fished out a cell phone. He pinched the bridge of his nose before typing in the number, and cleared his throat as he brought the phone up to his ear. Marcus wasn’t going to be happy about this.
“There’s been another sighting.”
Grant had surreptitiously watched the other man’s entrance, but pretended to be enthralled by the open chart on his desk.
“Hmmm?” He didn’t look up.
Whitmore’s jaw clenched.
“I said, there’s been another sighting. Another were-“
Grant held up a hand, finally glancing up and regarding Whitmore with his tired hazel eyes.
“Please don’t start that again.”
“That makes four sightings in two months.”
Grant sighed and closed the chart.
“Yes, plenty of crazies out there.” He glanced down at the calendar on his desk. “Full moon too. Nice. Fits.”
Whitmore glared down at him.
“These aren’t just nuts. These are reliable witnesses.”
Grants eyebrows lifted.
“Witnesses who claim to have seen werewolves.”
Whitmore dropped a folder down on Grant’s desk looking smug.
“There’s more. Each sighting was accompanied by a missing persons report.”
Flipping open the folder, Grant perused its contents.
“The people who reported seeing werewolves have gone missing?”
Whitmore slammed a hand down on Grant’s desk causing a widespread lull in both conversation and activity around the previously bustling room.
“No, dammit! Other people have gone missing at the same time the sightings were reported!”
It was Grant’s turn to set his jaw.
“Sit down and keep your voice lowered.”
A brief look of abashment flashed across Whitmore’s face and he sat, but then he straightened his back as his confidence returned.
“You can’t ignore these reports any longer. Three different states, four missing persons. We have to investigate.”
Inspecting Whitmore’s face, Grant could find no crack in his resolve to exploit. He nodded slightly.
“Fine. As long as you promise to say that we’re investigating missing persons possibly related to new gang or cult activity and not investigating werewolves.”
“Fine.”
Whitmore rose and turned away, taking several steps before he realized that Grant wasn’t following him.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“Let me finish up just a few things here. I’ll meet you outside in ten minutes.”
The waves of protest rolling off Whitmore were almost palpable, but he said nothing, turning away again and threading his way through desks and fellow agents to the exit. After watching Whitmore until his back disappeared through the double doors, Grant’s eyes scanned around the room for any sign that he was still under scrutiny due to his partner’s outburst. Once satisfied that this was not the case, Grant opened a drawer of his desk and fished out a cell phone. He pinched the bridge of his nose before typing in the number, and cleared his throat as he brought the phone up to his ear. Marcus wasn’t going to be happy about this.