Cursed Wolf: Urban Fantasy Shifter Stand-Alone (Creatures of the otherworld Book 1)

by Brogan Thomas

  My eyes flick from Vincent to Beth with concern. I am worried about Beth’s safety. Yet, like the coward I am, I find myself sinking into the chair in an attempt to make myself smaller.

  “Hounds, please escort these rogue shifters. Rogues, you have twenty-six minutes remaining,” says John dismissively.

  Vincent, with the help of a hound shoving him from behind, staggers towards the door. A visible vein throbs in his neck, and as he passes my chair, his body tenses. I huddle underneath the fluffy cover; I try my best to become invisible. Vincent bares his teeth at me.

  Between one breath and the next, he roars and lunges at me.

  Everything slows…

  I whine in fear.

  My hands tangle in the cover. I can’t get them out. Oh my God, I can’t get them out in time, I’m unable to protect my face. I cringe and slam my eyes shut tightly.

  Warm liquid splatters my face and neck.

  I take a shaky breath. The sweet metallic scent of blood fills my nose.

  No pain.

  I slowly open my eyes.

  I blink, my eyelashes heavy.

  Nanny Hound is standing over me; Vincent is standing over me.

  A knife is buried in Vincent’s neck. Vincent’s eyes are wide open. He gasps.

  My eyes widen and my thoughts scramble. Frozen, I listen to Vincent gurgle and choke; his breathing turns into a wheeze.

  I pant. I can’t get enough air into my lungs.

  John prowls into my sightline. He casually moves up beside Vincent. His head tilts to the side and he takes in the situation.

  John smiles.

  I’m glad that nightmare-inducing smile isn’t aimed at me.

  Dimly in the background, I can hear Beth screaming, but I’m hyper-focused on the scene in front of me. I dare not move my eyes. It’s like everything is silent around us, as if the entire world has shrunk down to a small bubble that encapsulates us.

  John grabs hold of Vincent's arm and holds the bleeding shifter up when his legs threaten to buckle. “You didn’t think I’d let you live did you, Vincent?” John whispers, that same smile on his lips; his eyes dance with sick amusement. I can't breathe.

  Nanny Hound lets go of the blade. I sit frozen; I dare not move. It’s macabre, seeing it sticking out of Vincent’s neck. Blood weeps from the wound.

  Vincent’s blood is cooling on my face, my lips, dripping from my eyelashes.

  “I wanted to watch you lose everything. See the acknowledgement of your utter failure. Before I took your miserable fucking life.” John flicks the blade; Vincent groans. “What kind of self-respecting shifter gets off on hurting little girls? You thought that we’d be impressed?” He laughs nastily. “Thank you for making it easy for me.” Another terrible wheeze comes out of Vincent. I think he is choking on blood. John lets go of his arm and roughly grabs the back of Vincent’s shirt. He kicks Vincent’s legs out from under him, and my stepbrother falls to his knees. John leans down to speak into Vincent's ear. “Look at that—dying on your knees as a rogue, while Forrest sits above you like a queen.” John tilts Vincent's head up, using his hair. Vincent’s brown eyes are glazed over, and blood dribbles from his lips. I shudder.

  John braces his knee on Vincent’s side, and slowly, deliberately, he pulls the blade from Vincent’s neck. John lets go of his shirt, and Vincent falls onto his side with a thump. Vincent kicks and fails—his breath rattles.

  Finally, his body stills in the centre of a growing red puddle.

  Silence.

  I stare numbly at the monster dead at my feet. The pool of his blood. It’s inconceivable to me that Vincent is dead.

  I was so sure Vincent would have been the one to kill me.

  What the fuck just happened…

  The bubble bursts and all the ambient sounds rush back to hit me at once, too loud for my nerves—Beth is wailing, her shocked cries filling the room.

  “Great, I get the bloody extra paperwork,” Nanny Hound mumbles. With a flick of his wrist he produces a cloth. He leans over me and proceeds to casually wipe the blood from my face. I give him an incredulous look, and he winks at me.

  Jason, held between two hounds, is dragged out the door. The scary creepy shifter doesn’t make a sound.

  Harry, shifting his weight from foot to foot anxiously, watches as John steps over his dead brother, avoiding the growing puddle of blood on the floor. John prowls towards him and starts speaking. It’s as if what happened to Vincent was nothing but an everyday, trivial thing. Perhaps to John, it was. God, he’s scary.

  John’s voice drifts across the room. “Harry, even though you are banished and classed as a rogue, I am sure Forrest will not want to see you suffer. We will chat privately about my sister being caged and starved as you looked on.” John has his back to me, but I can see Harry’s terrified, pale face.

  If Harry is guilty of that, then John bloody is too. Hypocritical bastard. I won’t let John hurt him. The coward in me disappears, and I growl. John glances over his shoulder at me, and I narrow my eyes at him. He smirks, shakes his head, and turns back to Harry. “I am mindful that you are only twenty-four. I will allow you your belongings, including your car. You have till tomorrow to leave.” Harry, in relief, closes his eyes and sighs; he nods his thanks. Hopefully he will be able to avoid my brother. John turns away from him in an apparent dismissal and starts to talk to Beth.

  Harry shuffles towards me; his eyes flick around the room. Ignoring his dead brother, he slowly squats so we’re eye-level. Nanny Hound gives him a small warning growl.

  “Hi, Forrest. Wow, your hair is pink—that’s kind of cool. I can’t believe you shifted back. I am so proud of you. I also can’t believe you went for the demon’s crown jewels…” He shudders. “I think you freaked out every guy in the room.” He chuckles, and then his smile falls from his face as he says nervously, “Once you get yourself healthy…we could maybe…urm, I dunno, go have a coffee, hot chocolate or something, chat about stuff? You’re still my little sister, Forrest. I hope you know that.” He rubs a hand across his face, and his eyes drop. “He was never the same after Dad and Grace died. Vincent was always difficult, and I wouldn’t say he was a nice person, but growing up, he was good to me...”

  Harry is hurting; I lean forward and wrap my arms around his neck in a hug. I almost make him fall over with the suddenness of the movement.

  Oh, who am I kidding—he doesn’t move a millimetre. I am so tiny. I nod and Harry pulls away. “Okay, well…urm…I will see you soon.” He gives me a sad smile and hurries out of the room.

  THE HOSPITAL

  The shifter hospital is more like a medical-themed boutique hotel than a human hospital that you see on the television. I guess it’s quite rare for shifters to require medical intervention, hence this fancy-schmancy hospital. If there are any other patients, I don’t meet them. It’s just me and a handful of rotating specialists that fly in from around the world.

  I’m rapidly passed from one specialist to the next, like a shifter game of You’re It.

  Coincidentally, I didn’t see any of these specialists when I was trapped in wolf form. From being left to rot to, now everyone is concerned about my health? Yeah, it’s a bit of a head-fuck.

  I’m a pro now at hiding behind a mask—my guise is “sweet and innocent.” It matches the tiny pink-haired human I see in the mirror perfectly. Outwardly I’m small, weak, and female, the underdog. Why not use that assumption to my advantage? Huh, “innocence”—survival sucked up my innocence like the dry ground sucks up the rain. Now I play the victim to keep from being one. I’m a survivor.

  Since John dropped me off here over a week ago, he hasn’t been back to see me. John is under a lot of pressure—you know, saving the world—the world is way more important than his sister. Protecting everyone else is what John does; it would be selfish of me to think I’m above that.

  At least the years stuck as a wolf taught me infinite patience, and I need that skill in abundance to deal with this shit-show. A
ll this medical stuff is a joke. The doctors don’t tell me anything—my medical file is the property of the shifter council.

  I keep any questions I have to myself—what you don’t know doesn’t hurt you and all that. My mind thrums with the need to be left alone, and I long for normality. The only reason I stay and I'm not running for the hills is that my primal instinct screams at me to set aside my fears and accept help, and to use this as an opportunity to get stronger. It’s the smart thing to do.

  Hiding my anger is a challenge, and stopping the bitterness from leaking out is a constant struggle. I have to swallow it down; it makes me feel physically sick.

  I’m sitting on a chair in a luxurious examination room. Jodie, my nurse, is sitting next to me. Her gentle brown eyes are warm and reassuring, and her pretty face is relaxed. Jodie, who is a talented witch, has wormed her way into becoming my friend. To kick off our friendship, Jodie snuck me a hair-removal potion ball on my first night. When helping me shower, she was horrified at my healthy armpit hair. Urm…who knew? I think I could have pulled a knife on her and not gotten as much of a reaction as a little bit of hair did. I smirk at the memory. Jodie told me I was hairy as a kitten and promptly educated me on all things woman, which I promptly forgot—to be honest, the whole lecture confused the hell out of me. According to Jodie, the hair removal potion is fantastic, a must-have as it even does facial hair. I had no idea women got lip and chin hair until Jodie explained it to me, in detail. Oh, and my eyebrows look nice, I guess. So unless I take a reversal ball for the spell, I will be bad–body-hair–free forever.

  Not only is Jodie a witch and a nurse, she’s also my speech therapist. A triple threat, and so far a thoughtful, talented lady. I’m not sure if I can trust her, nor do I know ultimately whose side she’s on, but Jodie fascinates me. Witches are extremely impressive, and from what I can gather, they’re not fighters. But with the ability to create the most incredible magic, they don’t need to be. With Jodie and her coven keeping me amused with different ingenious potion balls, I have a new love of everything to do with witch magic.

  Jodie's brown hair is styled into two fancy French plaits on either side of her head. My own hair is in a low, loose plait. I have been getting to grips with it after Jodie smuggled in a human hairstylist to cut my thigh-length hair into a more manageable mid-back length. The hairdresser went nuts about the light pink colour; he loved it.

  My natural red hasn’t hinted at a return, and I can’t even change the colour either—shifters don’t dye their hair. We can, I guess, but I think it’s a total waste of time. You see, as part of the magic of shifting, artificial hair colour disappears when we return to our human form—same with makeup and even regular tattoos. Everything regenerates through the change—that’s why shifters live for so long.

  Jodie’s pink scrubs rustle as she gives me a double thumbs-up, and her full mouth curves into a toothy grin. I wrinkle my nose at her antics and swing my attention back to this afternoon’s doctor, Doctor Gregory; he’s a cat shifter. Tablet in hand, he reads my notes with an unnerving gleam in his eye. Dr G lifts his eyes from the device and smiles at me.

  I don’t smile back.

  Instead, I watch him warily. I don’t want to be rude to the nice doctor, but he specialises in shifter gynaecology. I mouth the words “vagina doctor,” followed by a full-body shudder and a lip curl. Jodie’s smile gets bigger. I clutch my hands in front of me and lean slightly forward in the chair—protecting said vagina.

  It’s his turn today to poke and prod me. Yay…the urge to tell him to bog off is huge. It has been only eight days and I’m all tested out. I feel as if my body isn’t my own. In wolf or human form, I belong to everyone but myself.

  I shelve my unhelpful feelings, sit up and anchor my spine, lift my chin, and try to at least look like the adult I’m pretending to be. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jodie nod her approval. I take that as validation I did the right thing. God, it’s harder than I thought it would be to behave like a normal, balanced person.

  I don’t know the rules.

  I’ve taken it upon myself to emulate the people around me in the hope that I will at least appear to I know what I’m doing. All this is hard to comprehend, and I can’t help feeling like a kid who has woken up from a bad dream and fourteen years have passed.

  “So, Forrest,” Doctor Gregory says, placing his tablet with a clack on the glass coffee table. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his pinstriped thighs; he isn’t shy about scrutinising me. “The council is concerned that your reproductive system may have been compromised by your previous living situation. We can’t introduce you to potential mates if you aren't viable.” Oh, and there it is…this shit can’t be ethical. I fight to keep my face blank. The anguish I feel wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my face, to knock off my mask. “This afternoon, we’re going to discuss your heat cycles. Can you remember if you have had your first estrus?”

  I drop my head so fast my neck twinges with pain, and I can no longer meet his eyes. I know he’s a doctor, but do I have to talk about this? I don’t trust him, and I certainly don’t trust the council. I wrap my arms around myself.

  Usually, a female Canidae shifter will have her first estrus, or heat, after the first animal shift, between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. Shifters don’t menstruate monthly like humans. Twice a year, we go into estrus. Estrus can last from two to four weeks, and only during that time we can conceive. One regular shift into animal form after the heat cycle and the unused material from the lining of the uterus is gone. The magic replaces cells so the body doesn't need to, so female shifters don't have periods—unless for some reason they can’t shift.

  I swallow the sour bile that fills my mouth. I wiggle in my chair and tuck my hands underneath my thighs to stop them from shaking. I struggle to keep my breathing even; bloody hell, I need to wolf-up. I can answer a simple question.

  I shifted early, and I had my first estrus prematurely.

  Tell him.

  I take a big unsteady breath. The lemon cleaner they use on the floor makes my nose itch. The clock on the wall ticks, each second louder than the last. I rock slightly forward and back as I try to form the words. I am acting like an overly dramatic weirdo.

  I clear my throat, and slowly, like I’ve been practising, say, “At…about…ten.” My rough voice grates. I swallow. My mouth is now bone-dry.

  Stuck in my wolf form, I had to suffer through five traumatic heat cycles and the bleeding afterwards as I couldn’t shift. It was a blessing and a relief when they stopped. I guess my body was too fucked up, too run-down with malnutrition. I swallow the lump in my throat, and I keep my eyes down.

  My lips tremble, and to stop them, I pinch them shut with my teeth.

  A memory gnaws at the edges of my consciousness. It must be a bad one—I can tell by the way it gets harder to breathe. I jam it back in its box with all the others.

  Dr G is speaking, but I can’t hear him above my madly beating heart. I move my hands and grip the edge of the chair; the leather is slick under my damp palms. I hold myself in place. I need to stop the rocking.

  The lump in my throat is now blocking my airway, and I can no longer take a full breath.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  A noise from outside startles me and the memory slams into me like a physical punch to the face. Flashes of imagery flood my senses, and I’m back in the cage:

  Am I dying? Cramping pain. Star-shaped droplets of blood hit the concrete.

  “You disgusting, dirty dog!” Cold water from the yellow hose blasts between my back legs.

  Cold so cold. I want my mummy.

  Blood mixes with the water, swirling, swirling down the drain.

  No. No. No.

  Long-buried shame tightens my throat. I come back to myself, and something digs into my spine. It takes me a few seconds to gain awareness and to work out that I’m wedged between the black leather exam bed and the wall. I’m curled underne
ath the bed, and I hug my knees to my chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. Black spots appear behind my eyes. I rapidly blink, attempting to clear my vision.

  Then he’s here, a big black wolf.

  The exam bed shudders above as he creeps closer to me on his belly. He mournfully whines at me, his warm, soulful grey eyes full of concern—Nanny Hound. I bury my hands in his fur and place my forehead against his.

  What have I done? What did I do?

  Nanny Hound puffs out a breath and the hair sticking to my sweaty forehead flutters. He does it again; he breathes in and out, and I make myself breathe along with him. In and out.

  I’m okay; I’m okay.

  Once my heartbeat has settled and I’m no longer shaking. Nanny Hound wiggles backwards. He takes hold of my jumper in his teeth and pulls me out with him.

  Well, this is embarrassing.

  Ashamed, I blink up at the shocked doctor and nurse. My chair has tipped over; otherwise, the room looks the same.

  Tears shine in Jodie's brown eyes, and a worried line has appeared between her brows. I mouth the words I’m sorry.

  Jodie straightens her scrubs. She wrinkles her nose and frowns at me. “I didn’t hear you. You need to try that again like we have been practising.” I roll my eyes toward the ceiling, already feeling better with this switch to our regular routine.

  “I’m s…s…sorry,” I rasp out obediently. Jodie gives me a bright smile, drops to her knees, and wraps me in a comforting hug.

  “One step at a time,” she whispers, squeezing me.

  After a cup of tea, I manage to give a hesitant and distracted Doctor Gregory the information he needs. He concludes his session without a physical exam. That decision is mainly due to the angry hellhound that refuses to leave my side. Nanny Hound—whose name I finally found out is Owen—is seriously my hero.

  The uncomfortable doctor also let slip that there should be no issues with my ability to produce children; my weight gain should resolve my heat cycle and any fertility problems. Yay, the council will be pleased—cue eyeroll.