The Beast of Bodmin Moor

by Zakarrie C

  “Fuuckaaah!”

  There was a desperate scuffle as His feet fought for—failed to find—purchase, then a shriek shattered the night and a loud crack splintered the sky when His forehead bounced off a boulder with a hideous crunch. His body crumpled to the rocks in a tangle of limbs, slumping in a sad pile of crumpled cloth. He lay, utterly still, like a broken toy tossed onto a trash heap.

  Silence.

  NOOOOOOO…Jack sprang forwards, cleaving an arc through the darkness to land sure-footed beside him. For a split-second, heart-stopping moment, dread obliterated all reason, despite some innate certainty that He was not dead. Turning his muzzle into the wind, Jack dragged in a huge lungful of less alluring air and held it. Creeping closer, he dipped his head low and began to nose gently at a ghostly pale cheek, nudging His face away from the rocks. A large gash glistened above His left eyebrow, gristle gleaming in the ragged tear. Jack watched a bead of blood trickle down His temple, teeth gritted in agony. Nnnngh…that scent…he was still holding his breath, but he could taste it on his tongue; a rich ruby sweetness that lashed at his loins. Jack threw his head back and howled, every sinew straining as he fought to suppress his screeching instincts. Nooo…

  Rage blistered through Jack’s veins, demolishing the dull drag of despair, warring with instincts clamouring for more. Wet, warm, as potent as port wine…just a little lick… For heavensakes, he wasn’t going to sink his teeth into skin, there was no urge to rip, tear, hurt. Jack didn’t think so, at least. The shaft of pain that staked his heart when temporal bone slammed into stone had felt like being stabbed. In the dread-drenched second he’d feared the worst, Jack had known exactly where the blame lay. An agony that eclipsed Jake’s initial reaction to the shift; a battle as bitter, brutal, as the realisation that his humanity had been snatched away…and his hopes and dreams with it.

  Jack’s fault. Then. Now. Guilty. The whimper had as good as fired the starting pistol of horrors that caused the fall. Lust had led them to this moment, just as it had…that night. A thought he shoved aside; this was no time to indulge in a self-pity party. He needed Jack. But what the hell can I do? Cocking his head, Jack contemplated the blood still seeping from the cruel gash that marred that beautiful face. Beautiful, not just handsome. A face like a fallen angel, grubby with gravel, crusting at the edges of the wound. Fuck it…hovering about a breath from the wound, Jack touched the tip of his tongue to the angry tear, oh, so gently. Nnnnggh. He yanked his head back, eyes bulging as he fought a fury of need that made his breath claw his throat. No. No…yesss…no…

  The guilt was gutting but Jack had to get the goddamned grit out. Of course, he wanted…but that didn’t make it the wrong thing to do, did it? Unless he was fooling himself that it was right for that very reason? Jack knew not. Does it matter anyway? Why the hell was he debating his dubious morality—with himself—while He bled to death on the moor? Holding his breath, Jack lowered his nose to the rivulet of blood and began to lap with infinite tenderness. An impossible feat, in itself. His taste buds erupted in a riot of sensation—like an explosion of Pop Rocks in his mouth—unleashing a blood rush so intense he felt fit to burst into flames. Jack felt fit to bust, full stop…the head of his cock was so engorged it looked like a bloody Chupa Chup…and still, he lapped. He’d never tasted anything so…delectable in his life. Divine. His own blood couldn’t begin to compare, nor that of the creatures Jack stalked most nights. The raw rump steak Jake gnawed on for breakfast couldn’t hold a candle to this. Candle? An inferno was far more fitting.

  Jack flickered delicately at the jagged edge of the gash until the grit dislodged; senses so finely tuned that each grain felt like a boulder clinging to his tongue. A sudden thought—one so obvious it should have hit him over the head with a house brick before Jack started lapping at His head like a lollipop—struggled to the surface.

  Are you sure this is…safe? What if—? Jake demanded, after wading through the liquid layers of lust, longing and sheer gut instinct.

  No…surely not? Jack had no idea. He’d been fretting about a bit of grit as saliva seeped into His system and…no please…NO.

  Jake would never, ever forgive him. Jack had no idea which part of that night had…sealed Jake’s fate. Nor was he sure exactly what triggered Jake’s dormant jackal. Sex? Blood? Nails? Teeth? The bites? Or…the kiss that led to the rest of it? Crap. It was too bloody late now. So stuupid.

  Shit for brains jackass.

  Ha. Ha. Very funny. Not. Next stop: the world’s first shapeshifting stand-up comedian. We should turn up for Britain’s Got Talent auditions, that would be a riot.

  Literally…when everyone rushes for the exits.

  It was far, far too late to worry about it now. Much too late to torture himself with the fact that a not-so tiny part of Jack’s pea-brain yearned…No. That was despicable, beyond contempt. Jack could not—would not—wish this upon Him. He would detest them both for it. Loathe his flea-ridden arse enough to bury a spade in his body when He discovered what Jack had done. Yet, even as he acknowledged this, Jack’s baser instincts were effectively rolling their eyes and suggesting that he shut his trap and have at it, lap away to his heart’s content.

  It was hard to say which was more ludicrous. Tonguing His forehead while having a scrap with his own conscience…or the fact Jack was considering whether to let Jake carry Him to the campervan and see to His wound properly.

  A splendid plan, I’m sure. It’s a delightful evening to go for a bare-ass naked midnight stroll across the moors cradling a bleeding, unconscious, six foot plus man as if he weighs no more than a bottle of brandy. I’ll probably get arrested. The press will have a fucking field day. How ironic, when never, not once since that fateful night, did I imagine winding up as ‘The Beast of Bodmin Moor’ as a human.

  Well, should we risk it? Not so much the flasher-on-the-moors part, there’s no trace of human scent for miles. Can we risk Him regaining consciousness, only to find himself being abducted by a naked man? The very act of carrying him across the moor stretches credulity. A five-foot nine bloke—best described as ‘wiry’—carrying a six-foot-plus man over rough scrubland like a babe in arms? Is there another option? We sure as hell can’t leave him here alone; broken and bleeding. The Beast of Bodmin Moor. Christ. A pervert preying on the soon-to-be-drop-dead-gorgeous, if one of us doesn’t do something.

  I did my best! Jack finally protested after enduring that internal monologue for…ever.

  Something other than indulge in a surreptitious slurp, dogbreath.

  *

  The gash looked a little less angry, but the wound was still seeping, so Jack bent once more to lap at the rivulet of ruby trickling earwards. Nnggrrrh… It became all-too clear that the interlude had merely made paradise sweeter when Jack's eyes started rolling back in his head, so he yanked his muzzle back. Before he could not. The injury did look a little better; clean, free from crusted dirt and grit, so he might be mistaken—but it did seem less inflamed—which was something.

  Not a fat lot, you must admit, but better than bloody nothing.

  Gazing down at a face as pale as moonlight, the sooty sweep of long lashes, plump lips softly parted, Jack knew he’d never had a choice from the start. This realisation had no sooner dawned than Jack was sure he saw the slightest glimmer of movement. Had he imagined it? No. Feathery lashes flickered once, twice more and then, slowly parted to reveal a midnight gaze, hazy with pain and puzzlement. Bottomless eyes met his own for a heartbeat…and then fluttered shut again.

  Fuck. In the snatch of time he’d glimpsed that dark gaze, Jack knew. Knew with inviolate animal instinct that it was… over. The battle, lost before it began. Even jackal-vision hadn’t prepared them for the impact of those eyes from mere inches away. It felt like staring into His soul. ‘Those eyes’—Jack huffed out a cloud of contempt—calling those limpid orbs eyes was akin to describing His blood as ‘quite tasty’. They were…eternal. Deep enough to die in. Drowning pools of liquid darkness…into whic
h Jack would undoubtedly dive, even if that fall was his final act. He was ruined.

  Jack backed up a few paces and pulled his focus inwards. Changing back was, in fact, harder than unleashing the jackal. This had come as something of a shock to Jake. His struggles had caused too much chaos to comprehend that Jack simply surfaced, stretching as if from slumber. Much as the subconscious assumes control during dreams; the secret self rising to the fore as the conscious self sleeps.

  The power was always present; waiting in the wings for Jake to embrace it, mind, body, soul. It was simply a matter of letting go…allowing it to bloom until it spilled through his skin, fur flowing like water to ripple over reformed muscle and bone.

  Jake had denied the truth at first, even as his furred self unfurled from the matter of his own body. Brain. He still, two years on, flinched from acknowledging that Jack’s lusts were pulled from his own psyche. A fact Jake found less tolerable than the transformation itself, so he’d determined that ‘Jack’ was a separate entity. Rather than recognise his jackal as the subterranean self he'd detested for twenty-five years. Odd that.

  Jack might be a murderous mutt but at least he was an honest one. He gloried in the joy of the hunt as much as the satisfaction of sinking his teeth into succulent flesh. Relished, the hot pulse of blood filling his mouth. Revelled in his liberation from Jake’s dogged grip on civility. The most ridiculous truth of all? Jake wondered at the fact it was harder to drag Jack back to his dungeon, than fling open its doors.

  Where his human overthought everything, gnawing away and getting nowhere, Jack’s desires were simple, with clear-cut solutions. His pain was easy to manage. Jackals are creatures of instinct. If he was hungry, he ate; the rare sting of teeth and claws when supper fought back was fleeting, wounds healed in a matter of moments. Every hurt prompted a clear choice to take, and an action to end it.

  Jake had spent a lifetime snarled up in self-loathing, suppressed rage and toxic terror. All of which had been battered into submission with a guitar, leather-clad in cool and cloaked in self-deprecating wit. If he could be honest with himself for once in a bloody-minded lifetime, he might just admit that it was a relief to let Jack resume the reins. That he relished every second of liberation from the quicksand mire of his own mind. Revelled in the freedom to roam as he wished and run. Run with the wind ruffling his fur, thrilling in the rush of power and pounding paws…

  4. Jake

  Jake focused on the sliver of self that remained of the man he’d assumed he was, would ever be. Before Glastonbury. Reclaiming it was an act akin to packing a parachute into a backpack. Pulling on a rippling swathe of silk, tugging it inwards, as if drawing it deeper with every beat of his heart. Like sucking a sock up a hoover pipe. Schllurrrp. It sounded horribly similar too.

  ‘Jack’ closed his eyes, concentrating on the silent shimmer crouched within; the core of all he was. Harnessing his secrets once more, until his human self was all that remained. Visible.

  Jake McCain rose to his feet and dragged in a deep lungful of that deadly scent. Still strong, but manageable now. The longing to taste ivory flesh was no longer quite so insistent. Not as a possible snack, at least, which was his worst fear; being unable to determine the difference, until it was too late. Far, far too late.

  His hair fluttered around his face, flirting with the wind, the only part of Jake that now felt free. A silver lining in the stifling cloud that held him steady, reminded him who he was, in all ways that must matter most.

  His skin gleamed like marble in the moonlight when Jake bent to scoop (at least) six feet of unconscious man into his arms. His proximity was incendiary. Intoxicating. Jake was crackling with so much energy he could probably saunter to the summit of Ben Nevis. Lust licked along his veins, an inferno of need boiling his blood. Every fibre of his being had fused to focus on Him; its intensity so fervent, furious, it might raze the world to the ground if it did Him harm.

  I am holding Him in my arms…which was so much more than Jake had ever dared dream. Everlasting legs were draped over his left arm, his right curled beneath His back. So far so good. Except for the slight matter of the erection attempting to drill into His spine. Jake was now so strong, and his cock so rigid, he could probably balance his precious cargo just so, as if serving Him up on a platter. Now there was an image to save to his mental hard drive. It would certainly make for a spectacular finale to Jake’s Britain’s Got Talent act.

  He’d just have to hope that his patient didn’t wake before they reached the sanctity of His campervan. The starkers-as-the-day-he-was-born part was bad enough, but Jake clearly hadn’t thought this through. Perhaps he should start praying to Anubis for divine intervention. Or perhaps not. Calling on the Protector of the Dead—he who ushered souls into the afterlife—thus drawing all-powerful attention to them possibly wasn’t the finest idea Jake ever had. Cradling Him carefully to protect Him from undue jolting, Jake began to run.

  Upon reaching the campervan a few minutes later, Jake lowered himself to his haunches and rested its still-unconscious owner on his lap to pat at the pockets of the trenchcoat for some keys. When he heard their tell-tale jingle, Jake extracted them and selected the most likely suspect before rising to his feet.

  He’d been longing to see inside the van (aside from sneaking a peek through a gap in its curtains), but when Jake tugged the door wide, he stood, gaping, at the sheer onslaught of stuff. Staggering in itself, but infinitely less so than the sledgehammer of scent that snatched Jake’s breath away. Fuck.

  Turning his head, Jake sucked in a huge lungful of fresh air and held it, then climbed into the van and carried Him over to one of the sofa-seats. That seemed the most logical place; Jake should never be able to heft Him into the bed nook above the driver’s alcove. In truth, he could have bridged his fingers at the small of His back and lifted him above his head like a waiter flourishing a silver salver.

  After laying Him gently on a sofa, Jake sank onto the nearest seat and scraped a hand through his straggling hair. Strewth. He swallowed in a futile attempt to manage the saliva situation (drooling like a mangy mut) and gazed down at that sleeping angel face. So vulnerable, so horribly unaware of the danger He was in.

  A shallow, experimental breath burned Jake’s throat like absinthe. Christ. The jackal could never resist that scent in such an enclosed space. He wouldn’t flinch from shredding His clothes in seconds, hell-bent on sinking his teeth into skin. Jake yearned to. He did, at least, ache to devour Him in a very different way so…thank fuck for small mercies?

  Okay. After a few more shallow inhalations, the scent became slightly more bearable; less like being clobbered with a breeze block. Jake examined the glistening gash; it did seem to have started healing a little. His own flesh wounds healed in seconds—this hadn’t scabbed over quite that quick—but it was still far too fast. There was no need to dig around for a first aid kit, the wound couldn’t look any cleaner. Savlon would do fuck all to ward off impending fur. It was probably best to leave it alone, just make Him as comfortable as those ludicrous legs would allow and fetch a blanket.

  He appeared to be breathing regularly and there was no sign of a burgeoning bump, so He should be okay, bar a banging headache. Jake knew damn well that he would fret to fuck if he didn’t stay to keep an eye on Him. Anything could happen. Anything. That was the part that freaked Jake out the most. He just didn’t know.

  They would have to watch Him every night now, until it was clear that Jack’s lick fest hadn’t triggered the consequences he dreaded. The jackal’s saliva had clearly accelerated the healing process of the wound so…what the hell else might it do? The very thought of their saliva seeping into His system…Christ. The shaft of lust that slashed Jake’s loins catapulted him out of his seat to crash through the door and stagger out onto the verge. By the time he could see straight he was crouched on all fours and gasping at fresh, untainted air. He had to get a grip on the need wracking his guts like grappling hooks. Had to. For Him. Pressing his forehead
into the grass, Jake inhaled its earthy sweetness, filling his lungs with the soothing smell of soil, which was comforting, somehow. Grounding.

  For a heart stopping moment he’d feared that he was about to explode in a fury of fur. Jake had shifted against his will many times at first—in a far too literal outburst of rage—impossible to restrain. He had been furious for a long time.

  After the first year, Jake had begun to get a handle on it, but it had been a bitter, bloody battle. He may have learned to suppress his customary triggers, but the jackal had never, ever, been triggered by lust. Jake’s current predicament was compounded by the fact he’d not had sex since that night. Sex? He’d done bugger all for two years. It had taken him months to make a cup of bloody tea without demolishing the kitchen. There was barely a mug left in the cottage with a handle still attached. He still had to monitor his movements and rein in the incalculable strength, coiled like steel springs, ever primed to pounce.