by L. E. Horn
I exchanged my beer for the drawing. I’d had most of the night to work on it. The creature on the page glared at us with a realism that made my heart stutter.
Peter looked down and his face lost all color. “God, you can sure draw. It looks so real.”
“It was real. I saw it at McClellan’s dairy this time. Just the smaller one. It wasn’t a wolf.”
Peter drained his beer in three loud gulps and slumped in his chair. I guess in his shoes, I’d be wondering about my sanity too. But I have the paw prints to back this up. He returned the drawing and I looked at it again.
“Doesn’t look like a wolf,” Peter admitted. “Don’t know what it looks like. Lot of detail here for something you saw at night. Maybe it was a bear?”
“The hind legs were long and sort of coiled beneath the body, and it moved in these great bounding leaps. Bears aren’t that light off the ground. Plus”—I hesitated—“it stood.”
“It stood? On its hind legs?” Peter shot me a glance. “Like a bear?”
“No.” I swallowed. “Fully upright. Straight. Like a person. Then it ran. On two legs.”
Peter looked away and rubbed a big hand over his face. The skin sagged and there were new lines around his eyes, making him appear older than usual.
“When will you get a chance to show your friends those paw prints?”
He juggled the empty bottle between his hands. “Sometime this week, I expect.”
I finished my beer and returned to work. After a moment, Peter joined me, and we worked in companionable silence, mending our fence.
* * *
Keen and I went for a good run that evening, splashing through the puddles on the full six-mile loop. Back at my place, I showered and was cooking dinner when the Chevy pulled in. Dillon and Chloe entered above my head—arguing—and soon Peter’s voice joined theirs. My suite was well insulated, so I couldn’t hear the words, only the tone. My friend’s distinctive voice sounded pissed. Dillon’s bass rumble gave as good as it got. Chloe’s contributions were indicated by the gaps in the conversation. The argument continued for almost half an hour until a door slammed. Moments later, the Chevy screamed out of the driveway. My jaws paused in their chewing as I recognized the sound of someone crying—Chloe. Damn it. What the hell did he say to make her cry? I wanted to go up there, but I could barely decipher another voice, talking to her—Peter—and I had no place in it.
I’d lost my appetite, so I wrapped the leftovers and put them in the fridge. Restless, I wandered to my door and stared at the lock. Somewhere out there, Dillon sat behind the wheel of an automobile, madder than hell and likely out for blood. I doubted my presence would be helpful or welcome. With a mental shrug, I threw the deadbolt and retreated to the bedroom. I flipped through the satellite channels on the TV, trying to ignore the silence upstairs. I figured they were safe so long as Dillon stayed away.
After a while, I shut off the TV and pulled out my tablet to surf the net. At some point, I must have dozed off. A rumble in the dark woke me—Keen. When had she turned into such an angry dog?
She stopped growling when I laid a hand on her, and the room fell silent. Not just the room but the world. Even the frogs had ceased their song.
I stood and moved to the bedroom window, peering out into the darkness. The lawn stretched before me, the grass a little too long—the fence had taken all afternoon—I’d have to cut it after work this week. I didn’t see anything, so I paced into the living room, where the windows revealed nothing further. But Keen followed me, grumbling, and I trusted her instincts.
On bare feet, I padded into the darkened kitchen. From the side window, I noticed that the Chevy had returned, but the vehicle sat dark and quiet. I pushed strands of sleep-tangled hair out of my eyes as I paused in the middle of the room. Keen looked at me, her blue eye shining in the darkness.
The sniff was loud in the sudden silence, and the dog and I froze, staring at the door. I put a hand out to still any reaction Keen might make. I needed to listen to whatever stood outside.
My suite had originally been a cellar, back before they finished it. The entry sat on a concrete landing at the bottom of several steps. At this time of year, water often collected in front of it, since the drain designed to take it away froze when it dropped below zero.
A crackle startled me—feet breaking through the thin layer of ice, into the water below—followed by another strong sniff from beyond the door.
I swear every hair on my body stood on end. Keen trembled against my leg, but I tightened a warning hand in her thick ruff. I had no doubt that something large, black, and so not a wolf lurked on the other side.
The farm’s yard light cast a soft glow through the door’s small window, and as I watched, a broad head with sharp-tipped ears appeared. The thing was standing. Like a human.
Beneath my fingers, Keen’s hackles rose, and she snarled low in her throat. As though we sat trapped in a nightmare, the knob twisted, the latch slipping free from the strike plate. The whole door vibrated and shifted inward as the creature rammed it against the dead bolt, and something exploded from somewhere deep inside me. Rage. Molten, unreasonable. And demanding action.
I released Keen and she flew at the entrance in full cry, but she didn’t beat me to it. I was already there, slamming both hands against the solid wood to drive it back into place. I didn’t recognize the sound that came from my throat—part roar, part snarl. For a moment there was silence on the other side of the door, then a huffing, chuckling noise, like that of a demented bear, and the rattle of claws on the wooden steps.
I’m not sure how I got there, but a second later I was standing up to my ankles in the icy water on my landing, clad only in my pajama bottoms, with my walking stick in hand. Shut safely in the house, Keen yowled and scrabbled. No way was she getting out here, not with that thing around. I raced up the steps and stood beneath the yard light.
“Come on!” I yelled into the darkness. “Come on, you bastard. You want me, I’m here!”
The little voice inside my head shouted, What the hell are you doing? Get back in the frigging house! But the tsunami within me overwhelmed all reason. My lips retracted from my teeth in a grim caricature of a wolf’s snarl, as though I had real fangs instead of wimpy human stubs. I ran to Peter’s deck and jumped up the stairs two at a time, before turning to stare off into the woods.
The thing emerged from the bush about thirty feet from me. Even over the muffled sound of Keen’s hysterical barking, I heard it growl. Then it stood straight up, towering on its hind legs, and howled.
I took two strides and vaulted over the deck railing, landing in a crouch on the grass, the walking stick held across my body like a shield. The creature dropped back to all fours, and its long white teeth glinted in the dim yard light. At the shoulder, it was easily as tall as me and much more massive, but I felt no fear. A growl rumbled, and with a faint shock, I realized the sounds came from my own throat.
The thing crouched and sprang. I jumped to meet it, but something hit me hard from behind, driving me into the wet grass, holding me down. I poked my head up just as a silver blur collided with the black beast and the two melded into a screaming, snarling ball.
A breath drifted along on my neck, and the weight on my back shifted. I rolled to meet the tawny gaze of the she-beast. The moonlight shone off her glossy chocolate brown coat as she stepped away from me—ears flat and body low to the ground. She turned and leaped toward the fight rolling across the lawn. In a microsecond, all I could see was a writhing mass of multicolored fur.
I snapped back to sanity, and scrambled for the deck stairs, climbing them in a single leap and wrenching open Peter’s door.
“Peter!” I yelled, sliding to a stop in the kitchen. The cheerful yellow room sat in darkness; the entire house silent as a tomb. But both vehicles are here. Where are they?
The snarling sounds from the fight on the lawn cut off, and the image of silver fur scudded through my mind. No. I began to shiver vio
lently as I ran through the rooms, throwing open doors and yelling a name I finally recognized as Chloe’s, over and over. But the house was empty. When I returned to the deck, I couldn’t see any sign of the combatants. The land remained silent except for my poor Keen, whose voice had gone hoarse in panic. I slipped and slid down to my own entrance, shoved past my dog, and spun around to throw the deadbolt. For a moment I leaned against the door and breathed while Keen snuffled and licked me as though she hadn’t seen me in weeks. But then my brain began to thaw, and I hurried through my apartment, shutting and locking each window.
After I latched the final one, I stood in front of it and stared out at the lawn. No sign of the creatures, but—I squinted—something was out there. I blinked. It was still there. And my heart jolted to a halt.
Peter was standing on the grass. Naked. Dark rivulets trailed from his body and shone red in the moonlight.
My breath hitched. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, and when I opened them again, the lawn was empty. As reality crumbled and drifted away like leaves in the wind, the frogs started to sing.
* * *
Fortunately, the clinic remained closed for Easter Monday, and for once, I wasn’t on call. I doubted I could handle any cases, not with what weighed on me.
The morning sun promised another gorgeous spring day as I knocked on Peter’s door. I noticed Dillon’s car had gone and experienced a guilty surge of relief. My resolve might have crumbled if he’d been home. As it was, I debated the wisdom of leaving Keen in the suite. If things spiralled south, I didn’t want her trapped there, easy prey. But I had to trust my instincts.
Despite everything, I still trusted Peter.
In the light of day, my assumptions about last night’s events seemed ludicrous. Yet here I was, facing what could be the lion in his den.
Or should I say, wolf.
Chloe opened the door, and my stomach dropped to my toes when I saw the bruises on her face and the bloody rag in her hand. No welcoming smile this morning. Instead, she just stepped back to let me into the kitchen. Peter was slouched at the table. Beneath his unbuttoned shirt, his chest was a raw maze of claw rips and teeth punctures. The wounds ran to the waistband of his shorts and extended to his legs below. Chloe walked to the table and dropped the rag into a bowl of hot water, which was already crimson with blood.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I asked, surprised at how resigned I sounded.
One of Peter’s eyes had swollen shut, so he peered at me with the other. The pale-blue orb looked me up and down, noting my vet bag hanging off a shoulder. The perusal ended on my face and narrowed.
My heart froze, and then started to beat extra fast. “You could have told me.”
It was a ridiculous statement, and I knew it. “Liam, I’m a werewolf” was so not easily slipped into normal conversation.
Peter heaved a sigh. “Surprised it took you this long.”
In retrospect, so was I. But much as I considered myself to have a flexible, inquiring mind, this wasn’t something you just accepted. Even when I’d seen Chloe stand in that paddock—for I realized now, that’s who it was—and Keen had wagged her silly tail, my thoughts had shied away from such conclusions. I opened my mouth to frame it in words but I didn’t know where to begin.
As I forced my feet to carry me closer, I decided to settle on the basics. “So, what do you call yourselves?” My heart pounded so loud I swear everyone could hear it. Maybe they could.
“Our kind are called wulfan,” Peter replied. “Our animal side is the wulf, or wulves.”
They have a kind? I rubbed at my temple. Of course they do.
Giving myself a mental shake, I pulled the heavy bag off my shoulder. “Let me stitch you up.”
I crouched before him, and his naked physique surprised me—more muscle on the big frame than I’d expected. That’s what happens when you spend nights howling at the moon and running through the woods.
“No stitches,” Peter said. “Most have already sealed. We heal fast, s’long as the wounds are clean.”
I turned to Chloe. “How about you? Are you okay?” I reached to trace a slice on her forearm, but she pulled away.
“Don’t touch her,” Peter said, his voice sharp.
Startled, I glanced at him. “But they’ll need to be cleaned . . .”
“I’ve seen to it.” His expression softened. “If Dillon smells you on her—my days of telling him what to do have come to an end.”
The words chased ice down my spine. Chloe looked stricken, her pupils swallowing her eyes. If he smells me on her, he’ll do what? Perhaps that was a question best left unanswered. I pulled a bottle of wound cleanser out of my bag before turning back to Chloe. “Squirt this into fresh hot water according to the directions.”
She took it from me and placed it onto the counter, before picking up the bowl of bloody water and dumping it in the sink. As she began the refill, I noted that the plaster paw prints no longer sat drying on the windowsill.
“So,” I said, pulling out a chair to sit next to Peter. “Must have given you a bad moment when I showed up with those plaster casts.”
Peter’s visible eye widened in surprise, and he chuffed a laugh. “You’ve no idea. Chloe wanted to tell you, but Dillon—well, Dillon doesn’t like you much.”
No kidding. As I watched Chloe return with the bowl, moving with a grace I now realized mimicked her furry alter ego, I frankly didn’t blame Dillon for his jealousy—just what he did with it. “Where is the black beast this morning?” I struggled to keep my voice casual.
“We don’t know,” Chloe said. She dropped the towels on the table and pulled her lip from between white teeth, her eyes liquid with tears. “He took off . . . we looked for him all night, but when we got back, the car was gone.”
I hadn’t heard it leave. Perhaps I’d dozed off after all. “He tried to open the door to my place.”
Peter’s eyebrow climbed. “That why you ended up on the lawn in your pajamas?”
I grimaced. “Yeah.” Not my proudest moment. “But he—the deadbolt stopped him.” Seriously? I was going to go with “he started it”? What am I, ten?
Peter grunted. “He’s testing you. To see if you’d defend your territory.” He looked at Chloe, his expression grim.
Defend my territory? I wasn’t an animal. Although I guess that is exactly what I did, come to think of it. I looked at Peter, who was staring at Chloe as though they could communicate without words. Questions filled my mind, and I had no idea where to start. So I just jumped in. “Do you guys—change—voluntarily? You don’t seem to be linked to the lunar cycle.” I handed Peter a towel, which he put on his lap, and using a small squirt bottle, I began flushing debris out of his wounds.
“Shifting’s voluntary until the night of the full moon, when we have to shift.” Peter hissed as the fluid penetrated a deep cut. Werewolves might heal fast, but they certainly experienced pain.
I rinsed and repeated in silence for a while, concentrating on each wound. I worked until I got the courage to say what I needed to. “Thank you.”
It jolted him. “For what?”
“For saving my sorry hide. I don’t know what I was thinking, taking him on. He would have shredded me like paper.”
“It’s the wulf,” Peter said, pronouncing it oddly. He rolled his good baby blue to fix it on me. “Makes you do stupid things.”
“The wulf?” I mimicked his pronunciation and sat back and looked at him, perplexed. “How can him being a wulf make me do stupid things?” When they both continued to stare, I rolled my eyes. “You . . . wulfan. Me human.”
Peter’s gaze darted to Chloe, who reached out as though to touch my shoulder, but stopped herself. “No, Liam. You don’t understand.” The tawny gaze seemed conflicted—I saw sympathy and something else I couldn’t get a read on.
Peter shook his head at me. “The animals already know. Surely you’ve guessed.” At my uncomprehending stare, he continued. “When Dillon bit you, he gave you
the virus.”
I looked at the blood swirling in the bowl and dipped the cloth in again. What’s he on about? He can’t mean—is he joking? About this? I glanced up, but Peter wasn’t laughing. He put his heavy hand on my shoulder and grimaced.
“You’re one of us now.”
7
As a trained vet, my life revolved around science. Although I believed there were many things as yet undiscovered about our world, I’d always taken comfort in the biological rules that must be obeyed. One of those rules dictated that however weird the animal, most were born, lived, and died in a single, set form. Even those that changed—like insects—did not morph at will. Those that had amorphous shapes, such as the octopus, lacked a bony skeleton. So while I could grasp the discovery of a new species of human—I still cheered for those that searched for bigfoot—my mind struggled to cope with a creature that spent only part of its time looking like me.
The thought that I could be infected with a virus that changed me on a genetic level didn’t mesh with my idea of what was possible. Any minute now, I’ll wake up and find Keen breathing on my face. That would give anyone nightmares.
My brain threatened to teeter into madness. So I did the only thing I could: I shelved my automatic reaction, pushed it to the back of my mind, and tried to listen as Peter talked about the wulfan. It turned out that Peter’s family was more extensive than I’d known, but they just hadn’t made it this far north. There was a reason for that: they didn’t like him much.
Apparently, the feeling was mutual.
The family that—whelped?—Chloe lived in Texas, an apparent stronghold of their kind.
“So you were born wulfan,” I stated for clarity. Clarity, right. Cling to that.
“Chloe and I come from a long line of pureblood wulfan,” Peter said, wincing as I cleaned a deep slice on his arm.
