Night of the Wolf

by Sean Kikkert

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  About the Author

  Published by E. L. Marker, an imprint of WiDo Publishing

  WiDo Publishing

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  widopublishing.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Sean Kikkert

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written consent of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Steven Novak

  Book design by Marny K. Parkin

  ISBN 978-1-947966-33-8

  For my daughter Utopia

  Prologue

  The crowd wanted blood.

  The teenage girl stood before them on the scaffold, her demeanor regal and dignified. She was strikingly beautiful, with dark, curly hair that cascaded down over her shoulders and onto her white dress. Although the girl appeared innocent and pure, the crowd jeered and spat at her as she awaited her fate.

  An official in a long, flowing black robe, starched cravat, and powdered wig stood next to her, his impatience clear. “Do you have any final words?” he sneered.

  “If you have to destroy me for who I am, so be it,” the girl replied with sadness in her voice. Her gentle brown eyes filled with fear. “I am what God made me. I will return to His presence.”

  The official scoffed at this. “Nonsense,” he snarled. “You are a monster and an abomination. You and your people will be wiped from this land.”

  The beautiful girl shook her head. “You’re wrong,” she said. “God loves all of His creations. No one is born good or evil. We choose what we become.” The blood drained from her face, and she trembled. “You have chosen to murder me even though I have committed no crime—my blood will be on your hands.”

  The crowd fell silent as the official’s face twisted into an icy grimace. “Your very existence is a crime, and I am doing God’s work by extinguishing it,” the official said, dismissing her. He nodded to the executioner, a huge mountain of a man with arms as thick as tree trunks. The executioner strode over and slung a thick, coarse rope around the girl’s elegant neck.

  The girl’s heart beat faster. She sweated beneath her pretty white dress, and dread gripped her throat. Her breathing became sharp and shallow as the executioner placed his hand on the lever that operated the trapdoor beneath her feet.

  In one swift motion, the executioner pulled down.

  The trapdoor opened with a snap, and the girl felt herself falling. As she fell, she convulsed and twitched in mid-air. She sprouted thick, coarse hair all over her young, slender body, and her arms transformed into long paws tipped with sharp, glinting claws.

  She was only halfway through her transformation when she felt a hard jolt. With a quick, sharp stab of pain, the girl’s neck snapped.

  The crowd cheered as her spirit left her body. And there, swinging at the end of the rope, was a black, white, and gray wolf with the face of a beautiful young girl.

  Chapter 1

  The pack followed the tall, broad-shouldered man with the long, thick hair and straggly beard. Telemachus had led them for many months through snow and rain and beneath the blistering sun; the pack was exhausted. But at last, they had arrived. They had lost many of their family members and friends to enemies along the way, while others had simply perished due to the rigors of the journey. There were now fewer than three hundred in the pack.

  “This is the place,” Telemachus bellowed. Despite his loud, booming voice and rough, shaggy appearance, he had a warm and friendly face. “This is where we will make our new home.”

  Cassandra was overcome with a feeling of peace and relief. The place was beautiful indeed, and she could see her family making a happy home there. The grass was green and lush, the soil was rich and fertile, and the high cliffs overhanging the restless, rolling sea were breathtaking.

  Cassandra could see a long-forgotten footpath carved into the steep cliff, and noticed that a rocky beach below would make a wonderful place for swimming. Vast, dense woods bordered the left-hand side of the fields, and Cassandra gazed at the low-slung branches of the straggly young oaks that guarded the forest. She couldn’t wait to go exploring in the woods.

  Cassandra’s mother, Helen, wrapped Cassandra and her little sister, Harmonia, in strong, bony arms. Harmonia was a cute ten-year-old girl with a freckly face and shiny, dark hair, different than the curly, brown hair cascading down Cassandra’s back.

  Harmonia was also one of Cassandra’s most favorite people in the whole world.

  “We finally have a home,” Helen sobbed.

  Cassandra was too exhausted from the arduous journey to return her mother’s hug with much enthusiasm. Everything hurt. Her pale blue dress was dirt-stained and almost in rags, she had blisters all over her bare feet, and she felt aches in muscles she didn’t even know she had.

  Without even stopping to rest, some of the pack members began to erect makeshift shelters. Her joints stiff, Cassandra made her way over to help, for that was the way the pack worked: always together. And at sixteen, she was almost an adult, expected to pull her weight.

  Soon, the sound of chopping wood filled the air.

  The pack had only been at their new home a couple of days when their neighbors came over to investigate. Telemachus had been expecting them, having seen the city in the distance. It was a place with high, sturdy walls, vast towers, and elegant buildings.

  In other lands where the pack had settled, their neighbors were always quick to investigate the newcomers. The key was to keep their neighbors at a distance for as long as possible. The pack had never been able to make friends with them. It was usually only a matter of time before they came baying for the pack’s blood.

  Perhaps this time would be different.

  The members of the pack were chatting noisily among themselves as they cleared the land for farming, but they grew quiet when the sound of horses’ hooves filled the air. Cassandra looked over to see a group of mounted soldiers approaching the camp. They wore fearsome, horned helmets and carried long, sharp spears.

  A smartly dressed man with curly, gray hair led the soldiers. He rode a magnificent black stallion whose nostrils flared in alarm as it approached the pack. The man had a friendly smile, but his soldiers glared with suspicion at the strangers.

  Cassandra watched as Telemachus walked forward to greet the man and his soldiers. He was flanked by his own soldier—a huge man over six feet in height. He had broad, muscular shoulder
s and an impossibly wide chest. The big man glared at one of the visiting soldiers, who gulped, while the rest of the pack stood nervously behind their leader.

  “I am Morton, Lord Mayor of the land of Havea.” The well-dressed man addressed the pack, warmth in his voice.

  “I am Telemachus, the leader of this group,” Telemachus said. “And this here is Nestor.” He motioned toward the giant of a man standing next to him.

  “Can you tell us what your intentions are on our land?” Morton asked, his dark eyes studying the pack.

  “We just want a place to settle,” Telemachus said. “We mean no harm, and we will cause no trouble. We are a law-abiding people who just want a home where we can dwell until the day we die.”

  Morton rubbed his smooth chin as if deep in thought. “Very well,” he said. “You may stay here. But you must not settle beyond these lands.”

  Telemachus bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord,” he said. “My people are indeed grateful.”

  Without further word, Morton and his men turned and rode away.

  This might be the best banquet I’ve ever attended, Morton thought to himself. There were a hundred or so revelers at the king’s banquet, and the food was quite sumptuous—his mouth watered just looking at it. Morton inhaled deeply and savored the delicious aromas of roast boar and pheasant. The boar was perfectly cooked, tender, and succulent, and simply melted in Morton’s mouth.

  Morton eyed Conrad, King Magnus’ chief advisor, as he thoughtlessly took a big mouthful of venison and washed it down with red wine from a bejeweled gold chalice. He doesn’t appreciate this feast the way I do, Morton thought. That snobbish, privileged man has been accustomed to the very best things in life ever since he was a child.

  Morton was getting weary of the way Conrad whined in his nasal tone about the people who had moved into the king’s land. Couldn’t he see that the king was trying to enjoy the banquet? There would be ample other opportunities to discuss the matters of the kingdom.

  “I really don’t think those people should be allowed to live so close to your land, Your Majesty,” Conrad insisted. “They are a peculiar lot.”

  “What do you think, Morton?” King Magnus asked as he bit into a slab of roasted swan thigh and licked his lips clean of the rich, creamy sauce.

  “Oh, they are just a tired people, Your Majesty, in need of a place to rest,” Morton assured the king.

  Across the banquet hall, a couple of young men made lively, joyful music—one played the fiddle, the other a lute—accompanied on the harp by a middle-aged woman with blonde hair and bright cheeks.

  “No, there is something strange about them,” Conrad said. “They are a dirty, filthy people and are unworthy of being near us.”

  Morton was glad to see that Conrad no longer had the king’s attention. King Magnus’ eyes were instead focused on a beautiful young woman dancing to the joyful music—she had graceful, elegant moves and the most welcoming eyes. He waved his hand dismissively at Conrad. “Oh, come now,” he said, “all people deserve a place to live. Let’s give them a chance. Let them be.”

  The bugle pierced the dim morning and awoke Cassandra with a start. She brushed the tangles of hair away from her face as a flood of excitement rushed through her. Today was the day of the hunt!

  Cassandra trekked to the hunting ground with her mother and Harmonia. On the way, she caught her reflection in the river and saw the heavy bags under her eyes. Others in the pack often said she was pretty with her thick, wavy, chestnut brown hair and soulful eyes, so dark they almost appeared black. Although Cassandra was a beautiful girl with a graceful, elegant figure, the face that stared back from the river’s reflection didn’t seem as pretty and carefree as it had once been.

  She glanced at her mother and saw she had that familiar, faraway expression on her face. It had become commonplace after Cassandra’s father died. When he passed, it seemed to Cassandra that a big part of her mother went with him. In fact, a big part of all of them died that day. Today Harmonia looked happy, although the previous night Cassandra had heard her crying softly on her sleeping mat. She’d slipped quietly over to her little sister’s mat and laid down next to her. Harmonia had told Cassandra that the upcoming hunt had reminded her of their father; he had taught both of them everything that they knew about hunting. There in the darkness, they held each other tight and cried together.

  A sea of shabby, tired people gathered around Telemachus as they arrived at the forest’s edge. Cassandra stood among them, breathing in the air and savoring its freshness in her lungs.

  Telemachus wore only a pair of old pants, and most of the pack were dressed in their oldest, most worn-out clothing. Usually, to avoid ruining their best clothes, the werewolves would separate into male and female groups and remove their clothes before turning into wolves. The items would then be put into a specially designed backpack, which they carried with them when in wolf form. On special occasions such as Hunt Day, however, the people preferred to be together for their transformation. Since modesty did not allow the werewolves to be naked in mixed company, the simple solution was for everyone to wear old clothing that they didn’t mind tearing to pieces. The people had, however, brought their best clothes with them to get changed into once the hunt was over. The men left their clothing by the river’s edge, while the women had a separate spot over a hill where they could get changed in privacy.

  “I know you’ve lost everything.” Telemachus’ roar penetrated Cassandra’s ears. “We have been persecuted and chased away from every land in which we have ever dwelt. But today, we can celebrate and be proud. We are creating a beautiful village here. We have grown strong through our persecution. At last, we have a land where we can be free!”

  Telemachus made eye contact with Cassandra. His piercing, blue eyes grabbed her and pulled her in. “Before we begin our hunt, let us offer a prayer to our Almighty Creator,” Telemachus said.

  Every person in the pack closed their eyes and bowed their heads.

  “Our Most High and Compassionate God,” Telemachus began, “we thank you that we are free and safe in this land. We thank you that we can feel the wind in our hair and fur and the sun on our backs. We thank you for the brother and sisterhood that exists within our pack. And please bless our prey—let them feel no pain when our jaws snap their necks. Let them die knowing we respect and honor them.”

  Telemachus stepped forward as hair sprouted all over his body. Glistening, sharp teeth broke through his gums, and his muscular arms turned into powerful paws and claws. As Telemachus dropped to all fours, pleasure and contentment flashed across his face.

  Cassandra knew exactly what Telemachus was experiencing. Turning into a wolf felt like getting a deep massage after a trying day, or removing shoes after a long journey. She felt as if she was more at peace with the world—more herself—when she was in wolf form. And she loved the way the transformation made her senses explode as her ears lengthened and her eyes and nose changed; as a wolf Cassandra could hear, smell, and see things she couldn’t in her human shape.

  Next, Telemachus’ thigh muscles pulsed and grew bigger, thicker, and stronger until they ripped right through his pants.

  His metamorphosis complete, Telemachus had become a monstrous, midnight-black wolf with red, gleaming eyes.

  The pack cheered.

  And they, too, began to transform.

  Chapter 2

  Telemachus lowered his nose to the leaf-littered ground and sniffed. He quickly located his prey, and Cassandra could smell it, too—five young bucks with that spring’s velvet still adorning their antlers. The pack began chasing the raw scent of fear that hung around the herd of deer. As they ran, the pack was one with each other and their surroundings.

  Cassandra felt a heady rush of pure adrenaline as she bolted after the deer. She loved the thrill of the chase, and she was ge
tting closer—close enough to hear the young buck’s wildly beating heart. Cassandra lunged to bite, but her teeth only managed to snap at thin air. Still, she was almost there.

  She hurdled through the air to block the deer’s path. It turned in an instant and ran straight toward the strong, gaping jaws of Telemachus. The pack leader leapt high, and his teeth clamped like a steel trap around his prey’s neck. The deer’s eyes bulged wildly as he snorted and struggled for his final breath. Nestor’s enormous bulk moved in to help Telemachus; they both shook the young deer until it gave up its gift of life.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the pack had caught and killed other deer for themselves. The pack ate their fill until gore ran freely down their lips and blood splattered all over their fur. This was no wild, animalistic frenzy, though, as the pack members were all completely aware of one another and were perfectly civilized. The younger wolves respectfully allowed the elders to take the first bites, making sure that no one who deserved their honor missed out. The pack would hunt again and again until they had eaten their fill.

  Cassandra glanced across at Harmonia. The youngster greedily devoured a smaller deer, and as she ate, her big ears flapped and slippery globs of bloodied meat stuck to her soft gray fur. Whether Harmonia was in human or wolf shape, Cassandra thought her little sister was adorable.

  Having eaten their fill, the males and females divided back into two separate groups to change into human form; it was easier to wash blood from skin than thick pelts.

  They washed themselves clean, then dressed and basked together in the welcoming warmth of the sun. It was an especially glorious day, with the sun’s rays covering the wolf pack like a comforting blanket. The elders lay sleeping peacefully on the leafy ground beneath the trees, while around them, the young cubs excitedly threw sticks for one another. Work in the fields and other chores were put on rest for Hunt Day, and the pack were taking full advantage of their time off.