Bane Of His Existence

by Melody Knight

  Carnal Passions Presents

  Bane Of His Existence

  By

  Melody Knight

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  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 permission in writing from the publisher.

  Carnal Passions

  A Division of Champagne Books

  www.carnalpassions.com

  Copyright © 2009 by Melody Knight

  March 2009

  Cover Art © Amanda Kelsey

  Produced in Canada

  Other Books By Melody Knight

  Artifact

  Dedication

  To Rosemarie Louise Hansen…

  Wolf Bane

  Lusty moons, so clear and bright

  Lure werewolf souls to hunt and bite,

  Instincts strong and ethics weak,

  Carnivore prone, blood scents seek.

  Aversion for this woeful state,

  For tooth and hair, wolf paw and gait,

  No trust for passion 'neath the moon,

  With savagery striking all too soon.

  To find a soul with common ground,

  Primate traits mixed up with hound,

  Confronting evil, and compulsive feast,

  To capture, curb and love the beast.

  N. D. Hansen-Hill

  Prologue

  She was back. He had sat on the ledge—perilous spot that it was—for nearly a week. For the last three days he'd howled out his woes to whoever would listen, and for pride's sake, he'd sincerely hoped there weren't an abundance of listeners. He was too close to his transition to be anything other than emotional. And truth was, all his emotions were simplistic at this point. If he was happy, it was zinging fulfillment that culminated in a tongue loll or a tail wag. If he was sad, it was a belly crawl, a droop, a howl at Mother Moon.

  The sorrow and loss were there, but not the voice at first. His thready, tremorous "Owwwwwwwoooo" had sounded merely…warped. By yesterday, though, all his vocal apparati had adjusted for a deep, long, growly, mournful, keening howl.

  Perfect. And his olfactory refinements had returned just in time…to realize he no longer needed that resilient howl. His lady had returned. Anger and irritation at her absence made him mock her return. She didn't want to be caught out. She'd come back for security, so she could be in familiar territory at the full moon.

  She didn't come back for you. Hell, she doesn't even know who you are, any more than you know her. They'd never met face to face.

  It all came of not being brave enough. He'd been afraid to approach her. As a man, he slept with enough ladies to feel no qualms about bouncing bed sheets. This, though? Wolf intercourse seemed almost…aberrant. Oh, it didn't to his wolf mindset, but it sure did to his human one. Besides, he'd heard…somewhere…that wolves mated for life. He was appalled at the thought of being stuck with someone he couldn't tolerate, in looks or temper. It wasn't enough to be attracted a couple of days a month.

  No way.

  Was there a decorum for horny werewolves? A once-a-month meeting of bodies, and hang the minds? No strings attached? Or would the fur fly, so to speak, over such a shallow commitment?

  The hell with it. She was back, and life was returning to normal. The moon was on the wane and he'd be good for another month.

  But, your sniffer's still sensitive and her scent's sufficiently potent. You could track her down.

  If you want.

  Asking for trouble. The last thing he needed was to encourage a relationship. The way he'd mooned over her, the last few days? Crap, no. If she was half as sensitive as he became at this time of the month, he'd be setting himself up for disaster.

  The memory of his lonely howl was fading fast. At the moment, staunch and resolute, lone wolf sounded a lot more appealing than hooked up loser.

  One

  Verity tossed down the razor with relief. Lord knows, this had to be the best time of the month for her. After four days of shaving, of razor burn and five o'clock shadow, she was free. Free of foreboding. Free of that sense of impending doom.

  She'd never been enamored with vampires the way most of her friends had been. That was teenage stuff, but many of her female friends were now reading erotic tales about werewolves. To them, though, it was fiction.

  Verity peered derisively into the mirror. Fiction! If they only knew…

  But it was far better that they didn't. They'd be terrified, at translating their fantasies into fact. The reality was far too graphic.

  All except the erotic sex. Verity burst out laughing, embarrassed when a couple of her deeper laughs came out almost like barks. She tried to imagine herself performing, doggy style, with some big lusty werewolf, but just…couldn't. If anything, the idea filled her with disgust. She could deal with superfluous body hair if she had to, but by nature she was more fastidious. Having unprotected sex with dogs wasn't part of her plan any more than chomping down on raw meat was. Neither one appealed.

  When I'm sober. She had to admit it frightened her. Moon nights were madness, when she suffered from lunacy. Moon madness. It would be so much easier if she had somebody to talk to.

  But it just wasn't going to happen. Unless she wanted

  to let down her guard and seek out the male's lusty smell on the night air, she hadn't a prayer of finding a safe confidante. Her olfactories didn't seem to work with females of her kind.

  And I don't trust men. That was the truth. She hadn't trusted a man for the past four years, and it had been that long since she'd dated. She was sure he was the one who had bitten her, but all she could remember were teeth, sinking into her shoulder. It had hurt, that bite, and she'd fought to break free. He'd still been chewing on her when she'd fingered her stun gun and let him have it.

  After that she was in shock, she supposed, but there was a lot of writhing and frothing from her attacker while she dug in her bag for her mobile phone. By the time she found it, the man was gone. That was odd enough. He should have been out of it for a while longer, considering the voltage, but the bastard had slunk away, blast his hide.

  Verity had passed out, and when she'd come to, she could barely recall what had happened, but her wound was nearly healed. What happened the next night, when the moon was at its fullest, was so horrible she wished she could forget it. Suffice it to say that her dread on seeing a waxing moon never faded. She'd promised herself long ago that she would never, ever, infect another human being.

  As for her attacker? He was just a guy she'd met in a bar. He'd left her no clue, and his phone number turned out to be a fake. Verity made excuses for him at first—"he couldn't have known" and "maybe he thought it was safe". He'd been human enough at the time she'd dated him, after all.

  Be honest. It was his animal magnetism that lured you in.

  As for him? The truth was, he'd had an urge, and he just hadn't cared about the consequences.

  Bloodlust was one of those horrendous compulsions, so strong as to be almost indescribable. She'd thought sexual tension could top it, or that the drive was connected somehow with a desperation to eat, but it was more than just hunger. It was the scent of blood molecules on the air, so strong that she could smell it through the skin, in the sweat, in the tears. At those times, the skin became merely an ineffectual filter, holding the blood and organs at bay. And her conscience became an inconvenient anchor, hanging around her neck.

  ~ * ~

  Charl
ie went out for a morning run. Physical exertion was the best way to vent on days like this, when the aftermath of his wolfiness could still hit him, and put him in a temper. Running it off made him fit to face work. When you worked on the ninth floor of a high rise, surrounded by friends and colleagues in close-set cubicles, you couldn't afford to let your bad temper get away from you. He didn't want to have to live down a day's ire the rest of the month. Or be the subject of the week's gossip train.

  Sweated out, showered up…again…he scrambled to get to work on time—to shake off the laissez faire nonchalance that crept into his mindset on days like this. It was all too easy to discount his real life in favor of his lunar-triggered one, and evil lurked just around the corner. There were times Charlie was tempted to toss all this modular, fit-the-mold stuff, to run wild on the dark side. Drugs, alcohol, profligate sex. No matter how much damage he did to his person, short of chopping off a limb, he was sure to come right at wolfie time. Regenerate, recuperate, re-hair.

  He was the original superhero with nothing heroic to back him up. He had the meek and mild down pat, but as for the counter measure, that of superpower saving the world, he was too busy keeping himself from running amok and doing damage. Supervillain he was sure he could manage, if he'd only give himself the chance, but superhero? Not likely. Of late he'd been such an emotional wreck from missing his would-be mate, that he couldn't even claim wolfie toughness. I'm a wuss at work, a wuss under the moon.

  He attempted to shove all these unpleasant conjectures out of his mind. Stability—that's what he needed. Ditch the emotions, go for golden boy in the office. It was the wolf stuff which should be relegated to the background, not the job that paid his way.

  Charlie ran for the elevator, making it just as the doors were sliding closed. They re-opened, ingesting him like a maw. Another victim, breathing heavily, late as he was, was already aboard.

  He drew in a breath, desperate to stay his panting and appear at least partly civilized. Intent on appearances, he sucked half a lung's worth before he recognized the other occupant on the elevator. I know her!

  He turned his head to focus on her fully, half expecting a greeting in response. A "Hi, Charlie", or "How's it going?" while he wracked his brain to recall her name. Surely, if he knew her so well, he'd recall where they'd met? Did they work together? It wouldn't be the first time he'd failed to recognize a workmate. Oh, there were team-building exercises scheduled on a regular basis, but people on the ninth floor still worked in cubicles, semi-private workspaces with screens in-between, so they weren't in each others' faces. Otherwise, they wouldn't have been able to play call center so effectively. All those overlapping voices, plus the constant turnover… Only the desperate or exceedingly long term knew everybody's name.

  Slyly, he eyed the lighted button. Eleven. Not on nine at all.

  The lady was above him in every way. Dressed in corporate style, power clothes and shiny shoes. Hair drawn back in some kind of knot, her only concession to femininity the sparkly clip in her tresses. By comparison, Charlie was just one of the chumps in the call center. This female was management.

  Maybe she was on my floor when I first started. Could be that's how he knew her.

  She must have noticed he was staring, and trying hard not to, because she smiled. It smoothed out some of the tension in her brow, and when he smiled back, hers widened, becoming more relaxed, genuine.

  With something like reluctance, Charlie stepped off the elevator. "Bye!" he offered, brightly if lamely. "Maybe—"

  "Have a good one!" she cut in, assuming the elevator rider's blank gaze at nothingness as the doors slid closed once more.

  It wasn't until he turned his back that it hit him. It wasn't sight or memory that triggered the sense of familiarity. He recognized her, all right. Hadn't he been pining for her, positively howling out his complaints, only a few days prior?

  Humanity sometimes seemed on the cusp of fading into commonness, of losing those sensory distinctions which made his life as a wolf almost unbearable. This was one time, however, when his senses were working in Charlie Ascott's favor. He'd recognized her, all right…by scent.

  ~ * ~

  Have a good one? Oh, my God, was there ever anyone as maladroit at male-female interaction as she? Verity wondered how the hell she'd ever made it so far up the corporate ladder, with so few people skills. The guy had clearly been interested, and it wasn't as though she had anything else going.

  Her prim side countered with, That's not good enough. If you're going to date him, just to go out with someone—anyone—it's a cheat. Unfair to you both.

  He'd seemed…familiar somehow. One of those people you know from somewhere, but just can't put name to face. He probably expected me to say hi, she thought, shamefaced. Maybe it wasn't a dating scenario at all, but one where I should have asked after his family. Dear Lord, I'm a twat. Now, he'd merely realize she didn't recognize him, which meant she'd pegged him as inconsequential. Worse, it meant that she was a snob, because he'd exited on nine, which so obviously made him one of the call center grunts, while she was management.

  Verity sniffed sadly, then sniffed again. Lord, she had to pull herself together before the doors opened. The truth was, this time of the month was worse than PMS. She was emotionally drawn, and sensitive to everything. Moody as hell, and swinging between wanting to bite someone's head off, and paroxysms of dismay over everything from squashing someone's feelings, to feeling as though she'd somehow singled herself out by her attitude.

  I'll never have any friends. Sniff. Sniff.

  No real ones, anyway. A tear trickled down and she hastily swiped at it, pawlike, with the back of her hand. Damn it!

  There's nobody who'll want to know me, once they find out… But then, they'll never find out, will they? I can't afford the risk, because half the time I don't even recall what I did on moon days. I’m as bad as a drunk on a bender.

  Amnesia all the way…

  The doors opened and Verity left the elevator, by all appearances as in control of herself as ever. Only her stumble would have given her away, if anyone had been watching. Hard to walk straight when your eyes are filled with tears.

  ~ * ~

  Charlie strode onto the floor with a new sense of purpose. I know who she is!

  And no matter what, he intended to track her down. Pin her down. Interact.

  It wasn't until he was heading toward his cubicle that he thought, Odd, how she works in my building. Coincidence? Or was the werewolf locus, the Typhoid Mary of Were infection, somewhere close at hand? If he is, he's got a lot to answer for.

  Or she does. It suddenly occurred to him that half his attraction might be familiarity. He didn't remember becoming infected. That time was hazy. That night was lost in an alcoholic blur he could never quite resolve. He'd awakened in an alley, bleeding from a gash in his shoulder. He didn't recall a fight, so he'd blamed it on a mugging. After all, nobody with any class, of any social standing, went around infecting people.

  He froze, stock still, one hand gripping the back of his chair. Good grief, I'm a bigot. Classist. He'd automatically labeled his vector an outcast, a social misfit, a loser. He'd relegated him to some subspecies, not quite human.

  It was a scenario he could live with because it distanced him from the common, run-of-the-mill lycan. Not for him chasing victims through alleys, or chomping his way through the masses. He was far too classy for that kind of scene.

  Only, he'd just met a lady who outclassed him in every way, from position to earning power to dress code. It opened his eyes to the possibilities, and they weren't pretty ones, even if she was. The vector may have been able to get at him because she was a pretty face. Was this mournful crap he'd been putting himself through the last few moon days solely because he was "attached" to her somehow? Was that the way Weres worked? Like the vampires of lore? One main vampire, and all the little sub vamps flying around sucking at jugulars? His longing for her might have nothing to do with their olfactory connectio
n, and everything to do with physical contact—something he'd forgotten.

  Charlie remembered to turn on his computer, then slowly twisted, eying his coworkers while he waited for his machine to boot up. Friggen' hell! He wondered how many other people were attempting to hide their wildness today behind a corporate exterior. Paul claimed every night was wild, and he wasn't looking any too fresh this morning. Neither was Jack. Or Sammy. Mary appeared positively haggard, but then she had young kids, didn't she? That didn't explain Teri's bloodshot eyes. The lady looked pieced together with Scotch tape.

  Is it me? Did I infect any of 'em? It was something he always worried about, no matter how lame. Surely, I'd remember biting somebody.

  But I don't even remember being bitten.

  Well, there's that. He sank down in his chair, and tried to focus. He needed to get on the phones—this was a call center, after all. It was niggling at him now, though, so he stood up one more time, doing a quick survey. Nobody was gazing at him with hate in their heart. So far, so good. If he was the vector, at least they didn't blame him.

  But it was another reason for tracking his elusive lady down. Surely, no one could know less about this wolfie business than Charlie Ascott. The woman was bound to know more. She was hiding her secret in the middle of a much more discerning and demanding group than he was. All he had to do was think of his own frantic scramble on these after-mornings, in order to piece himself together to face the world with any appearance of normalcy. It would be that much harder if he worked on eleven.

  It would take some doing to scale the corporate walls to commune with her. All this time, his goal had been to move up the ladder and take the very next management position that came his way. Eleven had beckoned as the source from which all good things came: a private office, a company credit card, an expense account, a car, and a sweet increase in pay. He'd never thought until now just how difficult it would be to balance his lunar lifestyle in management mode. He actually felt a trace of pity for the seductive female he'd encountered in the elevator.