Brian S. Ference
Copyright © 2016 by Brian S. Ference
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Dedication
My thanks go out to my beautiful wife Rachel, the love of my life, who supports me in everything that I do. I wrote this book as an experiment, an exercise in thought, a journey of imagination, and an exploration of conscious. I have long held a fascination with werewolves and have always had the goal to publish a book. Enjoy this compelling tale of love, lust, and the werewolf spawned by the evil of man.
A Note to Readers
I hope you enjoy this book. Please join my Mailing List at http://www.brianference.com/mailing-list/ to find out when new books release and to qualify for great prizes and giveaways. I would greatly appreciate it if you took the time to post a short review on Amazon or any other book site. Your support makes a tremendous difference. I read each review personally and try to incorporate your feedback into improving my work.
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Sincerely,
Brian S. Ference
Other Books From
the Author
The Wolf of Dorian Gray Series:
A Werewolf Spawned by the Evil of Man (Book 1)
Purgatory of the Werewolf (Book 2)
Lupări: Werewolf Hunter (Book 3)
Table of Contents
Other Books From the Author
Prologue
The Wolf Pup
Dorian Gray
An Awakening
Lady Helena
Juliet
Sibyl Vane
The Duke’s Gala
The Theatre
The Wolf
The Change
The Hunt
Dark Rumors
Romani Secrets
A Winter Tryst
Human Prey
The Duel
Whispered Conversations
The Fog
The Docks
Country Estate
The Soul
The Picture
Epilogue
A Fresh Start
The Crime Scene
New Abilities
End of Free Sample:
Buy Book 2 Purgatory of the Werewolf Now
About The Author
Other Books From the Author
I
Prologue
James approached the crumbling stone wall of the vast country estate. He'd have to move quickly to avoid detection from the other men tramping through the dense woods nearby. His short stocky figure was capable of small bursts of speed, but his legs were more used to the deck of a ship than tearing through the thorny shrubs and tangled tree roots of the forest floor. Timing his move, he vaulted the wall and sprinted across the open ground and into the waiting cover of the trees. He sank down behind a hawthorn bush that provided some concealment while he caught his heaving breath and listened intently. There was almost no sound at all. Strange, this area should be teeming with quail and other animals. Why were there so many men in the forest? Ah, they must be beaters for a hunting party nearby. The beaters were likely in search of the fat speckled quail that would be hiding among the dense undergrowth and in the surrounding fields.
James was hunting for a very different form of prey. He checked the five-shot Webley revolver in his coat, making sure it was fully loaded. It was an inexpensive sidearm, but it had served him well over the years. The last time he faced his quarry it escaped unscathed. That was a mistake he would correct today—or die trying.
The men moved off towards the fields, so James quietly advanced to the edge of the trees to get a closer look at the light-brown country house. The architecture was in the Palladian style, with symmetrical pillars in the front and circular arches over the large windows. There were multiple wings attached to the central house, and they too were adorned with pediments and porticos.
He was about ten meters away but, with the low fog on the ground, it was difficult to see clearly. As he stood behind a thick oak tree, he leaned outward and peered into the windows of the building. The first and second rooms proved empty and he quickly moved on. The third contained a large gathering, with all sorts of people moving about inside, but his target could not be seen there. At the last window on the side of the house, he was shocked to see the very face he had been searching for looking directly back at him. He leaped backward and turned sideways to conceal his broad shoulders behind the tree. He desperately hoped that he hadn’t been seen. Maybe the eyes were simply looking out at the surrounding woods. No, that was foolish—he had been spotted. But, perhaps he could draw his prey to him instead. Risking another glance around the tree, he saw that the face had disappeared from the window. If he was discovered, he would do whatever was required to find a way to spring his trap, even if it cost him everything. Failing that, he would wait for another opportunity to take his revenge.
He had been away at a distant port when the letter came bearing news that would change his life forever. From that moment, James had vowed vengeance and thought of little else. He had been hunting for years now with only one previous encounter with his prey. That time he had lost his nerve. But now he would finally finish it. A little patience would cost him nothing and would be well worth the wait to end that particular life.
After several minutes with no alarm being sounded, he gradually retreated and moved deeper into the forest to wait. Nearly a quarter-hour of time passed. He snapped his head up abruptly as a faint scraping sound announced the approach of someone nearby. James cocked the hammer of his revolver and pointed it in the direction he had taken back from the house. Minutes passed in deafening silence as his heart thudded rapidly in his chest. There was no one there.
The attack came from his side instead of the front. James was completely unprepared by the sheer force of whatever hit him and knocked him sideways onto the ground. He only had a sense of a large dark shape as it continued the attack, falling upon him. Desperately, James brought his revolver to bear and fired a shot in the center of the enormous shape. A sound of pure fury exploded from the thing as a massive, clawed hand raked a fire of agony and blood across his outstretched arm and sent his revolver smashing through the dense brush. James tried to rise to his feet, but more burning pain blossomed in his chest and stomach. The terrible strength of the creature forced him down, crushing the breath from his lungs. He saw sharp canines and the hairy muzzle of a wolf as it slammed into his face and neck. He could only scream in surprise and disbelief as the foul-smelling animal ripped into his body and life began leaking out from him. His last fading thoughts were of his terrible failure and the unjustness of the world. This impossible creature had inexplicably killed him and prevented him from taking his revenge. He would never have the satisfaction of ending the life of the man whose face he had seen staring back at him through the country house windo
w.
Chapter 1.
The Wolf Pup
Despite the general calm of the country air and the purposeful seclusion of her art studio, Sage Holdsworth was having a difficult time focusing on her latest composition. It wasn’t caused by the faint tangy fragrance of the Hookah smoke which wafted slowly upwards to the high wooden beams. Nor was the distraction coming from the plush, inviting pillows of the Chesterfield sofa where Lady Helena was lying seductively—as she was wont to do. Nor was it the dull throb of Sage’s lingering migraine. Amazingly, it wasn’t even the subject of the work itself that was causing the issue. No, the subject was more than fine, perfect and beautiful and distracting in its own way. The problem preventing her from continuing her painting was the soft and persistent whining coming from behind the heavy-oak door to the kitchen.
Sage put down her mahogany palette and sable brushes. They were extensions of her own hands and encrusted from heavy use, but still the finest that money could buy. Looking over at Lady Helena’s relaxed form, she was struck with a moment of envy at her generous curves and glowing skin that was delicate and firm despite a life that would invite an onslaught of wrinkles to a normal woman. The woman’s right hand seemed to point to her revealing bust line, while her left hand was thrown casually above her beautiful and regal face. Her heavy-lidded lashes revealed fiery and mischievous eyes which were set above full pink lips that were currently pursed in a slight smirk.
Sage shook off the feeling of inadequacy that came from comparing her own mousy brown hair and plain face to that of her friend. She shot her an imploring look. “Helena, please. Do something about the pup’s crying. I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Why should it be my job? It’s your silly sense of charity that took that ridiculous pup in.” Lady Helena sat up slowly and casually tossed back her long, obsidian-silk hair. “You must know that someday, that wolf cub will grow up into the beast that its mother was.”
Sage tried to ignore the flash of blood, as the image of the giant grey wolf rushed back into her mind. During one of her nightly gatherings in Epping Forest, she was astounded to come across the animal—which was thought to have been hunted to extinction in England well over two centuries ago. She was at a loss to explain what her eyes saw. Perhaps it had escaped from a zoo.
Sage timidly approached the wolf mother, already dead from starvation and caught in the metal leg hold fox trap that had cruelly ended the animal’s life. Somehow, the grey wolf pup had been spared and the tiny creature sat crying next to the motionless form of his mother. The small animal also had a large gash on its paw, as if cut while trying to free the mother from the trap. Perhaps the mother had continued to suckle the wolf pup, even as she starved. It was a tragic loss, as the majestic animals no longer roamed the mighty forests and were even quite rare to see in captivity. Luckily, that evening she hadn’t been alone but had taken along Dorian Gray for the first time.
Upon seeing the animals, wonderful kind-hearted Dorian had forgotten all about his trepidation of tramping through the damp forest at night. He had reluctantly agreed to help search for herbs that Sage needed for her paints. She would only allow paints that she mixed herself to touch her prized brushes and expensive canvases. The herbs were necessary to bring out the brilliant colors that distinguished her lifelike and compelling style. They gave the images a certain power—and they had other uses as well.
Her knowledge of herbs was of no help to the wolf mother. She was already gone as Dorian set his powerful arms to unhinging the fox trap. The hinge of the trap cracked and it broke, scoring a nasty gash across his hand—which he nobly ignored. Dorian gently lifted the lifeless form of the mother free and insisted on digging a hole in order to bury the she-wolf beneath the soft forest floor himself. He had been concerned for the small wolf pup and hugged it to his chest as the two walked through the trees and back to her studio. He patiently allowed the tiny animal to lick the blood that was freely flowing from the gash on his hand. At the sight of it he simply laughed merrily, amused at the apparent hunger the pup showed in response to the warm blood. Sage had almost warned him then, but instead seized on the adoring look in his endless blue eyes and offered to raise the pup herself. Turning it over to a zoo or conservatory seemed cruel. The animal could very well be the last of its kind and Sage hoped to one day release it back into the forest when it reached adulthood. She tenderly treated the uneven wounds that the jagged teeth of the fox trap had caused to the small grey paw. Sage dressed the injury with some dry bandages, staunching the surprisingly large flow of deep, red blood and treated it with an extract of coal tar. She would ensure that the wound healed properly and nurse the animal back to full health. That way, Dorian could visit as often as he liked and the two of them could play with the little whelp together for hours on end—and that suited her just fine.
With a sigh, Sage dragged herself away from the easel and walked towards the kitchen. As the bulky door swung open, the wolf pup ran out and went tumbling in a ball of fluff. It was still unsure of itself in this new environment and adorably sniffed around before retreating to the protection her legs offered. Unable to help herself, Sage giggled and scooped him up, planting a kiss on the soft, furry head. In that moment her migraine cleared and she hugged the animal and whispered to him. “Being adorable is another thing you share with him. That and also being grey. So, that is what I will call you, little Dorian Grey.”
After finding a few bloody scraps of rabbit meat in the ice box, which the small wolf eagerly scarfed down, she changed the bandages on the injured paw. There was still a small amount of blood, slowly seeping out from the deep cuts on the tiny paw. She dabbed these and then re-bandaged the wound gingerly. Then she picked the small animal back up and exited the kitchen, depositing him in a shabby old dog bed by the roaring red fireplace. This way he would be within eyesight but safely away from her antique easel. Hopefully the fresh meat and warmth from the hearth would soon sooth the trying animal to sleep and prevent him from getting into any more trouble.
As she returned to her paint-smattered palette and darkened brushes, she placed the bloody bandages near her materials. Her aesthetic gaze took in how much more vibrant the crisp colors were on the changed bandage. She fancied how much closer she could get the current mixture on her palette to the color of Dorian’s lips, if she only mixed in a few drops of the red blood. On a whim, she swirled her brush in the bloody bandage, and mixed it with the colors on her palette, before using the brush to apply it to the canvas. She stubbornly ignored the nagging sensation at the back of her mind that attempted to disrupt her creativity with annoying warnings. As she finished applying the new paint mixture, she noticed Lady Helena was no longer spread out in her feline pose, but was now admiring the canvas with a seriousness and focus that she had rarely observed from the socialite.
Lady Helena leaned forward to inspect the canvas. “This is your finest work, Sage. Easily the best that I have ever seen. You really must exhibit this at Colnaghi’s gallery! Or, we can open a new one together, like I’ve been begging you to do for years now. Just imagine, our own darling gallery set along Dover Street or by the Berkeley Square gardens. I’ll front the money if that’s what it takes. Art like this must be seen and appreciated!”
Since they first met, Lady Helena had been trying to convince Sage that the two should open up an art gallery and go into business together. Sage appreciated her friendship and that Lady Helena had taken her under her wing, but she couldn’t help but feel it was at least partly done because it was considered fashionable to be friends with a well-known artist. She often felt paraded around like a trained monkey at the various social events organized by Lady Helena, but was too shy to risk losing her friendship by complaining about it. She didn’t mind having her work publicly praised by her friend, even if Lady Helena managed to somehow take credit for most of it. She always had been an overbearing person, as her husband knew well. Lady Helena all but ran her husband’s flourishing trading company. She was the tru
e mind behind the intricate business deals, the complicated purchase decisions, establishing trade routes, and managing contacts. Her husband was remanded to a figurehead, who merely signed the contracts that were put in front of him and provided any financial backing that was needed. This arrangement allowed Lady Helena to be very free with her spending, including her famously generous support for the arts.
Sage scowled. “Not this one.” She formed her face into the familiar stubborn look which Lady Helena knew meant she might as well give up the argument now—for Sage would never change her mind.
“Are you sure? My dear, have you lost your mind entirely? This would elevate your fame to a level of international renown. I don’t understand you artist types; so quick to create a masterpiece, then you go and hide it away under a mattress. If you won’t display it, at least let me purchase it from you. Name your price, I’ll pay a considerable sum for it.”
“I can’t, this painting is not for sale or for display.”
Lady Helena sat down on the sofa and crossed her long, smooth legs slowly, fixing Sage with a momentary brooding glare. It lasted only for a few seconds before she was laughing in glittering tones. “Why ever not?”
“You’ll tease me, but it’s just too important to me. I’ve put too much of who I am into it.”
Lady Helena scoffed. “Too much of who you are? My, you are vain—besides you aren’t even in the painting. It’s just that admittedly striking wolf pup and the most chiseled, intriguingly handsome young Greek god that I have ever beheld. Why, I do believe with those steely blue eyes and those dark locks, no man can be more beguiling.”
“Yes,” Sage admitted, “Mr. Gray is the most astounding man and quite difficult to look away from.”
“Mr. Gray? Wait, you mean there is an actual living person who looks this good and I haven’t met him? Where have you been hiding him, you naughty girl?”
The Wolf of Dorian Gray - A Werewolf Spawned by the Evil of Man Page 1
