by JL Merrow
Christoph didn’t answer. I looked up. He was staring into the water again, but then he turned back to me. I realized some asshole in a boat had gotten his camera out, and I was glad I’d saved the damn bug, because on a scale of too stupid to live, people are going to win out every time.
“Schreiber was a border guard up until 1989.” Christoph didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. I remembered the exhibits in the Checkpoint Charlie museum. Those bastards had orders to shoot anyone who tried to escape their totalitarian utopia—what kind of sick fuck takes a job like that? They made so damn much of the fact they didn’t shoot to kill—as if it were morally superior to leave the poor bastards bleeding out in agony on the Death Strip. I shivered.
“He was young then, of course,” Christoph said softly. “Many of the soldiers of the DDR were young. Idealistic.”
“They were fucking murderers,” I snarled. Despite the sudden anger, I managed to stay human. It was some small comfort. I tore out a handful of grass, grimaced at it and let it fall back to the ground, dead. “Do you think Sven died?” I asked.
“No.” Christoph sounded positive. Matter-of-fact.
It pissed me the hell off, even as my whole damn body sagged with relief. “Shit, you think you could have mentioned that a little sooner? I’ve spent the whole fucking day thinking I was a killer, you asshole!”
Christoph gave me a long look, which pissed me off even more. “You surprise me sometimes,” was all he said.
I didn’t get it. He was the deep one, not me. Hell, if he was the Mariana Trench, I was a kiddies’ backyard pool. Suddenly restless, I scrambled to my feet and went down to look closer at the water.
It looked wet. There were sticks and leaves and bits of trash floating in it. No answers, though. When I went back up the bank, I sat down a little closer to the others than before. Farther away from Christoph.
I could think better that way.
Jon was giving Silke the full charm offensive, sitting too damn close and asking her where she was from, what sort of music she liked, and a hundred and one other questions I’ll bet she couldn’t answer. What the hell did he see in her? I gave her what was probably my first proper look. With her long, dark hair, wide eyes and high cheekbones, I guessed I’d have to admit she was pretty, in a skinny, frightened-fawn kind of way. Which was ironic, considering what she really was… Or was she? I realized I’d never seen her wolf out. I didn’t have a clue. Did daddy werewolves have little werewolf babies? Or did you have to get bitten?
I went back over and nudged Christoph. “Hey,” I said in a quiet voice. “Is Silke, you know, like us?”
He gave me a look that had duh written all over it. “You think I’d take a human along tonight?”
Put that way, it was a pretty dumb question. I didn’t like the way he put it, though. “What, so we’re not human anymore?”
Christoph laughed. It sounded bitter. “You think this is just some…illness? Some condition? There’s no treatment. No cure.”
“I get that, okay? But it doesn’t mean we’ve turned into fucking animals, either. Hell, you were still holding down your day job, weren’t you?” I felt bad as soon as I’d said it. I guessed he’d lost that job by going AWOL.
He nodded. “I was. And I intend to again.”
I kept my lip firmly buttoned, because hell if I could see how he was going to do that.
There’s only so long you can hang around by a river after dark if you don’t have any beer or the money to go buy some. We ended up heading back to the hostel around midnight, although I knew it was a mistake the minute we walked in the door. Three hours staring at these walls was going to have me climbing up them.
“You should get some rest,” Christoph said—like there was a single other fucking thing to do around there.
Well, maybe there was something else we could have been doing, but I was pretty certain Christoph wasn’t in the mood.
I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes, wondering if I’d be getting up with fleas. The place might be clean, but based on a sample of us, the clientele was pretty crummy. Maybe I should visit a pet store tomorrow for some flea powder. Hell, I could pick up some worming tablets while I was there. The creak of wooden slats told me Christoph had followed my lead, and I opened my eyes just a crack to confirm my ears weren’t messing with my head—and jumped about six feet off the bed when I saw he was lying on his side, staring at me. “Jeez, you want a picture or something?”
Christoph smiled. Well, his mouth turned up some at the corners. “No need. I have an excellent memory for faces.” Then he rolled over onto his back and set about memorizing the cracks in the ceiling.
Trying to ignore the way he unsettled me, I closed my eyes again, although I figured I wouldn’t be getting any sleep this century.
Chapter Nine
I only know I slept because of the weird-ass dreams I had. Hell, maybe I was only half-asleep at that, because I know I spent most of my time trying to work out if I was dreaming stuff or if it was real. I dreamed I was back in the States, and I’d gotten a real job just like my mom always wanted. It’d been going great, and then this new guy started. His name was Christoph, and he had a face like a Halloween mask, but no one could see it except me.
It pissed me the hell off. I cornered him about it in the washroom—I had him up against the wall, my hands around his throat. “Tell them what you look like,” I was shouting at him, but he just smiled at me.
“Look in the mirror,” he said, and I did, and I saw I’d been wrong, it wasn’t Christoph who had the scars. It was me.
When I woke up, I had to lie there for a minute, calming my breathing as I sorted out the facts from the crap my subconscious had thrown at me. I blinked at the ceiling, forcing my hands to stay by my sides and not check my face, because I knew it was unblemished, damn it. Then a flicker of motion caught the corner of my eye. I turned my head.
It was Christoph. He was staring in the mirror above the sink, one hand tracing the ruined contours of his face. Something twisted inside me to see him. I didn’t like the feeling. Who the hell did he think he was, making me feel guilty over something that was all his fault? “You know, you were really hot, before,” I said a second before my brain caught up with just how much of a bastard I was being.
Christoph looked up, and half smiled at me in the mirror. “But now, I think, I’ll be safe from your advances.”
“Your loss,” I said because I couldn’t think of one single other thing to say. Apart from “sorry”, I guess, but that would’ve been like trying to mop up the Atlantic with a paper towel. I swung myself out of bed and dragged my sluggish body over to the window. It must have rained while I was sleeping, as the graffitied bricks of the wall opposite gleamed damply. The trash cans were just looming shadows in the spilling glow from the streetlight at the end of the alley. A faint reflection of my face in the glass was superimposed on the scene, but I didn’t feel much like focusing on it. Had I really just been that much of an asshole?
“It’s natural that you’re angry with me,” Christoph said. He’d moved silently and was close behind me—I could feel the heat from his body searing through the damp air and smell the scent of him. Wood and musty clothes and half-healed flesh. I was suddenly ravenous, though I didn’t know what for, or why.
“Perhaps you think the punishment was just,” he added.
I whirled. “I didn’t ask that bastard to do that to you! I didn’t ask him to do anything to you!”
“But you wished it, no?” Christoph didn’t give an inch, damn him, standing there right in my face. We were so close I could feel his breath on my skin, warming it.
But the twist in my guts wouldn’t let me rest. “Fuck you! You turned me into a fucking monster! You don’t get to guilt trip me on top of that.” I stepped sideways, away from him and the window both, and flung myself back on the bed because there was no damn place else to go.
Christoph stayed put. “You have no need to feel guilty,” he said
into the space where I’d just been. “It was my mistake that led to this.”
Bastard. Why did he always leave me off balance? Twisting my words, twisting my thoughts… “How did you get it?” I demanded. I figured we were past social niceties here. “The werewolf crap. How did that happen?”
Christoph shrugged. “The house.”
“The what?” Visions of Amityville-style curses paraded gruesomely through my mind.
“Schreiber was looking for a new base. He thought my house would be ideal, but I didn’t wish to sell.” Christoph turned and smiled at me. It was gruesome, and not just because of the scars. “In any case, I doubt he could have afforded it. He persuaded me to give it to him, instead.”
“Jesus fuck!” I stared at him, appalled. I’d thought I’d been the one who’d gotten screwed over.
“I had big plans for that house,” Christoph said softly, as if he was talking to himself. He’d stepped forward, right up to the window, and was tracing the frame with his long, slender fingers. “A studio in the attic, and a rearrangement of the rooms downstairs.”
“Yeah, that ground floor is kinda dark,” I forced out after a moment. Hell, a neutral topic was just what we needed right now. I dragged up a bit more interest. “If you lose some of the internal walls, you’ll get a whole lot more light in the place. Make it seem bigger. Airier.”
Christoph whirled, his expression intense and almost smiling. Seeing him come alive like that did weird things inside of me. It was like I’d gotten a glimpse of the real Christoph—not the potential hookup, not the scary-ass werewolf and not the scarred victim, but the talented, passionate guy he was inside. I’d always kind of sneered at guys who said they loved their jobs, told them Jeez, get a life—but seeing Christoph like that made me realize that maybe it wasn’t something to sneer at. Maybe it was something to aspire to. “Exactly,” he was saying. “And with modern windows—”
“Hey, you can’t take out those old windows with the shutters!” I did the eye-roll thing, getting into the swing of it. “Jeez, you architects—”
“Not in the front.” Christoph shook his head impatiently. “But internal windows to channel the light, and redesigned ones at the back, to make a more organic transition to the forest…” The light in his eyes faded as he faltered and fell silent, turning back to stare out of the window. Either he had a real thing for trash cans and graffiti, or he’d just remembered all those plans were from the years BW—Before Werewolf.
Me, I just lay on my bed, trying to work out what the hell he’d found so fascinating about the cracks on the ceiling. But if there was any meaning to be found there, I couldn’t read it.
Jon wasn’t happy about us going out without him. Me and Christoph, he couldn’t give a damn about, but he didn’t like the thought of Silke going somewhere with us untrustworthy types and no big surfer dude to act as chaperone. It wasn’t like we could explain where we were going and why, either—we just had to fall back on the old “safer if you don’t know” routine.
He wasn’t buying it willingly, and I couldn’t say I blamed him. We’d dragged him into our mess and now we wouldn’t even tell him what the hell it was all about. He didn’t back down until Silke took him to one side and held both his hands, talking in that soft voice of hers. Whatever she said, I guess it worked, as ten minutes later we were closing the hostel door behind us and heading toward the Tiergarten.
It was far enough away that we’d have taken the subway if we’d only had the money—hell, I would have, anyhow. Then again, this was a workday. The trains must have stopped running around two hours ago, all the good little wage slaves already safely tucked up in bed.
I didn’t mind the walk much, anyhow. The air was cool and fresh after the rain, and the city was almost as quiet as it ever got. Talking of quiet, Christoph still wasn’t speaking to me much. He’d clammed up big-time after dropping that bombshell about what Schreiber had done to him. Damn, I wanted to kill that psycho bastard.
The Tiergarten is kind of like Berlin’s version of Central Park. It gets pretty crowded during the day, especially in the summer. At this time of night, though, it was quiet and eerie, the trees casting weird shadows that made you wonder what they were hiding. Even so, we stayed well away from the Siegesäule, the big victory monument in the middle of the Straße des 17. Juni, which bisects the park. It has the reputation of Berlin’s oldest—and busiest—cruising spot. Not that I’d ever tried it. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to get to know a guy a little over a beer or six before we go off and do the nasty. I felt a sudden pang of nostalgia for the good old days, when my biggest worry was whether I’d get laid that night.
I wondered if Christoph felt the same. Although I got the feeling casual wasn’t really his thing. He was probably into relationships, not hookups, back before all this started. My stomach dropped as I wondered if, somewhere in the city, some guy was sitting at home wondering why Christoph never called him anymore.
Hell, if the guy couldn’t cope with all the werewolf shit, Christoph was better off without him.
We’d picked a good night for the run, anyhow. The moon was high and full, and although the ground was still damp, there was barely a cloud in the sky. The lights of the city drowned out all but the stubbornest stars, but every so often my eyes tracked the moving lights of airplanes speeding to and from the city airports. People, packed in little tin cans like so much corned beef.
My stomach rumbled despite the falafel, and I was glad when we moved from the open spaces to a more heavily forested area of the park. The trees’ dark canopy spread overhead, hiding the outside world from view, and the smell of wet earth filled my nostrils. For a moment, I could almost believe we were back in the forest around Schreiber’s—Christoph’s—house. Weirdly, it was reassuring. Like here was where I belonged.
Then we broke out into a small clearing, and the moon was visible once more. My feeling of belonging quadrupled, then squared. The moon’s light had a cool, pure quality you never get from daylight. It glimmered subtly off the damp grass, whispering to me, enticing me to take off my shirt and bask in it. I told myself not to be so damn suggestible—until I saw that Christoph was doing just that. I stood stock-still and watched him.
He was lean and toned, his shoulders broad without being bulky. He had his back to me as he laid his shirt on a bench, and the sight of him was causing all kinds of wholly inappropriate reactions. I hoped like hell he couldn’t smell them. I tried to drag my mind up out of the gutter, but led by my dick, it kept going back to the image of those taut muscles moving under tanned skin. How the hell did an architect get so goddamn fit? Did he spend his lunch hours working out in the park?
Angrily, I ripped off my shirt—realizing too late that’d probably send a waft of lust-ridden pheromones rushing in Christoph’s direction. Just as I thought it, he turned. Clear blue eyes shone right at me. I concentrated on those still-hidden fangs of his and how they’d felt as they tore into my shoulder, and I managed to change. It felt better, facing him as the monster he’d made of me.
The asshole looked right past me. “Silke, it’s time.”
Chapter Ten
I spun guiltily. I’d forgotten Silke was even with us. She was standing there hugging herself, looking miserable. I guess turning into a big hairy freak isn’t going to be too high on any young girl’s list of what makes a good night out.
It sure as hell didn’t figure on mine.
“Silke…” There was a warning in Christoph’s tone. Then he sighed, and spoke more softly. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Forget what your father told you.”
She nodded—and started to strip. Completely. Hell, not only was she into basking in the moonlight, it seemed she was worried about tan lines. I realized I was staring and turned my muzzle away hurriedly—but seriously, what the fuck? The grungy jeans and sloppy T-shirt she’d been wearing would’ve accommodated the change, easy.
And then she looked up at the moon, and started to change, and I realized I
’d been wrong about that.
Dead wrong.
As her face changed, as her skin got hairier, her whole body shape altered too. She whined, like it hurt her, as her legs shortened and her head went back. She landed on all fours. Then she whimpered, and grew a fucking tail.
She was a wolf. Silke was a wolf.
I don’t mean like Christoph and me, some kind of half man, half monster out of an SFX guy’s store cupboard. I mean she was a wolf.
What the fuck? I tried to say it, but I hadn’t gotten the hang of speaking with a mouth that was the wrong shape and a tongue that was too long and way too fucking many teeth. It came out like more of a yelp.
“She is a throwback,” Christoph said. Either he was real good at interpreting wolf-speak or he’d just read my mind again. “At least, that is what Schreiber said.” He still hadn’t changed. I felt like a dork, standing there all hairy, and started to change back without even trying to.
“You think he was lying?” I asked when I was mostly human again, although it still came out kinda rough.
“Did he ever give you any reason to trust him?” Christoph was watching Silke. Hell, she was a treat for the eyes. She seemed massive to me, although I guessed she was probably small for a wolf, and she had a thick silver coat, which she shook as we watched. She put her nose to the ground, sniffing, then padded softly over to where we were standing.
I reached out a hand to touch her, still not quite believing what I was seeing. Her fur felt soft beneath my fingers, the warmth of her skin underneath muted but still there. I wanted to touch that thick, bushy tail of hers, but it was tucked firmly between her legs as she whined softly again. Christoph petted her gently, and she straightened her back and lifted her head a little.
