by Tim Waggoner
The werewolves reached a section of the park where game booths lined the path. Most of the words on their signs were illegible now, but a few could still be made out: Big Six Wheel, Knock ’em Down, Dartmaster… Alan had played most of these games when he was a boy.
He was surprised how many emotions were stirring in him. He might look human most of the time, but that was a disguise. He was a monster twenty-four-seven, and to a creature like him, humans were good for only one thing: food. And yet, he couldn’t help remembering what it had been like in Happyland when he was kid, when he walked and ran and played in the midst of other children. Human children. They hadn’t seemed like food to him then, had they? Even if the smell of them sometimes made his mouth water, especially when their pulses raced and he could hear the beating of their tender little hearts. They’d simply been kids, as he had been, and while he would never admit this to anyone, he missed the days back before he’d come to understand what being a monster was all about.
He was lost in his thoughts, unaware of the thin metal wire stretched across the path until his shin connected with it. There was a tall wooden pole to his right with a fluorescent light atop it that likely hadn’t been activated in decades. As the wire pulled taut, there was a click-clack sound. The pole wobbled and began falling toward him. He leaped forward to avoid it, and Stuart and Spencer leaped backward. The heavy pole crashed to the asphalt where Alan had been standing a few seconds ago. It bounced a couple of times, rolled a bit, and then stopped.
It seemed the jakkals had set a trap for anyone who might come calling without an invitation—and they’d no doubt laid the scent trail to lead any intruders directly into it. The trip wire had been stretched across the path between two booths. This much he could see now, but he wasn’t certain how the rest of the trap worked. The falling pole would’ve killed a human. A werewolf could’ve been severely wounded, making them easy prey. But the pole was more than a trap— it was also an alarm. The jakkals now knew that someone had come to Happyland.
Alan ran. His sons followed, all three of them moving inhumanly fast. They needed to reach the carrion-eaters before the jakkals had a chance to escape. The werewolves encountered two more traps along the way, but now that they knew to look for them, they easily avoided them.
As they’d driven through Bridge Valley searching for the jakkals, Alan had told his sons about the carrion-eaters:
They’re scavengers. Smaller and weaker than we are, but they have one important advantage. If a jakkal manages to bite a werewolf, the wound won’t heal, at least not any faster than a human injury. And if the wound is severe enough, you could bleed to death. My grandfather encountered a jakkal once, a lone one whose pack had cast him out for some reason. He caught a whiff of the man when he was leaving a bar. He found him sitting on the ground in an alley. The man looked like he was asleep, but when my grandfather got close, the jakkal transformed, sprang to his feet, and slashed Grandpa’s face. The jakkal fled and Grandpa staggered out of the alley, blood dripping from his wounds. He healed eventually, but his face remained scarred for the rest of his life. So watch yourselves.
The scent trail led Alan and his sons to a round brick building with a black roof in the middle of the park. The sign above the entrance was still legible: PARK ADMINISTRATION. The stink of jakkal was strong here, and Alan knew they’d found the scavengers’ den. He stopped twenty feet from the entrance and motioned for Stuart and Spencer to do the same. The twins’ breathing was harsh and rapid, and they whined softly. He could feel their eagerness to rush forward, break into the building and begin killing. He was more experienced at controlling the wolf inside him, but even he had to fight it. He had his boys to think about. Controlling their animal impulses was difficult for them, and they’d already given in once when they’d helped their mother kill Amos Boyd. He didn’t want them to kill again so soon, not unless they had to. Doing so would only erode what self-control they had.
“We know you’re here!” he called out. “Show yourselves and let’s talk. I promise that none of you will be hurt.”
He meant this, although he wasn’t confident that he could deliver on his promise. It all depended on what the jakkals did.
Your move, he thought.
FOURTEEN
Greg, in jakkal form, crouched behind a trashcan next to what had once been a small burger joint. He had never been in anything remotely resembling a fight before, and he was scared. His mother, father, sisters, and grandfather had also taken up positions in the vicinity, all of them spread out to make it harder for the werewolves to determine their precise locations. If they’d been grouped together, their combined scent would’ve been easy for the werewolves to detect. But spaced out as they were—along with the fact that their scents were already in the immediate area—rendered them practically invisible. At least, that was the hope.
Muriel had remained behind to guard Anubis and, if necessary, wake him. She wasn’t certain she could do so since the Rite of Renewal hadn’t been completed this month, but if she was forced to try, she would.
Greg held no weapon. You are all the weapon you need, Marta had told him before they left their quarters and took their separate positions. He knew she’d meant her words to be reassuring, but he would’ve felt better if he had something more solid—a knife or a club of some kind—to hold onto.
There were three werewolves, one older, two younger. Related, most probably. Father and sons, he guessed. Morgan’s father? Maybe. He could detect the family connection from their scents. The older werewolf wore a sheriff’s uniform, which made him doubly dangerous. The older werewolf promised he only wanted to talk, but Greg knew better than to believe him. They had all assumed their werewolf forms, and there were many ways to hunt prey. Luring them out into the open was an effective tactic— if the prey was foolish enough to fall for it.
Greg hid opposite the old restrooms. Nathan lay flat on their roof, concealed in the shadow of a tree next to the building. He rose to his feet in jakkal form, but he made no move to join the werewolves on the ground.
“What do you want, iwiw?”
Nathan used the ancient Egyptian word for dog. The word was meant to resemble a dog’s bark, and when applied to werewolves, it was considered a grave insult, or so Nathan had told him. The werewolves didn’t look particularly upset, though.
The older werewolf—the pack’s leader, Greg thought—looked up at Nathan.
“Bridge Valley is our territory,” he said. “We’ve been here for generations. You are not welcome.”
“You got that right!” one of the man’s sons said.
The leader’s face darkened as if he were angry at his son, but he didn’t take his gaze from Nathan.
“We did not know your kind inhabited this town,” Nathan said. “Otherwise, we would not have come here.”
Greg understood that Nathan was projecting strength, one leader to another, but he wished his grandfather sounded less confrontational. The leader of the werewolves seemed to take Nathan’s words in stride, but his sons were becoming increasingly agitated. They swayed back and forth, clawed hands clenching and unclenching, heads jutted forward, teeth bared.
“In that case, you won’t have any problem packing up and leaving, will you?” The werewolf leader paused, and then added, “Carrion-eater.”
Nathan’s lips curled back from his fangs. “It will be our pleasure. Give us forty-eight hours, and we will be gone.”
“Twenty-four,” the werewolf leader said. “And believe me when I say that’s being generous.”
Nathan growled so softly that Greg wasn’t sure he actually heard anything.
“Twenty-four hours,” Nathan repeated. “Very well.” He paused, and then added, “Iwiw.”
Regardless of whether the werewolves knew the precise meaning of the word, there was no mistaking the derision in Nathan’s tone. One of the sons let out a roar of anger and ran toward the restroom building.
“Stuart! No!” the werewolf leader shouted.
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Greg didn’t think. All fear fled him when he saw his grandfather in danger. He left his hiding place behind the trashcan and raced toward the werewolf. Greg slammed into him before he could leap onto the roof. They went sprawling, snarling, snapping, and clawing as they rolled on the asphalt. Greg was no longer thinking, was no longer really Greg. Not the rational part of him, anyway. For the first time in his life, he had completely given in to his animal side, and it was magnificent.
The werewolf’s teeth and claws raked his flesh, but the wounds didn’t trouble him. Injuries inflicted on a jakkal by a werewolf healed just as swiftly as normal ones. But the same couldn’t be said for the werewolf. Blood poured from the places where Greg had taken a bite out of him. The werewolf might be stronger, but Greg could hurt him. In a few more moments this battle would be over and his foe would lie dead at his feet, a bloody, ragged ruin. The werewolf’s blood tasted like sweet honey in his mouth, and he was greedy for more. He was about to sink his fangs into the werewolf’s throat when he felt something grab hold of his neck and pull him roughly backward. He smelled Nathan’s scent, and he whirled on his grandfather, growling.
“Get control of yourself, boy!” Nathan snapped.
Greg was tempted to take a swipe at his grandfather, but his instincts told him this was his pack leader, and he must obey. He closed his eyes and felt his animal bloodlust ebb. When he opened his eyes once more, he had returned to human form.
Greg looked over his shoulder and saw the werewolf leader stood with his hands on his son’s shoulders. He spoke to his boy in soothing tones, almost whispering. The son’s breathing remained heavy, and he kept shooting murderous glances at Greg, but in the end, he too calmed and regained his human appearance. His wounds did not heal, though, and his shirt was soaked with blood. Now that he was human again, he seemed to realize how badly hurt he was and grimaced in pain. Nathan and the werewolf leader resumed their human forms too. The other son remained in his werewolf shape for several more seconds, glaring at Greg murderously, but then he returned to human form as well.
The werewolf leader looked at Nathan. His face was dark with anger.
“When I pulled my son away from your grandson, I smelled something on the boy I didn’t expect: my daughter’s scent.”
Greg went cold at the werewolf leader’s words.
Nathan frowned, but he didn’t take his gaze off the werewolf leader’s face.
“Keep your pup away from my daughter, or I’ll return and kill the lot of you.”
The werewolf leader turned his glare on Greg then, and Greg— although frightened—did not look away. After a moment, the werewolf leader turned his attention back to Nathan.
“Twenty-four hours,” the werewolf leader said. “Not a second more.” Then he put an arm around his wounded son and began to lead him away. The other son gave Nathan and Greg a last dark look before following after his father and brother.
Greg and Nathan watched the werewolves depart silently. A few moments later, his father, mother, and sisters joined them.
“That went better than I expected,” Marta said.
Nathan put a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, boy. I could not have done better in my prime.”
His grandfather’s words made Greg’s heart swell with pride. His pack had needed him, and he hadn’t let them down. He felt tired, and more than a little embarrassed at having been taken over by his animal side like that, but his parents and his sisters looked at him with newfound respect, and he liked that. One thing bothered him, though. What would Morgan think when she learned what he’d done to her brother? Would she hate him? The next time they met—if there was a next time—would she consider him an enemy? Just another carrion-eater that should be killed? He hoped not. He’d done what he’d had to do, and in the same circumstances, he would do it again. But that didn’t mean he had to feel good about it.
Greg looked at Nathan. “Do you think they’ll keep their promise?”
Nathan shrugged. “It’s difficult to say. Even Pureblood werewolves are ultimately slaves to their bestial nature. We did harm one of their own, and they might seek revenge. But the problem isn’t if we’ll have enough time to leave, but rather if Anubis is ready to be moved before the werewolves return.”
“Anubis would be ready now if I hadn’t screwed up the Rite of Renewal,” Greg said.
Nathan gave him a reassuring smile, but Greg could see the worry in his grandfather’s eyes. “Everything will be fine,” Nathan said. “You shall see.”
Greg wished he could believe that.
FIFTEEN
“Dad, I—”
“Shut up,” Alan growled.
Stuart held his brother’s shirt pressed tight to his wounds to slow the worst of the bleeding. He fell silent, and Alan thought as he drove.
He couldn’t take Stuart to a hospital. Not only wouldn’t he be able to explain how his son had gotten his wounds, but even in human form a werewolf’s metabolism functioned differently than a human’s. Stuart’s heart, respiration, and blood pressure readings would arouse doctors’ suspicions. There was no other choice than to take Stuart home and tend to his wounds there. He had a first-aid kit in the cruiser, and he hoped its supplies would be enough to do the job. Pureblood werewolves had almost no experience treating injuries or illness since their bodies resisted all disease and healed wounds rapidly—with the exception of those caused by silver, of course.
But even wounded as he was, Stuart was still a werewolf. As long as his wounds were treated soon, there was an excellent chance he would heal, if far more slowly than normal. Alan had briefly examined Stuart’s injuries before they’d driven away from Happyland, and luckily, most of them didn’t look too serious. Even transformed, the jakkal boy was younger than Stuart. If he’d been mature, their brief battle might’ve had a very different outcome.
Alan could still smell Morgan’s scent mingled with the stink of the jakkal boy. He gripped the steering wheel so tight it creaked. He was more than her father; he was the leader of her pack, and it was his responsibility to safeguard her until she was ready to mate. When that day came, he and Sylvia would make inquiries of other packs to find potential suitors for her. Meetings would be arranged, nature would take its course, and Morgan would select her mate. This was the way of their people and had been for thousands of years.
But for Morgan to display interest in a jakkal, of all things? He’d rather she fell in love with a human. At least they could be transformed into werewolves. When he’d detected Morgan’s scent on the boy, he’d wanted to slice him open from throat to groin, but Stuart had been wounded. They couldn’t afford any more fighting. Not then.
Sometimes he hated being pack leader.
“We should’ve killed them all,” Spencer said in a whiny voice. He sounded like a child that had been denied dessert.
Alan understood how his son felt, but he knew if they’d tried to kill the jakkals, they all would’ve been badly wounded, if not worse. They’d only seen the old jakkal and the boy, but from the different scents in the area, Alan knew there were enough to outnumber him and his boys. Not good odds when your opponents could deal injuries you couldn’t easily heal from.
He didn’t respond. Let Spencer sulk for a while. Now that they’d dealt with the jakkals, he needed to turn his attention to their other problem: the hunters. They’d gone to Amos’s house, and they’d let Melody follow them. His promise of an exclusive interview would hopefully keep her from writing a story for a day or two, but not much longer. Fuller’s death had already brought too much attention to Bridge Valley, but if news of Amos’s death got out, it could very well attract national news interest— It appears a serial killer is at work in the small Indiana town of Bridge Valley! He couldn’t have that. Something had to be done about Melody, and soon.
Stuart moaned and his head slumped forward. Alan feared his son had passed out, but then the boy drew in a hitching breath and raised his head once more. His eyes were half-lidded, bu
t at least he was conscious. How long he’d remain that way, Alan didn’t know. If only there was some way to boost his boy’s natural strength and help him heal more swiftly. But how?
Then it came to him.
A heart. A fresh one. A human one. One that Stuart had to himself. It might not heal his injuries completely, but it could give his body the extra strength needed to speed his healing.
A slow smile spread across Alan’s face. He knew just where to get a heart, and he’d be killing the proverbial two birds with one stone. After he got Stuart settled in at home, he was going to pay Melody Diaz a brief but very satisfying visit.
* * *
Dean and Sam had parked the Impala on the side of the road several miles from Amos Boyd’s house. While they waited for Garth to return, they changed into civilian clothes. Dean felt a thousand times better, and he wondered if they could take a tip from Garth and pretend to be writers as their cover story. That way, they could wear whatever they wanted.
It seemed to Dean as if they’d been waiting for hours when Garth—features human once again—finally emerged from the woods and hopped in the Impala.
“It’s about damn time,” Dean said. “You find the pack’s den?”
“I think so,” he said. “I followed the lycanthropes’ trail to a house several miles east of here. Big place, lots of land, no close neighbors. It’s a perfect place for a pack to live. They can change outside day or night without anyone seeing them, and they have easy access to the woods for hunting.”
“Sounds like you found Werewolf Central. Let’s get rolling.” Dean started the Impala, pulled onto the road, and headed east.
“‘The sooner the hunt’s begun, the sooner the prey’s between your teeth,’” Garth recited.
“That one’s kind of creepy,” Sam said.
