Supernatural--Children of Anubis

by Tim Waggoner

  “His breathing’s regular,” Dean said. He got up and placed his fingers against Bobby’s neck. After a minute he said, “His pulse is strong too.”

  “You’re not a doctor,” Sam said.

  “No, but I’ve watched a lot of episodes of Heartbreak Hospital,” Dean said, as if this somehow qualified him to look after the sick and injured. Sam didn’t challenge him. Dean’s medical knowledge, however scant, was better than his.

  Dean sat on the bed once more and they continued watching Bobby sleep, almost as if they were sitting vigil. After a while, Dean said, “You sleepy?”

  “No. You?”

  “Nope.”

  A few moments passed, and then Dean said, “Still a long time until the sun rises.”

  Sam turned to look at his brother. He already had an idea of where Dean was going with this, and he didn’t like it. But he listened as Dean went on. And when his brother had finished explaining his plan, Sam surprised himself by saying, “Let’s do it.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Present Day

  Garth moved through the woods as swift and silent as a shadow. There were many difficult things about being a lycanthrope—chief among them the hunger that only heart meat could satisfy, and for which animal hearts were a poor substitute. But this—moving through the forest, his mind and body so attuned to his environment that he was practically one with it—this was his favorite thing about being a Lupine American. The full moon sang in his blood, making him feel even stronger, faster, and wilder than usual. The sensation was more intoxicating than any drug, and he had to fight to keep from being swept away by it. He knew if he gave in, his animal side would take over completely, and then he would be all instinct and hunger. He would be in danger of doing the one thing he’d vowed never to do: kill a human for nourishment.

  The moon strengthened a Pureblood’s animal side, and Garth’s pack preferred to avoid changing during the cycle of the full moon if possible. Easier to avoid temptation that way. But when you hunted rogue lycanthropes, you didn’t always have a choice about when you transformed. He thought there might be a good “fangism” in there somewhere— Hear the song of the moon, but don’t let it lead you astray. Could use a little work, maybe, but not bad.

  He knew he was doing his best to distract himself. But it was no use. Dean’s words had hurt, and no matter how hard he tried to shove them to the back of his mind, he could still hear them.

  I say we go in guns blazing, and if any of the werewolves are still alive when we’re done, then you can talk to them.

  Garth hated the W word.

  The hell of it was that he understood how Dean thought. It hadn’t been that long ago that he’d been a human hunter, and his attitude toward supernatural entities had been simple: they were dangerous, if not downright evil, and they had to be destroyed, banished or whatever it took to prevent them from harming anyone. Shoot first and don’t bother asking questions later.

  But then he’d become a monster himself, and his outlook changed. It wasn’t out of simple self-preservation, either. When he realized he’d become infected from the lycanthrope’s bite, he’d considered putting a silver bullet in his head before he changed and killed someone. But during his time as a hunter he’d heard rumors about a cure, and while he’d always considered the stories to be bullcrap, it was the only hope he had. So he began making inquiries among the hunters he knew. He didn’t go to Sam and Dean, although he knew he should have. It wasn’t that he’d been afraid of them killing him. In fact, if he had to be put down, he’d rather they do the job than some random hunter who’d tracked him down. He didn’t go to them because he was embarrassed, pure and simple. He’d screwed up and let a lycanthrope bite him, and while he’d killed the one who’d done it, that didn’t change the fact that he’d once again pulled a Garth, allowing his reckless—not to mention unearned—self-confidence get the better of him. He looked up to Sam and Dean. He knew they weren’t perfect—who the hell was?—but they were two of the greatest hunters of all time. They were his role models, and he didn’t think he could bear seeing the disappointment on their faces when he told them what had happened. So he didn’t reach out to them, and he didn’t plan on seeing them again until he was cured.

  But his search for a cure ran into one dead end after another, and by the time the next cycle of the full moon rolled around, he found himself in Wisconsin, holed up in a ratty motel after another failed attempt to find a lead on a cure. He hadn’t changed since being bitten, although there had been times when he felt the wolf growing inside him, becoming stronger as it waited patiently for its time to be freed from its human prison.

  He decided to end his life before the sun fell. His revolver was still loaded with silver bullets—minus the one that had killed the lycanthrope who’d bitten him. He’d tried to unload the gun so he could clean it, but the silver bullets burned his flesh so severely that he’d given up on the idea. Now he was glad. The gun was already loaded and ready to go. He considered leaving a note, but he wasn’t sure what to say. He almost went with I’m sorry I screwed up and became a monster. Goodbye. He decided that wasn’t good enough, but since he couldn’t think of anything better, he gave up on writing a note. He hoped Sam and Dean would never find out what happened, but if they did, he hoped they’d understand.

  But the moment he was sitting clothed in the bathtub— easier to clean up the mess in there—and beginning to raise the revolver to his head, the lycanthrope in him, as if sensing the danger it was in, emerged. The transformation was so swift and startling that he dropped the revolver, which hit the tub with a loud clang. He’d expected the change to hurt, and it did this first time, but it also felt good. His senses expanded in ways he never could’ve imagined, and his body surged with so much energy, so much raw power, he feared his physical form couldn’t contain it and he’d explode. And then—

  He just sat there.

  He was a lycanthrope. One look at the claws on his hands confirmed this. But he was also still Garth. The wolf aspect of him was separate, but he could feel this new part of his mind intertwining with the old, merging with it, becoming one. His body wanted him to get out of the tub, leave this disgusting room—which now reeked of a hundred different foul smells that he preferred not to think about—go outside into the fresh air and open space and run, fast and free. He was hungry, yes, and for one thing in particular, which was gross, but he felt no overriding impulse to go out hunting humans.

  It was then that he began to understand that there might be more to being a lycanthrope than he’d thought.

  He climbed out of the tub and checked himself in the mirror. His sharp teeth felt weird, and he cut his tongue when he ran it over one elongated incisor. The small wound healed instantly, which was even weirder. The yellow eyes were cool, though.

  He had changed while the sun was still up, and he could still think. He’d thought the lycanthrope who’d bitten him had been the kind that turned into a savage killing machine only three nights a month, and he’d believed that would be his fate as well. Now he understood that he’d been bitten by a Pureblood, which made him one, too.

  He focused on his reflection in the mirror and imagined the yellow-eyed fanged Garth returning to his all-too-human self. At first, nothing happened, and Garth feared he might be stuck like this, but then he felt a sensation of release, of letting go, and his lycanthrope features receded and he was once again plain old Garth Fitzgerald IV.

  That night he decided to find some woods, change, and explore his newfound capabilities. He was astounded when, after running among the trees and sniffing every delicious scent he could find for over an hour, he ran into another lycanthrope. A female. At first, they both fell into defensive positions, claws up, teeth bared, throats growling. But after a moment, the woman lowered her arms and became human.

  “Hi. I’m Bess.”

  And the smile she gave him was the most beautiful he’d ever seen.

  That was how he’d met the woman who would become h
is wife, and how he came to join her pack. And aside from some trouble that Sam and Dean had helped them clear up, life with the pack had been good. It was that life—one where you could be safe and accepted, where you could just be a person instead of a monster—that he wanted to help other lycanthropes find. Or at least give them a shot at.

  He thought Sam understood. He wished Dean could too.

  But he couldn’t afford to worry about that now. He didn’t know how much time Sam and Dean would give him to talk to the Bridge Valley pack, but he knew it wouldn’t be long. Not after the lycanthropes—or at least some of them—had committed two murders.

  Two that you know of, he thought.

  He had to make every moment count. Otherwise there was an excellent chance the entire pack would be dead within the hour.

  He gritted his sharp teeth and poured on the speed.

  Garth slowed to a walk when he broke out of the woods. He’d reached the pack’s property, and you approached another pack’s den with extreme caution. Purebloods were never more dangerous than when protecting their home.

  There was a wooden deck at the rear of the house, along with a patio door. The vertical blinds were closed, but light filtered between them, so he knew someone was home. Maybe the entire family. Transforming during the full moon was extra exciting for some Pureblood packs, and they liked to have a meal on those evenings—a light meal—after which the pack would transform and go out to hunt.

  He smelled no food. Maybe this pack preferred to hunt on empty stomachs.

  The emptier the belly, the sweeter the meat.

  That fangism was a keeper.

  He knew better than to go up to the patio door and knock. That would be creepy even if he hadn’t been a lycanthrope . He intended to go around to the front, take a quick look to make sure Sam and Dean weren’t there ready to break down the door and start shooting, and then he’d return to human form and ring the doorbell, nice and civilized. He’d done this sort of thing before, and he’d found—

  He was halfway across the backyard when the patio door exploded in a shower of glass shards. A female lycanthrope came racing toward him, moving faster than any lycanthrope he’d ever known. She leaped off the deck, soared twenty feet through the air, and landed in front of him in a crouch, snarling, saliva running from her mouth.

  Garth came to a sudden halt and stuck out his hand.

  “Hi! I’m Garth, and I’d like to—”

  That was all he got out before the woman let out an ear-splitting cry of rage and attacked.

  * * *

  When they located the house, Dean drove past and parked the Impala on the side of the road about a mile away. Neither of the brothers spoke while they sat, and after fifteen minutes Dean said, “Let’s go.”

  They got out of the Impala as quietly as they could. Both brothers were armed: Dean with his Colt M1911A1 and Sam with his Taurus PT92AFS, each pistol loaded with silver rounds. They also carried silver blades for up-close combat. They had their weapons out and ready. As fast as werewolves were, you didn’t want to waste time drawing your gun. You’d most likely be wolf chow before you had a chance to get off a single shot.

  Their plan was simple: they would enter the house from the rear and kill any werewolves that came at them. If Garth had managed to convince the werewolves to talk with him, the brothers would hold their fire, although Dean would do so grudgingly. He still felt bad about upsetting Garth, and he wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Garth might have saved only a few werewolves, but that was a hell of a lot better than none. But Dean doubted Garth’s message of peace and love would be well received by this pack. They’d murdered two people over the last couple of days and had probably killed a lot more. From what Dean understood, once a werewolf tasted a human heart, it was almost impossible for them to stick to a diet of only animal hearts. When the Bridge Valley pack learned that Garth’s pack abstained from eating human hearts, they’d stop listening to his sales pitch. And once that happened, Garth would be in big-time trouble. Dean hoped to hell he was wrong, for Garth’s sake, but he couldn’t help feeling their friend had made a serious—and potentially fatal—mistake.

  Dean was itching to get moving. He saw a pair of headlights off in the distance, coming toward them, and they hid behind a sturdy pair of oaks. They’d remain hidden until the vehicle passed, and then they’d resume their approach to the house. But the vehicle slowed as it drew closer, and when it reached the werewolf pack’s house, it turned into the long driveway. It was a sheriff’s cruiser. Dean had no doubt that Alan Crowder was behind the wheel. The sheriff was one of the pack, probably their leader.

  Great, Dean thought. The exact moment Sammy and me are ready to bust in on Werewolf HQ, Papa Wolf comes home.

  Dean looked at Sam. “This isn’t good,” he said.

  “No, it’s not.”

  They started running toward the house.

  EIGHTEEN

  Alan was on high alert when he pulled the cruiser up to the garage, parked, and got out. He carried a plastic cooler containing Melody’s heart, and as he walked to the front door he scanned his surroundings and scented the air, but he didn’t detect any sign of intruders. Still, something wasn’t right. He could feel it.

  He went inside and closed, locked, and bolted the front door behind him. The instant he entered the house, he smelled the presence of another werewolf. The change swept over him in an instant and he ran, following the foreign scent into the dining room. He stopped when he saw Sylvia—in human form—holding a revolver to the temple of a scrawny man. She wore a yellow rubber glove over the hand holding the weapon. The man was bound to one of the dining table chairs by heavy chains covered in duct tape. Alan normally used the chains to bind one of the family when they disobeyed him and were in need of a “time out.”

  Speaking of Sylvia, Alan was glad to see the wounds he’d inflicted on her as punishment for killing Amos Boyd had mostly healed. The skin at the left corner of her mouth was still a little raw, but it would repair itself soon enough. Stuart, Spencer, and Morgan stood close by, watching. Joshua was in his high chair, happily munching on bits of toasted oat cereal, oblivious to what was happening. Stuart was shirtless, face pale, his chest wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Given the extent of the boy’s wounds, Alan was surprised Stuart wasn’t lying in bed, but he was glad the boy was here. He was proud of his son’s determination not to give in to weakness.

  Alan looked at the scrawny man and thought, Were you ever in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’re lucky she didn’t tear you to pieces. After her punishment, Sylvia would’ve wanted to make sure Alan had the opportunity to question their prisoner, even though she must’ve been eager to vent her fury on someone. Good girl, he thought. The twins’ eyes gleamed as they stared at their captive, and Alan knew they were imagining all the things they’d do to him. Morgan just looked confused and worried.

  Alan placed the cooler on the table and looked at Sylvia. “I see we have a guest.”

  “An uninvited one.” Sylvia didn’t take her eyes off the intruder. The man might not look like much of a threat, but he was a werewolf, and werewolves were always dangerous.

  Alan didn’t recognize the gun she was holding to the scrawny man’s head, nor did he understand why she wore a rubber glove. And then he smelled it: silver. The scent of the metal caused his nasal passages to burn, as if he’d inhaled the odor of some caustic chemical.

  As if reading his mind, Sylvia said, “It’s his gun. I took it from him when I captured him.”

  The man was a werewolf, so why had he been packing silver? Merely having the gun on him had to have been uncomfortable, if not painful. It didn’t make any sense. Werewolves fought each other with tooth and claw, the way nature intended. They didn’t lower themselves to use human weapons—especially not silver.

  “He says his name’s Garth,” Stuart said. “And that he’s come to help us.” Both Stuart and Spencer snickered.

  “It’s true,” Garth said.
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  The man sounded calm despite being chained up and having a gun pressed against his head. He’s not a coward. I’ll give him that, Alan thought.

  Sylvia looked at Alan and smiled. “You’ve got fresh blood on your uniform.” She inhaled deeply, savoring the smell. “I take it your shopping trip was successful.”

  “It was.”

  Alan opened the cooler, withdrew Melody’s heart, and held it up for everyone to see. Stuart and Spencer began drooling, and Sylvia took her eyes off their captive long enough to give the heart a hungry glance. Even Joshua forgot his cereal and turned toward the heart, his small nostrils flaring as he drank in the scent of the meat, although he was much too young to eat it. Only Morgan didn’t seem excited. If anything, her lips pursed in an expression of distaste, if not outright disgust. So far, she’d resisted eating human heart meat, and it wasn’t the way of the pack to force children to do so until they were ready. But Morgan wasn’t a child anymore, and it was high time she acted like it.

  And as for Garth, Alan found his reaction to the heart most interesting. His entire body trembled and he breathed through his mouth instead of his nose, as if he couldn’t bear the smell. His head was turned halfway to the side, as if he were trying to look away from the heart but couldn’t quite make himself do it. Alan could hear the rapid beat of the man’s pulse, and he could smell warring emotions in his scent: shame, anger at himself, but most of all, desire.

  “That’s Melody’s heart, isn’t it?” Garth said. His voice was low and deep, more animal than human. “I can smell it.”

  Alan ignored his question. “You’ve never tasted human heart meat before, have you?”

  Garth shook his head. “It’s the way of my pack,” he said, his voice shaky. “We don’t believe in violence and we don’t kill humans. We eat only animal hearts.”

  Alan’s stomach turned at the very idea. Sylvia sneered in disgust, and both boys made comical retching sounds. Morgan didn’t react at all. If anything, she looked thoughtful. Alan found that more than a little disturbing, and he resolved to have a father-daughter talk with her as soon as possible. About this, and about her talking to that jakkal boy.