by Tim Waggoner
“I came here because of Clay Fuller’s murder,” Garth said. “I suspected there were lycanthropes in this area, and I wanted to offer you a chance to join my pack and live peacefully. No more killing humans, no more being a slave to your animal nature, and no more hunters coming after you. You can be free.”
Alan looked at Garth for a long moment, and then he burst out laughing.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. We already are free. We accept what we are and live true to our nature. Can you say the same?”
Garth didn’t answer.
“And just how peaceful are your intentions,” Alan said, “when you come to us carrying a gun loaded with silver bullets?”
Again, Garth had no response.
Alan raised Melody’s heart to his mouth. His teeth became fangs, and he bit off a sliver of meat. It was beyond delicious. It was as if something vital was missing at the core of his being, and the meat was the only thing that could make him whole again. He wanted to chew it, savor it until he could no longer resist and had to swallow it. Instead, he opened his mouth and removed the sliver with his free hand. Then he tossed the rest of the heart to Stuart.
The boy caught the organ on the fly and jammed it greedily against his mouth. He transformed and began devouring the heart like a starving animal. He left his son to his grisly meal and stepped toward Garth.
Now that he stood within inches of the man, he got a deeper read on his scent. He was Pureblood, but he hadn’t been born that way. And unless Alan missed his guess, he hadn’t been transformed very long ago. A few years back at most. He was what Alan had always heard referred to as a turnblood. Technically Pureblood, but a step down from the real thing. Turnbloods tended to be slightly slower and weaker than actual Purebloods, and they had a more difficult time balancing their human and wolf sides. The poor sonofabitch had never stood a chance against a werewolf as magnificently fierce as Sylvia.
Alan could smell something else on Garth: the scents of the two FBI agents that he suspected were really hunters. He was working with them. A werewolf working with hunters, against other werewolves? What was the world coming to?
Smiling, Alan lifted the piece of heart meat to Garth’s mouth. Garth pressed his lips together tight and turned away.
“Come on,” Alan said. “One little taste won’t hurt you. Don’t you want to know what you’re missing?”
Garth didn’t turn his head back toward the meat, but his nostrils flared, and Alan knew he was drinking in the sweet scent of Melody’s heart. He couldn’t help himself.
“Melody told me you were at Amos’s place,” Alan said. “You’re the writer who wanted to interview me this morning, aren’t you? Except you’re not really a writer. That was just your cover story. Like your friends being FBI agents was their cover story.”
Moving swiftly, Alan grabbed the back of Garth’s head and tried to force the meat into his mouth, but he kept his lips shut tight.
Sylvia—who still held the gun to Garth’s head—grinned in malicious delight.
“Open your mouth,” she said. “Or I’ll spray your brains all over the room.”
Alan kept his eyes on Garth, but he heard Spencer laughing. Not Stuart, though. He was still busy eating. Morgan made a soft, almost canine whine, as if she was distressed by what her father and mother were doing. The sound filled Alan with anger and disappointment.
First she talks to a carrion-eater, and now she displays weakness in front of an enemy.
Obviously, he and Sylvia had been too easy on her. They should never have allowed her to attend school with humans. She’d spent too much time around them, and it had softened her. That was all right, though. It was nothing that couldn’t be beaten out of her in time. And as for the jakkal boy… Alan thought it would be best if he were no longer around. That way, Morgan wouldn’t be tempted to see him again. And if Alan was going to kill the boy, he might as well kill the rest of his family while he was at it. But that was a matter for later. Right now, he had his plate full right here.
Garth still hadn’t opened his mouth, and now tears began to trickle from his eyes. They weren’t tears of anger or sadness. It was simply his body’s reaction to the great war he was fighting inside himself—the battle of man versus beast—and Alan knew the beast always won in the end.
That’s when Alan heard the sound of footfalls in the backyard. Someone—two someones—were heading their way, running all out. The wind was blowing in the wrong direction for Alan to pick up their scents, but he didn’t need to smell them to know Garth’s friends were attacking.
“I hear them too,” Sylvia said. “What should we do?”
Alan thought fast. He released his grip on Garth’s head and removed his hand from the man’s mouth. Garth immediately sighed in relief. Never one to waste heart meat, Alan popped it into his mouth and swallowed it.
“Keep the gun on him,” Alan told his wife. Then he looked at Stuart. The boy’s mouth was red with gore, but he’d finished the heart. He looked stronger than he had a few moments ago.
“Stay with your mother,” Alan told him. “Protect her and Joshua if necessary. Spencer, Morgan, follow me.”
Alan transformed as he ran for the front door. At first he heard only Spencer following him, and an instant later he heard Morgan hurrying to catch up. He allowed himself a satisfied smile. Maybe she wasn’t as far gone as he’d feared.
When he reached the front door, he threw it open, and he plunged into the night, his son and daughter close behind.
NINETEEN
God, that was close!
Garth felt a strange mix of reactions. He wanted to throw up at the thought of what he’d almost done. He had never smelled anything so wonderful in his entire life. He hadn’t just wanted to eat the heart meat. His body had screamed that he had to have it, and if he didn’t get it, his empty, aching stomach would devour him from the inside out.
I’m in control, he told himself. Not the wolf. Me!
And then he realized: Sam and Dean were coming.
“Look out!” he shouted. “It’s a trap!”
Sylvia snarled and clouted him on the head with the gun—hard. His vision blurred and he fought to hold onto consciousness, but he felt himself sliding into darkness. His last thought was I hope they heard me, and then he was out.
* * *
Dean and Sam were within twenty feet of the Crowders’ deck when the werewolves attacked.
One good thing about hunting monsters by the light of the full moon, Dean thought. As long as you’re in the open, you can see them coming.
The sheriff led the charge, and following close behind were a man in his twenties and a teenage girl. Crowder’s kids, Dean figured. All three had wolfed out, and the front of Crowder’s uniform was stained dark. Dean knew it was blood. Garth’s? He hoped not.
We should never have let him go alone, he thought. But just then he heard Garth shout from inside the house.
“Look out! It’s a trap!”
No kidding, Dean thought.
Dean turned toward Crowder and fired his Colt. Crowder leaped to the side, avoiding the silver bullet that hurtled toward him. Dean fired a second round, but Crowder ducked. Dean would never get used to how fast these damn things were.
Sam fired a round at the son. Like his father, the boy veered to the side. The girl hung back, however, watching her father and brother attack with an expression that Dean couldn’t read. She almost looked… sad? Whatever emotion she was feeling, it was keeping her out of the fight, which was fine by Dean. One less furball to worry about.
Crowder quickly closed the distance between them. Dean swiped his silver blade in a wide arc. Crowder retreated several feet to avoid getting sliced, and Dean fired another shot. He aimed for the bastard’s heart, but Crowder ducked to the side. He wasn’t quite fast enough this time, and the silver bullet grazed his left shoulder. Crowder howled with pain, and Dean smiled grimly.
First blood to me, he thought.
&nbs
p; He and Sam were fighting back to back. Like him, Sam had gotten off a couple of shots and was slicing his silver blade through the air. Dean had no idea if Sam had managed to wound Crowder’s son. He hoped so. The girl still held back, watching. What in the hell was going on with her?
Dean had taken his attention off Crowder for only a split second, but that was all the man needed. He drew his service weapon and aimed it at Dean.
“That’s cheating!” Dean said.
Crowder grinned, displaying a mouthful of sharp teeth.
Crowder fired, and it was Dean’s turn to avoid getting shot. “Down!” he warned his brother. Sam threw himself to the ground the same time Dean did. Dean rolled, came up on his feet, and hurled his blade at Crowder. The silver weapon spun end over end as it flew toward the werewolf. He caught the blade in his left hand before it could strike him. Unfortunately for Crowder, he caught the wrong end of the blade, and he cried out as sharp edges of silver cut into his hand. He dropped the blade as if it were red-hot and blood began to stream from the wound. Sam was on his feet as well, and he had drawn his gun. This was their chance. Dean drew a bead on Crowder’s chest and began to squeeze the Colt’s trigger.
But before he could fire, a gunshot split the night. At first he thought Sam had fired, but he quickly realized that the sound came from the house. He looked to the deck and saw a female werewolf—Crowder’s wife?—holding an unconscious and chained Garth by the back of his shirt. In her other hand—her gloved hand—she held a revolver, the barrel pointed at Garth’s temple.
“Surrender or he gets a head full of silver!” she shouted.
It’s Garth’s gun, he thought. They took it when they captured him.
“Let him go,” Dean shouted. “Or I’ll put a silver bullet through your husband’s heart!”
“And I’ll do the same to your son!” Sam shouted.
“If you do, I’ll mourn their loss,” Sylvia said. “But I’ll still kill your friend.”
Instead of looking betrayed by his wife’s words, Crowder grinned savagely, as if he were proud of her.
Goddamned monsters, Dean thought. He tossed his gun and blade to the ground. A second later, he heard Sam discard his weapons too.
Dean curled his hands into fists. Maybe the werewolves were going to kill them, but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight, and he was sure Sammy felt the same. But to his surprise, the werewolves didn’t attack.
“Put your hands up,” Crowder said. He still held his own gun pointed at Dean. His left hand continued to bleed, but he didn’t seem to care.
The Winchester brothers did as the sheriff ordered.
“Spencer, get their weapons,” Crowder told his son. “Take off your shirt and use the cloth to protect your hands. The silver will still hurt, but not as much.”
Spencer did as his father commanded.
“Morgan, get in the house.”
“Dad, I’m sorry, I—”
“Do what I say!” Crowder roared in a guttural animal voice.
Morgan—who appeared entirely human now—looked as if she might cry. She turned and ran toward the house. Crowder’s wife kept the revolver against Garth’s head. Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight, hungry and eager.
Crowder handed Spencer his gun. “If either of them moves, shoot him,” he said.
Spencer nodded. Crowder walked over to Dean and Sam.
“Keep your hands up if you don’t want to get shot,” Crowder said. “Or maybe I’ll just gut you myself. Might be more fun that way.”
“Yeah?” Dean said. “Make sure to use your right hand, then. Your left one’s a mess.”
Crowder growled. When the sheriff reached the brothers, he ordered Sam to put his hands behind his back, and he closed a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. He did the same to Dean.
“I always carry spare cuffs,” Crowder said. “Some of the things I do aren’t exactly legal, so I have to make do on my own. For example, I can’t very well call one of my deputies to come over and help me take a couple nosy hunters into custody, can I?”
Once the brothers were cuffed, Crowder took his gun back and motioned for the Winchesters to begin walking toward the house.
“Get moving,” he said. “There’s still plenty of night left.” He gave them another fang-filled grin. “More than enough for us to do a little hunting of our own.”
* * *
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Greg stood at the head of the table and watched Anubis, the god still and quiet as death itself. Next to Greg, the fire in the brazier burned bright and strong. Nathan and Muriel stood on one side of the table, while Marta and Efren stood on the other. Kayla and Erin stood at Anubis’s feet, and from their expressions, his sisters were as doubtful about this as he was.
“If you are thrown from a horse, you must get back on and ride as soon as possible,” Nathan said. “It is the only way to regain your confidence.”
“This isn’t another lesson,” Greg protested. “This is for our survival—and our god’s!”
While Anubis slept, the god was vulnerable, which was why he needed the jakkals’ protection. When he woke, he was power itself. Even when he’d been only partially awake, his mere touch had caused the skin of Greg’s wrist to age. If the Rite of Renewal went wrong again, what might Anubis do this time?
But unless the ritual was completed, Anubis would fall into a much deeper sleep and he might never awaken. If the rite failed this time, it would be another day before they could attempt it again, but that would be past the sheriff’s deadline for leaving town. They could not afford to make any more mistakes. He couldn’t.
“You will not fail,” Muriel said. “You are jakkal. The blood of our ancient ancestors flows through your veins. Their spirits will guide you.”
Erin rolled her eyes, but she didn’t say anything.
Greg looked to Marta for help, but his mother only shook her head. The family had made its decision, and this was the way it was going to be. No protest, no appeal, no reprieve.
Greg loved his family, but right then he hated them too.
There was nothing else for it. He had to conduct the rite and pray that he succeeded this time. Because if he didn’t, it could mean the end not only of his family, but of Anubis himself.
He began.
At first his hands shook as he prepared the amaranthine, and he had trouble concentrating. But as he went on, he found himself thinking of Morgan. He concentrated on the memory of her smiling face and he grew calm, his movements sure and confident. He cut his palm with the Blade of Life Everlasting and added his blood to the amaranthine, and when it came time to speak the holy words, his voice was strong. When he poured the amaranthine into Anubis’s mouth, he didn’t spill a single drop.
When finished, he stepped back and held his breath. He feared Anubis would possess Nathan or another of his family and attack him. But Anubis’s chest expanded as he took in a single deep breath and let it out slowly, filling the chamber with the sweet scent of rotting flowers. Anubis then fell still once more. One deep breath was all he took during the Rite of Renewal, but that was enough to sustain him for another month. That, and the amaranthine in his system.
Greg grinned in disbelief. He’d done it! All by himself, for the first time. No, he realized, not by himself. Morgan—or at least his memory of her—had helped.
The family smiled and congratulated him, clapped him on the back, and hugged him. Even Kayla and Erin seemed pleased and impressed. Nathan and Muriel led the family out of Anubis’s chamber, which had once been a meeting room back when this building served as the park’s administration offices. They left their god sleeping peacefully and gathered in the living room, which had once been the building’s main lobby.
“Do we start packing now?” Kayla asked. Not that any of them had much in the way of possessions. Jakkals believed in traveling light.
“There is the question of where we will go,” Muriel said.
“We have never moved
Anubis without having a new home prepared for him first,” Nathan said.
Efren spoke. “We could live on the road for a time, staying where we can until we find a more permanent place.”
Marta pursed her lips in distaste. “That sounds so…” She trailed off, unable to think of the proper word.
“Disrespectful?” Erin offered.
“Sacrilegious?” Kayla added.
“Yes,” Nathan said. “Our god is not mere freight to be carted from one location to another.”
Greg couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But the sheriff said if we weren’t gone in twenty-four hours—” he began.
“To hell with the iwiw!” Marta said, practically spitting the word. “I’m tired of cowering before their kind. We are Anubis’s chosen people, and I say it’s time we start acting like it! Do we really believe the sheriff will keep his word? He’s a werewolf. They lie as easily as they breathe.”
Nathan nodded. “He could return at any moment and attack us.”
“And next time he’ll bring his entire pack,” Muriel said.
All the more reason to leave, Greg thought. But he didn’t speak this aloud. He knew they should go, but part of him was excited at the idea of remaining in Bridge Valley and being near Morgan. Plus, he remembered what it had felt like to wound the sheriff’s son. He’d felt strong, powerful. But even so, he wasn’t sure fighting was the answer.
“We need to prepare,” Marta said.
“We need neteru,” Muriel added.
Everyone fell silent at this. Greg could not remember a time when that word had been spoken by any member of his family. He knew what neteru were, of course: it meant guardians. But he’d never seen one before, and as far as he was aware, no one in his family had ever made any. He’d come to regard them as a myth that had been passed down by jakkals from one generation to the next, and no one— not even Nathan and Muriel—had ever told him otherwise. But now here they were, discussing neteru as if they were not only real, but something that could be obtained as easily as dropping by a convenience store for a gallon of milk.
