by Tim Waggoner
Sam faced forward once more. “Do you remember the way back to the motel?”
“Of course I do,” Dean snapped. Then after a moment, he added, “But let’s see if you do.”
Sam smiled.
TWENTY-FOUR
Present Day
These were the times when Alan felt most alive. Running through the night in his true form, strong and free, the moon singing in his blood. The world was alive with scents and sounds, a symphony of sensory input that was as intoxicating as it was overwhelming. For him, the Hunt was secondary. He enjoyed it well enough, and he definitely enjoyed the heart meat that came at the end of a kill. But Sylvia, Stuart, and Spencer lived for the Hunt. They could stalk and kill a different person every night and they’d never tire of it. They’d bathe in victims’ blood and gnaw on their hearts even if their bellies were full to bursting. In a way, he admired them. The pack Sylvia grew up in had been closer to the old ways of their people, to the primal essence of the wolf. Alan’s pack had become too much like their prey, and they had been weaker for it. It was Sylvia’s wildness that had first attracted him to her, and she’d passed it along to her two eldest sons. It was too early to tell which way Joshua would go, but it seemed clear that Morgan took after his side of the family. Perhaps when it was time for her to select a mate, she’d choose someone who would balance her, someone wild like her mother. Otherwise, she’d remain weak. Werewolves did not tolerate weakness in their ranks. If Morgan didn’t toughen up, she wouldn’t last long. As her father, the thought saddened him, but as pack leader, he wouldn’t allow emotion to get in the way of his responsibilities. And if the time came when Morgan had to be put down, he’d do it himself. It was the least he owed her as her sire and her leader.
He was grateful that the two hunters and their werewolf companion had come to town. Sylvia and the boys wanted to hunt more often than was prudent. There were only so many people who could disappear in Bridge Valley without raising suspicion. He’d done what he could to select prey that wouldn’t be missed, but it was becoming difficult to keep up with his family’s demands. The three captives—for they would hunt the weak werewolf, too, the one that stank from eating animal hearts—would supply them with fun for a little while, maybe all the way to Christmas if they spaced the hunts out far enough.
He heard Spencer’s guttural growl off to his left, then the heavy sound of rock striking bone and a cry of pain. Their prey changed course and ran deeper into the woods. Alan knew that Spencer had been trying to direct him to run into the thickest part of the woods and prolong the Hunt. But the hunter had turned the tables.
Alan could smell his son’s blood, but he did not run toward him. Spencer would recover quickly enough on his own. Until then, he’d pay the price for his carelessness by missing out on the Hunt. If he didn’t recover in time, he’d miss out on his share of heart meat.
Rather than being angered that the hunter had hurt his son, Alan was pleasantly surprised. It seemed as if tonight’s Hunt was going to be something special. The hunter wasn’t going to make it easy on them. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Feeling more excitement for a Hunt than he had in a long time, Alan howled and doubled his speed as he plunged through the woods.
* * *
Garth ran ahead of Dean. Sam was facing four lycanthropes, and he had no silver to fight with. As resourceful as Sam was, those were lousy odds, and Garth was determined to even them. He not only had his gun loaded with silver bullets tucked into the waistband of his pants, but he also carried Sam’s pistol and silver rounds, and Sam’s silver knife. The silver bullets so close to his flesh were uncomfortable, but the knife—even though its handle was leather—hurt like hell. It felt as if his hand was on fire, but since the silver wasn’t actually in contact with his skin, he suffered no damage. But even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. All that mattered was reaching Sam before the Crowders killed him.
Garth had no trouble tracking Sam. His scent was like a blazing beacon shining through the darkness. He could smell the Crowders’ separate scents in a crisscrossing pattern as they moved through the woods, never far from Sam, always driving him onward. Thank Fenris they wanted to play with him for a while, or he’d already be dead.
One of the Crowders had been wounded. The twin named Spencer, Garth thought, although his scent was much like his brother’s. Garth could smell the boy’s blood—from a head wound, he judged—and he smiled, baring his fangs. Even unarmed, Sam was still dangerous as hell.
As he ran, Garth became aware of a sound like whispering. It was the voice of the wolf inside him. It came softly at first but grew louder with each inch of ground he covered.
You are wolf, it said. Hunter, killer, feaster. Strong, swift, savage, merciless…
And accompanying the voice was a nearly overwhelming explosion of scent, more intense than anything he’d ever experienced before. That wasn’t true, he realized. He had experienced this, back in the Crowders’ dining room. It was the smell of Melody’s heart. He could join the other lycanthropes, take part in their Hunt, perhaps even share in the reward at the end. The thought of sinking his fangs into a sliver of the man’s heart meat made his mouth water. Then Garth realized what he’d been thinking.
Sam’s not just a man—he’s my friend!
He felt the animal part of him rising to the forefront of his consciousness, threatening to take over. The scent of human heart had aroused in the wolf a deep, all-encompassing hunger. The beast wanted meat, and it wasn’t about to let this weak little man whose body it was forced to share stop it. Garth could feel himself slipping away. It was as if he were drowning in darkness, sinking into depths from which he would never emerge. With his last conscious thought, he relaxed his grip on Sam’s knife and let the blade slide down. He then tightened his grip around the metal before it could slide through his hand. The metal seared his skin and the knife’s edges cut into his flesh. Blood flowed from the wounds, but the pain cleared his mind and drove the wolf away. He was grateful, even as the agony doubled him over. He readjusted his grip on the knife and managed to keep stumbling forward until the pain passed—mostly—and he was able to straighten and run normally once more.
The wolf’s voice receded into the background of his mind. But it was still there, still whispering, urging him to deny his humanity and allow his true self to run free and unrestrained. To hunt as it would, kill when it pleased, and devour the succulent heart meat of humans, as it had been created to do.
Garth still smelled Melody’s heart, although it was nowhere near as strong as it had been. He could ignore it for now, but he feared they would grow stronger. And when that happened, would he be able to resist it, or would the part of him that was Garth Fitzgerald IV be destroyed by the wolf? If that happened, his worst nightmare would’ve come to pass: the man would die, leaving behind only the monster.
He decided he’d fight that battle when he had to. Right now, Sam needed him.
* * *
Dean ran through the woods, Colt in one hand, silver blade in the other. Somewhere up ahead of him was Garth. Dean didn’t give a damn which of them reached Sam first, so long as they reached him in time to help him fight the Crowders.
The werewolves might’ve had a head start on them, but the hunters had a couple of advantages of their own. Dean figured the Crowders wouldn’t kill Sam right away. Not only would they want to play with their food before they ate it, Sam was far more skilled at fighting and surviving than the werewolves’ usual prey. And the Crowders thought he and Garth were still chained up in their basement. They wouldn’t be expecting their other two prisoners to be hunting them. With any luck, their attention would be so focused on Sam they wouldn’t realize he and Garth were coming for them until it was too late.
Of all the monsters he and his brother had ever faced, werewolves were among the most challenging. They were a perfect fusion of human and beast, fiercely savage killing machines with a singled-minded focus on their goal: to feed. You kne
w where you stood with a werewolf. There were no lies, betrayals, or trickery like you had to deal with when hunting a demon or a witch, and while werewolves did kill, often in a horrific fashion, they did so swiftly. The Crowders were different. They planned their hunts, abducting people to serve as playthings, until they were finally brought down and allowed to die. He’d seen Amos Boyd’s ravaged corpse. There had been nothing quick about his death. The Crowders had wanted to make him suffer, had luxuriated in his blood and pain. The Crowders might think they lived in harmony with their animal selves, but as far as Dean was concerned, they were more aligned with the worst aspects of their human side. To put it simply, the Crowders gave werewolves a bad name.
At that moment, he heard several shots come from deeper in the woods. The fight was officially on.
“Save some for me,” Dean said, and ran in the direction of the gunfire.
TWENTY-FIVE
Sam had been running full out since the Hunt began, and his lungs were on fire and his legs felt like rubber. He wasn’t running now so much as stumbling forward, gasping for breath while his pulse pounded like a trip hammer. He couldn’t keep this up much longer, and if he knew that, it was certain the Crowders did too. They wouldn’t tire—their supernatural stamina let them run as long and far as they wished. They could’ve easily run him to ground a dozen different times by now. But they wanted to make the fun last as long as possible.
That gave him an idea.
He stopped at a large elm tree, pressed his back to it, and waited. He didn’t have to wait long.
Shadowy figures emerged from the darkness and came slinking toward him. Four of them. It seemed the twin he’d struck in the head had recovered. Sam still held the rock, but now he let it fall. A single rock wouldn’t do him any good now.
Crowder approached, Sylvia to his right, Stuart and Spencer flanking their parents. “What’s wrong? Need to catch your breath?” he mocked.
“Maybe he’s decided to stand and fight,” Sylvia said. “He is a big, brave hunter after all.”
The twins laughed at this. The werewolves continued moving forward, fangs bared and claws raised.
Crowder’s upper lip curled away from his teeth in a sneer. “He’s no hunter. We’re the hunters. It’s what we were born to be. He’s just another meal, nothing more.”
The werewolves stopped within ten feet of Sam. They made no move to attack, and Sam allowed himself a small smile.
“Sorry,” he said, “but I am tired. And I think I might’ve twisted my ankle.” This was a lie, but he knew that even the werewolves’ hyper-strong senses wouldn’t be able to determine if he was telling the truth, not from where they stood. He put his weight on his left foot to help sell the lie.
“If you can stand on both feet, you can run on them,” Sylvia said.
Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so. I guess you’ll just have to kill me right here.”
“You can’t just quit!” Spencer said. “You owe me after hitting me in the head like you did.”
Sam had guessed right. The Crowders wanted to hunt as much as kill. By stopping here, he’d interrupted their fun. They wanted him to continue running before they finally feasted. But he could only stall them for so long before they decided to say to hell with it and tore him to bits. Time for step two of his plan.
“Owe you what?” Sam said.
Stuart answered for his brother. “A chase! The meat tastes so much sweeter after a good run.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with you,” Sam said. “It’s not as if you’re going to get any of my heart.”
Stuart growled and took a step forward, but his father raised a hand and Stuart stepped back.
“I’m pack leader,” Crowder said. “ I decide who gets meat and how much.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” Sam said. “Not in this case, anyway. Spencer was the one I hit with the rock. He’s the one I humiliated in the eyes of his pack. He deserves the biggest piece. Like he said, I owe him.”
Spencer turned to face his parents. “He’s right! But I should get more than a piece. I should get the whole thing. I deserve it!”
Stuart snarled and took several steps toward his brother. “You deserve nothing! You were brought down by a human armed with nothing more than a rock. Your weakness brings shame to the pack. You should return to the house now before we remind you how we deal with weakness.”
Sam figured the twins’ blood would be up after chasing him, and they wouldn’t be thinking and reacting rationally. Sam and Dean might not be twins, but they were brothers, and Sam knew how angry brothers could become with each other.
“Stop it!” Crowder roared.
But neither twin paid him any attention. They were too focused on each other.
“I’m weak?” Spencer said. “I didn’t let myself get wounded by a carrion-eater. Besides, you got to eat all of the reporter’s heart. You’ve had enough meat for one night.”
“Boys…” Sylvia said in a low warning tone.
Sam could feel the tension between the four werewolves thrumming in the air. It wouldn’t take much more for their anger to overwhelm them, and then they’d begin fighting each other. And when that happened, Sam would hightail it out of there.
Crowder looked at Sylvia. “Spencer does have a point,” he said.
Sylvia snapped her teeth at her husband. “Are you crazy? Stuart’s right! Spencer was weak tonight, and he deserves to be punished.”
“I’m pack leader,” Crowder said.
Sylvia growled back. “And I’m your mate. Do you really want to go up against me?”
She took a step forward, raising her claws. Crowder raised his own claws and rushed toward her. The twins ran at each other, and Sam felt grim satisfaction. The moment the four were at each other’s throats, he’d start running again.
But instead of clawing at each other, Crowder and Sylvia went into each other’s arms and kissed. And instead of coming to blows, the twins high-fived each other. Alan and Sylvia broke apart, and all four werewolves burst into laughter.
“Nice try, hunter,” Crowder said. “But just because we’re monsters doesn’t mean we’re stupid.”
“It was amusing,” Sylvia said, “and turning the tables on you like we did… You should’ve seen your face!”
They all laughed once more.
“A memorable end to an unusual—but satisfying—Hunt,” Crowder said. “But it is the end.”
The werewolves growled in unison and started advancing slowly toward Sam. He desperately wracked his brain, hoping to come up with a last-minute idea that would save his life. But he couldn’t think of anything. After all the years he’d spent on the road with his brother, all the things they’d done and seen, his time to die—and stay dead this time— had finally arrived.
He heard leaves rustling, and then caught sight of a shape pulling away from the darkness—a shape that looked remarkably like Garth. And he was holding Sam’s gun in one hand and a silver blade in the other. He shouted, “Catch!” and hurled the pistol toward Sam. It flew through the air in a perfect arc, passing over the Crowders’ heads. Sam snatched it out of the air and started firing.
The Crowders’ inhuman reflexes saved them. Before Sam caught the gun they were already scattering. One of Sam’s rounds struck Alan in the left shoulder, staggering him but not bringing him down. Another round missed Sylvia entirely, and then she and her husband melted into the night and were gone.
The twins were still there. Garth thrust the silver blade at Spencer’s chest. Spencer turned to the side, avoiding a fatal blow, but the tip of the blade slashed across his right ribs. Spencer raced away, howling in pain and frustration. Instead of fleeing with his brother, Stuart knocked Garth to the ground, and Garth lost his grip on the silver blade. Stuart snatched up the blade. Grinning, he raised the knife high over his head and began to bring it down in a vicious swipe, aiming directly for Garth’s heart.
Sam took aim, but before he could fire, three shots came
in rapid succession. Stuart’s arms flew out—the blade tumbling from his grasp—and he looked at Sam as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. Then he stiffened and collapsed to the ground in silence.
Dean walked up to Stuart, Colt still trained on the werewolf. Garth—in human form once more—rose to his feet and joined him, and Sam walked over to gaze down at Stuart’s corpse with them.
“He’s dead,” Garth said. He tapped his ear. “I can’t hear a pulse.”
Sam smiled at Dean and Garth. “Took you guys long enough,” he said. He bent down to retrieve his silver blade. “Thanks, by the way.”
Garth continued to gaze upon Stuart’s body, an expression of sorrow on his face.
“Look,” Dean said, “I had to—”
Garth held up a hand to stop him. “I know. I’d have done the same thing in your position. It’s just a waste, you know? It didn’t have to end this way for him.”
Given what Stuart had been and how he was raised, Sam wasn’t sure it could’ve ended any other way.
“Do you think the others will circle back and attack?” Sam said.
“I doubt it,” Garth said. “They’ll go somewhere and lick their wounds before deciding on their next move.”
“So we go back to their house and take them down before they can regroup,” Dean said.
