Crying for the Moon

by Sarah Madison

  Tate, standing in front of the hearth, the shifting flames the only source of light in the room. Tate, pulling off his tight, knit sweater to reveal the muscles that were merely a promise before. Tate, shucking off his jeans, the firelight casting a warm glow over his skin as he bent over to step out of each pant leg. His hair would catch the light with a bronze sheen. He’d smile seductively at Alex, licking his lips as he did so.

  Alex snapped back to the present when he realized that Nick’s pack was moving off into the woods. He could just make out the gleam of Peter’s pale skin as they melted into the shadows.

  “Hey!” he called out after them. “Don’t expect me to pick up your clothes!”

  The laughter that drifted back to him on the wind wasn’t quite human. With a little shiver, he went back into the house and shut the door.

  He found it hard to settle down once inside. He wasn’t in the mood to start another repair project around the house, though he did make a new list of everything that still needed fixing, and made a note to call an electrician in the morning. He went online and browsed in a dilatory manner through the sites of his favorite television shows, not finding anything of sufficient interest to watch.

  He then poked around on a few sites offering what they claimed to be vampire fiction. He killed a good half hour snorting his way through the inaccuracies and misconceptions. He bookmarked the sites for future reference should he ever decide to tell the real story. An idea percolated in the back of his mind for a sort of daily blog, but he’d have to think about that. It was one thing to write “fiction” anonymously under a pen name. It was quite another to call attention to himself in a more public manner. He knew that sooner or later someone from his past would show up, trying to convince him to come back to the Life. He wasn’t looking forward to that day.

  None of the vampires that he used to associate with would ever think it necessary to earn a living. They lived to feed and fed to live. Those that had a coffin allowed it to support them, and if they needed money for any reason, they found blind fools willing to be drained both financially and physically in hopes of joining the Life as well.

  No one could understand why he was bored. Victor had been incapable of seeing that they’d all become parasites. He’d found Alex’s double life amusing at first, until he’d seen it as a move toward independence from him.

  Alex checked his e-mail and found a link for a humorous T-shirt from Peter. The T-shirt made reference to The Princess Bride, and in the body of the e-mail, Peter had asked him jokingly if he thought he should order it for Duncan.

  “We can cross out ‘Inigo Montoya’ and substitute Duncan’s name,” Peter had written. “I want to see him wearing a shirt telling people to prepare to die.”

  It made Alex smile. If only he had someone else to share it with. He turned off the computer with a sigh.

  He was in the second hour of the Fellowship of the Ring, feeling uncharitable toward Frodo, who seemed much more of a wuss than depicted in the novels, when he heard the racket outside his window.

  The escalating yowl of an angry cat was followed by the high-pitched, excited vocalization of a canine on the chase. Without thinking, Alex ran for the back door, throwing it open to see EPT streaking toward the woods across the open lawn. The moon was high overhead, casting a brilliant, cold light and throwing the surrounding shadows into sharp-edged relief.

  Close behind EPT, a large, pale wolf pursued him, his jaws snapping the air.

  “Damn it, Peter!” Alex yelled. He didn’t know how he knew it was Peter; he just did. “Not that one!”

  The wolf flicked an ear back in his direction but otherwise ignored him. EPT reached the woods first; Alex could only hope that he chose to go up a tree out of Peter’s reach. Alex gripped the porch railing, listening hard for the shriek of pain and sound of death throes that would mean that the little cat didn’t make it.

  To his surprise, there came a sort of guttural roar from the woods, and the yelp that followed it was definitely doglike in nature. There was the sound of heavy crashing through the undergrowth and the high-pitched keening of a canine in fear and pain before all fell silent again.

  Alex ran toward the woods without a thought for his own safety. He heard the sound of something rapidly approaching before the blur of motion registered at the corner of his eye. Bowled over by something dangerous and heavy, he landed face-first on the frosty ground. He lifted his head to stare into the green eyes of a large, black wolf, his muzzle pulled back into a silent snarl, a drop of saliva falling to the ground as Alex watched. His ears perked forward, the ruff around his neck fully elevated, every tooth in his mouth clearly visible. His tail stood up like a staff. This confident and aggressive animal would not hesitate in killing him. He was certain it was Nick.

  “Peter’s been hurt. Nick! Nick! Do you understand me? Peter is hurt.” He spoke in a low and urgent voice, not wanting to trigger an attack but needing desperately to get through to Nick just the same.

  He could tell the moment his words began to sink in. The black wolf’s muzzle relaxed, though his teeth were still visible. He cocked his head to stare at Alex in a manner so reminiscent of Nick that Alex had to smother a sigh of relief.

  “Peter.” He tried again. “Is hurt. In the woods. You have to let me help him.” He indicated the woods with a slight twitch of one finger.

  The black wolf turned his head abruptly toward the forest, pricking his ears as he listened. He exploded into a dead run, flattening his body as he galloped toward the edge of the woods. His muscles bunched under his skin as he accelerated; Alex had never seen any animal move that fast before. He pushed himself onto his feet and ran after him.

  He heard the whimpering first. Relieved to know Peter was still alive, he slowed his approach, moving cautiously into the clearing. Peter lay on his side, panting heavily. Nick moved around him worriedly, poking Peter with his muzzle and pawing at him with one foot as he whined.

  It was inexplicably moving; Alex felt something tighten in his chest in response.

  Nick’s head snapped up at his approach, before dropping again to crouch near Peter, baring his teeth as he growled.

  “Nick.” Alex took a deep breath. “It’s me, Alex. Let me help.”

  They stood that way for a long moment, facing off over Peter’s prone form until Peter gave a low whimper.

  Nick looked down at Peter and up at Alex before whining as he backed away. Alex came forward to kneel in the soft dirt beside Peter. He was half-in, half-out of the moonlight, the pattern of light and shadow dappling his body and making it hard to see his injuries. Alex could smell the sharp tang of blood in the air, though, and when he gently touched Peter’s side, his hand came away wet. The smell of Peter’s blood was slightly nauseating to him, something he’d never before experienced.

  Nick moved forward to stand beside Alex’s shoulder. Alex cut a small glance in his direction. He was massive, at least twice as large as the average German shepherd, and Alex could feel the heat radiate off of him as he panted.

  “I need to get Peter back to the house. I need to move him. Do you understand me?”

  Nick whined again and dropped his head to lick at Peter’s pale muzzle. Peter didn’t respond.

  “Shit,” Alex said vehemently. “You’d better not bite me,” he warned as he slid his hands under Peter’s shoulders and hips and shifted his feet under him before starting to lift. “Son of a bitch,” he grunted as he stood. “Someone needs to tell Peter to go on a diet.”

  Though he had the strength to carry him, another gift of being a vampire, Peter’s long body was awkward to hold, wanting to sag in the middle and ooze out of his arms. He had to stop and adjust his grip on the limp form every few feet, his hands becoming slick with blood. He debated setting Peter down and running back to the house for a blanket on which to drag him, but fear and adrenaline marched him forward until they were at least clear of the woods. What the hell could take on a werewolf and win?

  “Wait her
e,” he said with a gasp as he lowered Peter to the ground. “Wait with him. Protect him.”

  Nick stiffened to alertness, the hair on the back of his neck and shoulders standing on end. Alex ran toward the house. It was only as he mounted the porch stairs that he realized his rapid movement could have stimulated Nick to chase him down and kill him. A were in changed form was one of the few things that could kill a vampire, especially one such as Alex, who was not utilizing a coffin.

  He wiped his hands on his jeans as he entered the house, heading for the cell phone first and pulling up Tate’s number on the contact list with bloody fingers.

  Tate answered just before the voice mail kicked in.

  “Hello?” He sounded as though Alex had woken him, which he probably had. It was after midnight by Alex’s watch.

  “Tate! I need you to come to the house. It’s an emergency!”

  “Alex?” Tate’s voice was incredulous. “What’s going on?”

  Alex headed for the upstairs linen closet, phone to one ear as he went to grab a spare blanket. “I’ve got… I mean… I’m keeping a dog for a friend. He got hurt in the woods. Something attacked him. Please, Tate, it’s really serious.”

  “Oh gee, Alex.” Tate sounded reluctant. “If it’s really serious, I’m going to have to refer you into town to the emergency clinic. There’s not a lot I can do on a house-call basis.”

  Alex tried to imagine taking Peter in to an animal ER and the look on everyone’s face in the morning when the “wolf” turned into a human again. “Tate, please.” Alex could hear the desperation in his own voice and willed Tate to pick up on it as well.

  “Okay. It’s going to take me some time to put together the things I need and then I’m on my way. I’m… um, not home right now, but it won’t take me long to get there. I still might have to refer him, but I’ll take a look at him first.” He sounded resigned.

  “Thank you!” Alex disconnected the call and stuffed the phone in his back pocket. The movie was still playing on the television in the living room, swords clanging in an action sequence that seemed tame in comparison to what had just happened in the woods. Alex shut off the DVD player before heading out the door with the blanket.

  Nick was curled up beside Peter when he returned. Keeping him warm, Alex realized. He sprang to his feet snarling when Alex approached. He ignored Nick, spreading out the blanket so he could roll Peter on to it. His limpness worried Alex more than he liked to admit. He lifted the two corners and started to drag Peter back to the house when his burden suddenly got lighter. He looked back to see Nick holding the other ends of the blanket between his teeth.

  “Well, come on then,” he said sharply. They hurriedly shuffled their way to the house. Alex wondered what someone else would think if they saw their little procession across the yard: the man and the giant black wolf suspending another wolf in a blanket between them. It would have to raise eyebrows, and possibly a few pitchforks as well.

  Once at the house, Alex couldn’t decide whether to leave Peter downstairs on the blanket or take him up to the bedroom. In the end, the bedroom won. It occurred to Alex he might need to be able to shut and lock the door, and though a werewolf could probably tear his way out of a room if he desired, at least Alex had the illusion of containment. Besides, he thought as he struggled to take Peter up the stairs, if Peter is going to die, better that he died in a soft bed than on the floor. When this night was over, he was going to have to ask Nick about the vulnerabilities of the were. He didn’t think anything other than a vampire could kill a changed werewolf, but maybe he was wrong.

  Nick got underfoot and danced out of the way during the trek upstairs. Alex took all four corners of the blanket and used it to heave Peter onto his bed before turning on the overhead light. He couldn’t help but gasp when he did. Peter’s silver coat was soaked in blood, the thick fur matted and wet with it. Nick whined anxiously, pushing forward to lay his head down on the mattress beside Peter, his ears at half-mast.

  “I know, I know, buddy,” Alex said. “Help’s on the way.”

  Nick lifted his head abruptly and a low growl rumbled in his throat. Alex had heard it as well: the sound of a car coming up the drive. “You be good,” he admonished as he shut Nick in the bedroom and hurried down the stairs to let Tate inside.

  Tate was carrying a large, plastic trunk up the front porch stairs when Alex threw open the door. His hair was damp, as though he’d hurriedly taken a shower, and long tendrils curled at the nape of his neck in a ridiculously angelic fashion. As soon as he entered the foyer, he set down his trunk and took off his coat, hanging it on the end of the banister. He was wearing the oversized tan sweatshirt again; the cuffs were starting to fray. This time, Alex noticed that it sported the logo of some sort of organization: the image of a wolf in a tuxedo dancing with a 1920s’ style flapper. He had to smother an inappropriate laugh at the thought of Nick, in his current form, dressed in a tux. His brain superimposed Nick in his human form wearing the same and he had to blink because, damn, that image was unexpectedly hot. Focus, Alex.

  “Okay. So where’s… holy shit!” Tate had opened the plastic trunk to take out a stethoscope and drape it around his neck. When he looked up, he paused to stare open-mouthed at Alex. “Tell me that blood isn’t yours!”

  Alex looked down at himself. He had smears of blood all over his shirt and where he’d wiped his hands on his jeans. Damn. He’d really liked that shirt too. The crisp, blue cotton went well with his dark coloring.

  “Not mine,” he said, suddenly seeing Peter’s bloody coat again and flushing at his self-absorption. “It’s, um, Shaggy’s.” He said the first name that popped into his head, thinking that it oddly suited Peter just the same.

  Frowning, Tate picked up the trunk again. “Lead the way. No; don’t bother.” He shook off Alex’s silent offer to help. “I’ve got it.”

  Alex hesitated outside the door to his bedroom. “Um, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  Tate raised an eyebrow, resting the trunk against one thigh as he waited impatiently. “Don’t worry about the cost. Let’s just take a look first and see if there’s anything I can do, okay?”

  Alex opened and closed his mouth. How could he possibly explain what Tate was about to see? He was placing Tate in terrible danger and he wasn’t even giving him the choice of accepting the risks beforehand. Why had he thought it was even remotely wise to involve Tate in the first place?

  Because you trust him. The realization surprised him, but it was true. In the brief time he’d known Tate, he’d somehow decided Tate could be trusted. It was Nick and the others he wasn’t so sure about—not in their current form.

  “Let me go first,” he said at last, hoping he wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

  Nick sat up alertly from where he’d been lying on the bed beside Peter. His demeanor completely changed when he saw Tate coming into the room behind Alex. He came up in a stiff-legged stance, lowering his head to peel back his lips in a fearsome snarl, ears pinned flat against his head. He stood protectively over Peter’s still, silent body.

  “Nick,” Alex warned. He felt a sudden flare of anger toward him. He’d be Damned before he let Nick hurt Tate. He bared his teeth in a silent hiss at the wolf. Nick reacted by raising the hair all along his back from ruff out to the end of his bushy tail.

  “Oh. My. God.” Tate breathed. “You are fucking gorgeous.”

  The admiration in his voice was notably genuine and Alex saw Nick respond to it, even as he cast a hurried glance in Tate’s direction himself. Nick continued a low, rumbling growl, but his ears lifted questioningly and his lips closed over his fangs.

  Tate flashed Alex an incredible smile before wiping it away and dropping his gaze. “You are without a doubt the most handsome creature on the face of the Earth.” He spoke in a conversational tone, patiently holding on to the tub while he avoided eye contact with Nick. His voice became rich and syrupy, his Southern accent more pronounced. “I’m here to help. I know yo
u’re all upset, but I can’t do my job with you drooling all over everything. So come on. Be a pal and let me see what’s going on here. You want me to help your buddy, don’t you?”

  Alex could see the confusion in Nick’s body language, the way he was still poised to defend Peter. Yet he was responding to Tate’s calm demeanor.

  “Nick,” Alex said firmly. “Get off the bed.”

  Amazingly, the big wolf complied.

  He came forward to sniff at Tate’s fingers, still clasped on the handles of the tub. Grumbling in a low growl, he wedged himself between the wall and the bed to keep an eye on Tate. With a piercing glance at Alex, Tate slowly set the tub down just inside the door and went over to examine Peter.

  Nick placed his head on the mattress beside Peter again and whined. Tate ignored him. Alex wondered at first how he could have the presence of mind to do such a thing, but he could soon see that Tate was completely absorbed in his assessment of the silver wolf lying in front of him. He got up on the bed so he could look at Peter more closely, crawling around to the far side to briefly lift a foreleg and make a small noise of dismay at whatever he saw there.

  “I need the trunk.” He motioned toward Alex over his shoulder without looking back, fingers snapping imperiously, and Alex hurried to bring the plastic tub to the bedside.

  Tate listened to Peter’s chest with the stethoscope while Alex stood with the trunk in his hands. He looked up and motioned to Alex to put it down within reach on the bed.

  “Find me some gloves,” he said as he continued his assessment.

  When Alex opened the lid, he could see that the interior was stacked with clear plastic containers, each of which held different supplies. He found a small box of latex gloves in the second compartment he searched. Tate snatched them without comment and put them on, pulling a thermometer out of his back pocket to check Peter’s temperature with one hand while he explored his wounds with the other.

  “Okay,” he said, sitting back on his knees at the edge of the bed and draping the stethoscope around his neck once more, heedless of the bloody fingerprints he was leaving on his own clothing. “He’s in shock. I need to start an IV catheter and fluids, and I can do that, but I need to know right now: We’re not referring him to an animal ER, right?”