Demon Blessed

by Nikki Sex

  They portray a history of the magic lands, including their eco-friendly footprint. The warded lands are apparently throughout Canada and Alaska. Their total land mass constitutes an area four times the size of Yellowstone National Park.

  There are twelve packs of werewolves, which number between forty and fifty members, each led by their own alpha. The exception is the extraordinarily large pack at Spukani Lodge, which is currently around seventy. New members live at the lodge, then move to other packs according to their interests.

  Different packs do different things. The northernmost pack, for example, has gone native—they don’t attend full moon gatherings. The pack is full of shifters who rarely bother to change into human form.

  Spukani Lodge is where the Beast Lord presides.

  The Beast Lord, you ask? Yeah, well. Turns out the Beast Lord is Stafford. He’s the top Alpha, the unelected leader of every pack alpha across the entire continent. Apparently, it’s his way or no way.

  With Stafford’s off-the-charts power levels, I’m not surprised.

  The DVD shows a number of wolves getting together and how they react. My God, they’re beautiful. Their colors range from pure white, to various shades of red, gray, tan, and black.

  Each pack is not a democracy—it’s hierarchical, with dominant members (male or female) at the top. Every wolf has its own position in the group, the most dominant alpha is in charge.

  The pecking order of the pack is instinctual. Whenever pack members get together, they caress each other, romp, tail wag, and wrestle. There are many wolf mannerisms.

  The Alpha wolf stands tall, ears up, and forward. Lesser-ranked wolves crouch lower when confronted by him. They also hold their tails lower. When disciplined, their tails go between their legs, and they flatten their ears. These gestures are inborn, or become instinctive to made weres.

  An alpha can draw upon the energy from his or her pack. In turn, the magic of each alpha can be drawn upon by Stafford. This involves hundreds of wolves, twelve “power packs” of energy, in fact.

  It explains his mind-blowing magic.

  The DVD goes on about various jobs and living arrangements. Wolves can live and work anywhere, as long as they return to the magic lands during the full moon. If they don’t, the demon curse of 1940 will send them moonstruck. They’ll go mad and die, or will need to be put down.

  Laws and protocols, details of diet, activities, what it is to be moonstruck—you name it— the short documentary explains it all.

  The inability to reproduce is one of the greatest drawbacks. General information is given about ongoing studies. The DVD shows wide-range shots of the extensive laboratories under the lodge, with doctors and technicians at work.

  Stafford himself speaks, claiming his staff are nearing a breakthrough.

  That’s certainly true.

  It’s eight a.m. by the time I finish. I hear a soft knock and open my bedroom door. Hope and Toby are here. Hope’s eyes sparkle, her face is flushed. She’s eager to start her new life.

  I bend down to shower my neglected dog with pats and attention, smile up at Hope. “Today’s the day. Are you excited?”

  “Yes.”

  Often a woman of few words, Hope makes me chuckle. “Are you guys ready for breakfast?”

  Owen steps through the doorway of the room next door to me. “I’m starving.”

  We’ve been informed a celebration occurs every full moon with most pack members, and alphas attending. The only exception is the northernmost pack.

  Moonrise is at nine-fifteen p.m. tonight. Before then, Hope, Owen, and I will be introduced to everyone. We’ll enjoy a large feast and prepare to shift into our wolf forms when the moon rises.

  I assumed there would be containment areas, maybe padded rooms for first-timers. They do have such places, but only for injured or maddened wolves. Apparently, these precautions are not needed.

  Every person undergoing their initial transformation to wolf is given one or two experienced dominant wolves to shift with. These FFS (Friends For Shifting) buddies provide support. They can magically constrain any new shifter if needed.

  There have been cases of shifters unable to live at peace with their wolf. Luckily, this is rare. If a person cannot learn how to control their beast within a reasonable period, it becomes necessary to destroy them.

  What would it be like to constantly be at war with oneself? Death might be a mercy. One of the Lord’s duties is to kill those who are unable to achieve control of their wolf. What a rotten job.

  This is a miniscule possibility with Hope or Owen. Still, it makes me nervous.

  Chapter 44. Romance

  A gentle wind drifts down from across the mountains. I smell pine, fresh water, and the scent of grass from the meadows. When the wind blows from the west, I can smell the ocean.

  This is such a beautiful place.

  Stafford meets me in human form after breakfast. He chose to spend the night with his fetuses again. Together, he, Toby, and I walk through his fairytale land. We exchange stories and hold hands.

  There’s tension in every inch of his body. Tonight, is the full moon. Consequently, his wolf is on edge and excited.

  “Tell me about the supernaturals who attacked Hope and Owen. Did you recognize the scents?”

  “Yes, the wolf is known to me. He’s from Cave Dweller pack, a made wolf who goes by the name of Darpar. I spoke to his alpha. Darpar left the magic lands hoping to find his mate—it’s common for wolves of both sexes to do so. We have no idea what happened, but last week his bond vanished. His alpha looked for him, but all connection had been severed.”

  I nod sympathetically.

  “We thought perhaps a vampire killed him, yet it seems he teamed up with a vampire. His alpha can’t believe it. He swears the man is not a murderer.”

  “You didn’t sense his bond break?”

  “With hundreds of pack members I don’t feel every magical tie unless I deliberately seek to do so.”

  “What about the vampire? Could you identify her?”

  Stafford frowns as though from a bad taste in his mouth. “No, but I’d recognize her smell, and the truly foul stench of the human with her. I lost their scent when they got into a car.”

  “Too bad.”

  We stop to watch a hawk circle for a few minutes, then dive down toward its prey. I’m disappointed when trees obscure the sight. Did the bird catch a mouse? Maybe a rabbit? I don’t see him return to the sky, so I presume he’s eating something.

  “How did you come to be Beast Lord?” I ask.

  His face tightens. “It’s a long story, one I’d rather not discuss.”

  Ah. He had to kill whoever once held his position.

  I can’t imagine him plotting or planning for the position. He’s the type of guy who would be happy to be left alone in his laboratory.

  In my experience, many crave power and wealth for selfish reasons, but that’s not Stafford. Well-mannered, he listens and treats people fairly without acting superior. He may not be a born werewolf, but he is a born leader.

  Stafford has the natural authority you only get when you don’t want to take charge—never when you do.

  “Today,” I say lightly, “We’ll talk about anything you want.”

  His lips curve up in a besotted-guy-grin—the kind a man gets when they’re completely gone on someone. I’m pretty sure the goofy smile I give him back is the mirror image of his.

  My breath catches, my stomach flutters. Stafford makes my thoughts scramble, my inner demon pulse with passion, and my heart burst with love.

  By unspoken agreement, no serious subjects are discussed. Neither do we end up in bed, more’s the pity.

  Like on the ship where we first met, I think he’s gone back to courting me.

  Stafford is my shifting buddy tonight. Usually new shifters are assigned two, but with his power, I need only one. The man has high hopes, but it’s highly unlikely I’ll shift.

  Desperately optimistic, he wants
me as his mate. God, I want him, too. I’d love to be able to shift, to be part of his pack, and to live in the magic lands. What would it be like to belong to one guy and to have him belong to me?

  How great would it be to trust Stafford enough to tell him about my inner monster?

  Too bad it’s not going to happen.

  I’ve lived too long to make a rookie mistake.

  Stafford prepares me for what to expect tonight, including the traditional hunt. One of the duties of the northernmost pack is to breed elk for full moon celebrations. Tonight, fifty elk have been turned loose in various parts of their hunting grounds. Spukani pack members arranged to drop them off, all within a thirty-mile radius.

  Hunting in packs during a full moon is apparently the ultimate in wolfy fun.

  Stafford stops to hunch down on his heels and pet my dog. “We’ll lock Toby in your room this evening so there are no misunderstandings. I doubt anyone would hurt him, but control of the beast is at its lowest when the full moon rises.”

  “OK. Good plan.”

  His gaze lifts to meet my own. “You’re going to love the party.”

  I hope so.

  Chapter 45. Goth Girl

  Stafford is absolutely right, I decide, once my friends and I join in the celebrations. I do love the party.

  During the festival of the new moon, every pack member celebrates. It’s exhilarating to be surrounded by the magic of almost five-hundred werewolves, all drinking, laughing, and having fun.

  The amount of raw, otherworldly energy is both potent and overwhelming.

  There is no need for a fire on the ground floor of the lodge. The windows are wide open in an attempt to cool the place down. Feverish heat from hundreds of excited shifters raises the temperature of the room to baking hot.

  My pulse throbs hard and thick, my breath is ragged. I’m dizzy with anticipation. The earthy magic of weres saturates the room. I’m buzzed as hell. Thankfully, my demon is well-fed on the energy of the pack Alpha, so there is no urgency to feed.

  Enormous buffets of food and drink are set out on the ground floor of the lodge. Huge tables, and long wooden benches, are crammed full of people along the outer walls of the room. I eat an inch-thick rib eye. It’s grilled to a perfect medium-rare.

  The party began at dusk, two hours before moonrise. Now darkness has fallen. Looking out the windows, I see stars glittering in the cool night sky. The moon will rise soon.

  My ears echo with the sound of silverware on plates, glasses thumping down on wood, people laughing, chewing, and growling. Yes, there is growling! These are wolves, I remind myself.

  Hope, Owen, myself, and one other are newbies. The four of us sit at a table at the front of the room, on display for everyone. Stafford makes our introductions to welcome cheers from the raucous crowd.

  The fourth of our number arrived here three months ago. I didn’t hear her name over the party noise when we were introduced, but someone said she’s nineteen.

  The new girl has a goth vibe going. Dressed in black jeans, black shirt, ample eyeshadow, short, spiky dyed-black hair—she wears a silver eyebrow ring, a silver nose ring, and has an attitude to match.

  The sharp stench of hair dye is irritating as hell to the acute nose of a wolf. Why does she do it?

  The dark world of goths can be a diverse and healthy subculture. Often artistic, well read, and usually interested in music and poetry, being goth is a form of self-expression. On the other hand, I think this girl is using it to isolate herself.

  Why in the world did she choose to become a shifter?

  Silver is the only metal that doesn’t heal on a wolf. The catch is, when it is directly placed on werewolf flesh, it burns.

  Masochistic much?

  I’ve got no problem with masochism, to each his or her own. But in Goth Girl’s case, I think she’s indulging in self-hate. Black clothes to match her thundercloud attitude, she seems angry, unhappy, and self-destructive.

  “Sorry,” I say loudly. “I’m Jan. What did you say your name was?”

  “Fuck off,” she snarls.

  Eugene, the man next to her, growls his disapproval at her behavior.

  Goth Girl meets his eyes with a burning glare. The woman has some kick to her—I taste the captivating energy of her rage. Yet Eugene is far more dominant; she should back down.

  In response, he shoots a biting electrical shock of magic over her skin—the residual aura of it makes me lean away. An interesting form of discipline, I can tell it hurts like hell.

  If she were in wolf form, he most likely would have nipped her nose. See how much I learned from the werewolf DVD?

  The woman doesn’t accept defeat or discipline. She does, however, avert her eyes from his fiery gaze.

  Shocked and embarrassed on her behalf, Hope and Owen also look away.

  I curb my smile as a memory comes to me. I attended a fascinating lecture with Dale Carnegie in 1938. Later he released a book I enjoyed called, “How to Win Friends and Influence People.”

  Clearly, Goth Girl never read it.

  I’m not surprised by her reaction. Everyone at our table is laughing and talking together—all except Goth Girl. Making friends isn’t on her list of things to do. The young woman hates herself. How could she possibly like anyone else?

  Goth Girl has been buddied with Eugene and another wolf at the end of the table. Eugene is a thin, thirtyish looking guy with a kind, artistic face, and light brown hair cut short on the back and sides. He lives outside the magic lands. Dressed in the height of cool young fashion, he wears tight, skinny brown jeans, and Sketchers tennis shoes. He told us he plays pop violin with piano accompaniment.

  In my minds-eye I imagine him rocking away on a violin, although I have no idea what “pop” violin is.

  Eugene’s a psychologist assigned to support Goth Girl. Poor fellow. The young woman will be a supreme challenge because she’ll resist any form of connection or assistance.

  He has my sympathy.

  Goth Girl’s problems came about long before she arrived in the magic lands. It seems that becoming a werewolf hasn’t changed a thing for her. When deciding to transform your life, moving to a different address might not do it.

  Neither will a change of form.

  There is betrayal or abuse in her childhood—it frames her self-imposed isolation. Goth Girl brings her past with her, wherever she goes. There is no escape. I can wholeheartedly identify with her problem.

  No one can run away from themselves.

  Years of tightly managing my emotions makes it easy for me to maintain my composure in the face of her rudeness. In order to survive with an inner demon, I’ve trained myself to rely on my head more than my heart. To use cool reason, rather than the impassioned heat of anger.

  My demon feeds on strong emotions, particularly harmful feelings such as fury. It’s safer for him to feed on more positive hungers such as lust, love, or helping ghosts to cross over.

  I’m also a great believer in Plato’s philosophy: “In life be kind, because everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

  Logically, this troubled young woman isn’t mad at me. How could she be? She only met me an hour ago. I don’t respond to Goth Girl’s bad-tempered reply.

  Well, I do react, but not in the way she hoped.

  Goth Girl wants a fight.

  The young woman has two ghosts following her, both appear to have died by fire. Family members, for sure. They may even be her mom and dad. This thought causes an uncomfortable pang in my chest.

  I feel sorry for her.

  My lips curve in a faint smile. Wouldn’t Goth Girl be furious if she discovered my pity? I suspect her burning rage and hatred is what keeps her from feeling an ocean of grief and despair.

  I don’t know her story, but I can tell it’s not a nice one.

  A wise man named André Chevalier once said: “All people, whatever they are doing, no matter how crazy or irrational it seems to you—it is how they need to act—from their perspe
ctive.” In other words, there’s always an explanation for why someone acts like a total jerk.

  That’s not to say there’s any justifiable excuse, of course. It simply means there is always a logical reason.

  Something ugly happened to Goth Girl.

  Maybe a number of ugly somethings.

  I doubt the young woman ever escapes her bitter funk—the ongoing self-torture she engages in. I can help her restless spirits. In doing so, I may even help her.

  Talking to Goth Girl’s unhappy ghosts, sorting them out, and setting them free will have to wait for another day. Currently, I can barely think. There’s way too much going on at this party.

  Chapter 46. Long Claw

  An unexpected punch of energy slams into me as a wolf stalks toward us. A real powerhouse, he’s the alpha of a pack—that much is certain.

  A tall, angular man, he has a close-cropped black beard, but no mustache. He could be considered quite good-looking in an unpolished-diamond sort of way. Too bad his mouth is a thin hard line, and his eyes are dark, deep-set. He swaggers as though he owns the place.

  He looks bad-tempered.

  Physically, he’s muscular, broad shouldered, and cut. He’d be handsome if he knew how to smile, or if he liked anyone other than himself. To me, his expression looks sour, as though he’s eaten something he shouldn’t have.

  Maybe he’s dyspeptic.

  “Hello, ladies.” He rudely scrutinizes Hope and myself. “I’m Long Claw, the Alpha of River Run pack.”

  I draw a deep breath as a flare of his power sends a bite of painful pleasure jittering over my skin. Oh, he’s strong, alright. At least ninety years old, he appears maybe forty.

  I quickly realize this is the guy Stafford warned me about. Long Claw. What a name. I understand he’s a born werewolf. His parents christened him. I think they were naming the inner wolf, not the man.

  Once named Agnes Longbottom, I can’t really point a finger (or a claw—regardless of the length).