Soon.
Soon enough.
If he wanted to, he would make her his sex slave. He was a free man now, untouchable and powerful. One step behind Anton Fane.
Rachel pushed through the door and Rory leapt at her.
"Forget dinner," he snarled, hurling his startled wife face down onto the king sized bed. He tore her shorts free, revealing a blue thong that split her cheeks. Rachel moaned like the filth she was, her head buried in the mattress. Rory spanked her again and again, until the thong was a blue T amidst splotchy shades of red. Then he ripped it free and dropped to his knees to taste her.
He instantly picked up on the scent of his competition. His wife's lover. His cock was distinct, even familiar. The fact that was a meathole only furthered his desire to fuck her. What sort of things did her lover do that he could not?
With a grunt he pushed deep inside, falling across her back as his hips thrust, slowly at first but soon much harder.
He started to change.
His bones popped and restructured. His nose broke as his face reached out toward her back, his snout sniffing her flesh an inch away from it.
Rachel didn't seem to notice at first. If her moans were any indication, she loved it, pushing her hips to meet him.
Rory bit down at the base of her neck, pulling a piece of her skin away with a snap. Rachel screamed, disengaged and grabbed the spraying wound.
Rory stumbled backward and his legs changed shape, his arms covered in grey hair as his fingernails broke into pieces, giving way to six-inch talons through the cracks.
She didn't stick around. She staggered to her feet and ran for the door.
His shock paused the transformation. He watched Rachel's retreat as if in suspended animation. An eternity that lasted a second, his endo-makeover, muscle spasms and all, at last degenerated. He stared at the doorway, an awkward mix of wolf and man, watching Rachel flee for her life.
The aroma of blood was a great motivator, arousing his senses like the perfume counter at his department store.
With a roar somewhere between howl and war cry, he charged.
***
Lucy tore the sheets away and hopped out of bed before realizing she was awake.
Her sweaty toes settled on stuffy carpet; succulence lured her into the hallway. She licked her lips, wandering in a trance, puppeted by instinct.
Dad was there, looking like a scruff. His clothes were slashed into so many pieces that they dangled in strands off his torso and shoulders. He was naked—and erect—from the waist down. He noticed her, froze, and smiled.
His hairy palm was closed around the head of an auburn-haired woman, pinning her bloody face against the wall, her mouth sliced on broken shards of glass from the family portrait.
Lucy snarled as a roar pushed up from the depths of her stomach, while a matching swirl caressed her loins. Through gnashed teeth, repulsion, hunger, and desire pushed her onward, toward the body.
Hesitation tugged at her, begged her conscience to refuse the driving instinct. It was wrong in every way, and, despite her tunnel vision, she knew it. The voice of reason annoyed her as she pressed her breasts against the bloodied body, ready to take a bite.
Clouded eyes recognized the battered woman as her mother. There should've been more objections in that moment, she realized this, but the gashed face and wounded neck pried her jaws apart as hunger mounted steadily in her stomach.
Rory pulled his hand back, letting Mom fall to the ground; she crawled on elbows, a pathetic grovel that fell on deaf ears.
Lucy's mind was devoid of all matriarchal memories. The ones that had shaped her life over the past twenty-two years were the recollections of another now. Her innards shuffled, sliding like boiled spaghetti as her body doubled in size. Strands of fiery red hair burst from unseen follicles and her mouth popped in a flash of blinding pain as every nerve ending flared up at once.
Her knees buckled and broke; her toes sharpened. She turned her hands inward, staring at thick, red palms in horror.
Rory dropped onto Mom, gnawing at her already-mangled shoulder. A fresh gush of blood was all it took to exterminate Lucy's hesitation. Her mouth watered, drool fell, and the appetizing smell of juicy meat forced her to her knees—immediate surrender to this ravenous appetite.
Rory lifted his snout from the notched cavity, tendrils dangling from his mouth.
With a driving snarl, Lucy licked the trim of blood around the other wolf's mouth. The older wolf reciprocated by lashing his tongue outward, catching hers with a playful yap. Her wince was reflexive, but the appetizing tease of raw meat on her tongue reinforced the unbearable need to feed.
She seized Rachel's lithe body in her arms, and locked her jaw around the soft meat of her throat. Satisfied with the wet, flavorful taste, she dropped the twitching body and the other wolf stepped closer.
He wasn't interested in the dead body, but in Lucy, grabbing and yanking her close. He licked meaty gore off her face while working an anxious mouth down the red mane across her chest and stomach.
Lucy was unable to speak. The playful nicks of Rory's mouth offset the jarring experience of her still-altering and pained body. She encouraged his greed with a contended growl as recently developed killing teeth chomped on a lump of severed flesh and muscle.
Both creatures dropped to the floor, picking at the meaty carcass sprawled before them. They ate for several minutes, picking the flesh from its bones. As Lucy's hunger pains were sated, she realized she was no longer human.
Her mind glimpsed childhood memories, rushing down this very hall for the sanctuary of her parent's room. At twelve, she'd woken to moist feelings between her legs. Blood-stained thighs. She'd been expecting her first menstruation forever, but that didn't make its appearance any less of a bombshell. That was ten years ago, and another lifetime now.
As soon as they finished feeding, Rory bent his back and prowled toward her on all fours, moving with caution so not to startle her. His tongue dangled from the corner of his massive mouth, driblets of red saliva plopped onto the mangled mass of bones below.
His eyes were loaded with anticipatory glee.
The disgusting look triggered a reaction in her, and the red-maned wolf remembered those hands when they'd been human. The way they’d rubbed her breasts one summer night not too long ago. Her wolf's mind couldn't process this, but her consciousness remained, even if it was buried in the void. It was vivid enough to put her on the run.
She turned and trotted down the winding staircase. The red wolf stumbled her way over the tiny steps, struggling to keep her paws straight on the thin treads as she went. Lucy waddled to the ground floor and leapt through the bay window overlooking the backyard.
Shards of glass marked her flesh with tiny inconsequential slices but she wasn't stopping there. Her paws hit the grass and she trotted harder. The wind cooled her face, emboldening her senses. A familiar smell danced through her but she couldn't catch it, and soon it was lost in a potpourri of other mountain scents. Behind her, Rory pounded the ground as he picked up pursuit.
New legs carried her faster than she'd ever moved on foot, and she was deeper in the forest than she'd ever gone. More surprising still was how her nose detected some of the most distinct and dominating odors from downtown: the bitter smell of Maddie's Bakery beckoned, while bloody meat from Zito's Butcher Shop tempted her with a trip to Greifsfield Center.
Lucy didn't stop moving until Rory's hunt dissolved. She skidded around a cluster of pines and nestled between them. The tree needles were overbearing on her now-sensitive nose, but she recognized the perfect cover they provided should her father come stalking. He'd be more apt to miss her here, with the powerful waft of pine helping to camouflage her scent.
She hoped.
It was her best bet. Pine prompted fleeting memories of Christmases past. Memories of life with the family, of holidays with Jack. The familiar smell in her backyard suddenly clicked.
Body spray.
A tangy
antiperspirant—a Jack Markle trademark.
The smell had been so vivid back there she might as well have been standing in his dorm room. Her heart thundered once she realized what that meant.
He’s been in my house recently. Or around it.
The hunger rescinded and, with it, returned a string of Lucy's human thoughts. Everything since New York had been nothing if not a blur, but she was awake now.
Rory might've recognized the smell as well, and abandoned pursuit in favor of eliminating the intrusive friend of his daughter.
She'd have to find him before Rory could. But not like this. Not after what she'd done to her mother. The wolf couldn't be trusted.
The sudden recollection was a shock to her system.
Oh God...it happened.
The wolf licked the roof of her mouth; the back of her tongue was stained with familiar flesh and blood.
Lucy dipped her head onto two red muscular legs, nestling in between jagged paws. A powerful breath passed into her snout and launched out with a whoosh.
Taking Mom's life had been easy and Rory's advances hadn’t been all that repulsive. She wanted to retch over that thought, disturbed that the morality of the scene had only been an afterthought compared to her desire to eat.
What chance then would Jack stand if the hunger returned while trying to rescue him?
Lucy drifted into a troubled sleep, hidden away beneath the gloom of Greifsfield forest. Its sounds soothed her angst-ridden psyche, lulling her into a false sense of security.
Howls from like-minded creatures lit up the calm mountain air, asserting their territorial dominance and continuing like a chain reaction across the clear mountain sky.
It was impossible to say when it happened, or even what exactly it was, but Lucy was suddenly hyperaware that creatures like Jack were the minority in Greifsfield.
Off in the distance, two human screams erupted in joint cries of pain before being abruptly severed.
The wolf fell asleep to this, a hellish lullaby for a demonic existence.
***
"Jesus, how long was I out for?"
Amanda woke up to find Jack peering through the fold in the drapes overlooking the parking lot.
"Not long enough," he said. "I got this."
"I'm fine. How long was I out for?"
"Almost five hours."
"Shit."
"Yeah. That happens when you don't sleep for a few days."
"It shouldn't."
"You gonna tell your body to go fuck itself next?"
Amanda stretched and then took a spot beside Jack. From this angle, the parking lot was clear.
"Your turn to get some sleep," she said.
"Nah, I'm awake."
"Doesn't matter. Try to sleep a little."
"No way. You've got me spooked. I wouldn't be able to sleep even if I wanted to."
"You'd be surprised."
Amanda grabbed her pants off the edge of the bed and slid them up over her pajama shorts. She put the flak jacket over her chest and pulled a thick sweater down over it, angry that she had to do this in the middle of summer.
She pulled her blonde hair back into a tight bun, swinging a band between her two fingers to capture the length in a ponytail. She took the MP5 in her hand and slid the mag out, examining it with a frown.
"I can't wait for tomorrow to get here. We have so little ammo left we can't afford to be any closer to Greifsfield than this."
"Are you always such a doomsayer?"
"Kept me alive this long."
"Cynicism doesn't keep someone alive."
"Really? You learn that in college?"
"I'm just saying, you act like the only reason you're so good at your job is because you keep yourself closed off from everyone else. How does that help you be a more efficient killer? You aim, you shoot. I don't see where emotion figures into things."
Why was everyone such an expert on lives that weren't their own? Must've been easier than dealing with their dysfunction. Jack's tirade hadn't been the first time someone had preached to Amanda about life's merits: love and happiness. Whatever. People always had opinions on things they knew nothing about. That what made social media so fucking popular.
"A few days ago, you tackled me to the ground because I trained a gun on something that used to be your friend..."
"He's still my friend."
"No, you idiot. That thing isn't your friend. And yet, you took me down over him. You risked my life and yours so that your friend would be spared a quick death. Why did you do that? Because your emotions got the better of you. To you it doesn't matter that that part of him, the human side, died the second he was bitten and lived. If I wasn't there, your BFF would've torn your throat out without thinking. That's where emotion gets you."
Jack couldn't look at her. He kept his eyes low to the ground.
"It's easier to keep moving forward when trivialities don't concern you," she said.
"You think friendship is a triviality?"
"Look at where it's got you. You're in a hotel with a stranger..."
"Partner."
"...stranger, willing to charge into battle. For what? For some girl you don't love, because maybe she's alive?"
Jack winced.
From the heavy look in his eyes, she'd shaken him.
"You've got a fucked up way of looking at things," he said. "You would just leave a friend to fate if our roles were reversed?"
"If our roles were reversed we both would've been dead long ago."
"No one's as tough as you, right? Whatever road you traveled to get to where you are must’ve been long and brutal. Because you're dead inside."
He wasn't wrong. Amanda had at least that much self-awareness. His comments might've been speculative, but no less accurate. Not much point in refuting them. It didn't matter in the long run anyway. There was so little time left.
The space beneath the door went completely dark, blotting the wedge of light from the parking lot. Amanda was at the window in time to catch every light out there exploding. There was only darkness left.
"DROP!" Amanda screamed and charged the floor with her stomach, tugging at Jack's shirt as she went.
The window cracked and popped as bullets pelted the interior and glass rained down. She crawled on her elbows into the four-foot gap between the beds and pushed the nearest mattress forward with her feet. It slid off the box spring as silent gunfire continued breaking through. She slithered forward and her belly slid atop the bed frame while bullets whizzed over her. With another push, the mattress was diagonal against the bed and floor. One last grunt and she had it up against the shot-out window frame. The cover wasn't ideal, but it would lessen the impact of the shots.
She grabbed the MP5, now on the floor, and aimed at the connecting door. A puff of bullets splintered the wood around the knob and popped it ajar.
If they could slip into the next room, there might be a way to surprise the attackers with counter fire.
Amanda was on her stomach again, crawling across the smoke-stained floor between the mattress barrier and the stripped bed, moving toward the door.
Jack cried out, "Oh fuck" from somewhere behind her and she turned to see him motioning toward the bathroom. An attacker wedged his way through the small window above the toilet. On his stomach, Jack pointed wobbly hands and a quivering pistol at the intruder.
"One shot kill,” Amanda called. "We can't spare more than that!"
Not a second could be sacrificed to procrastination. Amanda reached for the opened door and gave it a swing. Another wooden door, the connecting one for the next room, blocked her escape. She repositioned onto her ass and kicked it with both feet. It broke from the jamb, swinging into a darkened room. With the MP5 trained on the unknown, Amanda crouched and braced.
Jack squeezed off a single thunderous shot. No time to check whether or not it had been successful. This was a tactical nightmare.
The minimal light offered a dim view of the neighboring space, a bed
occupied by two naked bodies. No way were they sleeping after that hail of gunfire. She inched closer, finding their throats gouged, and the sheets stained with sanguineous crimson.
Beyond them, a figure moved through the thick blackness. She drew a bead on the approaching shadow, putting a squeeze on the trigger just as the pump of a shotgun went click. Buck exploded against her ankle as she dove free of the blast, her own shots unsuccessful. The gunman pushed from the shadows and towered above her. A uniformed officer, Greifsfield PD, mashed the barrel against her cheek.
"Too bad," he said through a thick accent. "I'd love to have some fun with your mouth before I blow it off you."
Amanda rolled to her left, free from the shotgun barrel, and kicked his shin. He stumbled off balance, allowing her to fire three blind shots as she scrambled upright.
His body, lifeless and bloody, passed her on the way up, smoking bullet holes marking his cheek and forehead.
Sounds of a struggle raged from the next room. Amanda turned and steadied the gun barrel. Jack was her responsibility for as long as he was with her.
The front door burst open as Amanda was leaving through the adjoining one. Two uniformed men filled the doorway, their guns blazing. Bullets pegged Amanda's chest and stinging pain throbbed. Her flak jacket repelled against penetration, but not the pain. She held her ground and, after a slight stagger, fired back. The MP5’s muzzle lit the dark, and six shots found their targets, killing one instantly. The bullets slowed the other, who continuing to march forward as Amanda squeezed the trigger again.
The gun clicked empty. Without hesitation, she flung it into the approaching face, smacking him square in the nose with a crack.
It was all the time she needed.
She lunged forward, shifting off her wounded ankle as she charged. The police officer crashed to the floor with Amanda on top him. They were on the ground then, trading blows and blood.
He was powerful—an example of why she avoided physical confrontation whenever possible. Her measly body mass was no competition for this hulking muscle head and his sledgehammer fists. He reached out and locked his hands around her arms. With a spin, he pinned her without effort, despite three bullets buried deep inside of him. His head reached up and then snapped back down, slamming into her skull at full force.
Feral Page 27
