Beast Out Of Hell

by Camilla Ochlan

  "He's always pissed," Jamie huffed. She flopped onto her belly and peered over the edge at Reaper lying on the floor, hastily putting on his jeans. "A few more minutes won't matter." She reached down and traced the outline of the wolf skull tattooed on his chest, drawing her finger from the Hell Hound logo down his abs to the open fly of his jeans.

  Reaper's body quivered, and for a moment he forgot his Alpha's call. He growled low and tossed Jamie onto her back. She squealed with delight, pushing his jeans down and wrapping her legs around his waist. He nipped at her neck, her breasts as he slid inside her.

  Another, more agitated bellow howled from the dense forest skirting Granny's ranch and set off the dogs kenneled in the barn.

  I gotta get outta here.

  Reaper pulled away from Jamie.

  "Reaper," Jamie whined. "Please. You can't go now. We need to talk."

  "Later, baby." Reaper buttoned his fly.

  "But, I have something to tell—"

  "Babe, I'm sorry." He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "I can't risk him finding me here. Risk you—"

  "Granny will be back today. You can stay here. You don't have to go," Jamie pleaded.

  "It's too dangerous," Reaper replied. "You don't know Zeke. If he found out about you—"

  "Granny will shoot him in the head before he touches me or you," she snarled, her eyes flashing bright amber.

  "God, I love you." Reaper chuckled as he tugged on his white tee. He reached down and took Jamie's face in his hands. "I promise, we'll go far away. Just the two of us. We'll be free. Okay?"

  Jamie blinked back tears and nodded. "Okay."

  Reaper smiled, kissed her gently and raced out of the house.

  As soon as he'd put a couple miles distance between Granny's ranch and himself, Reaper slowed to a jog. Instead of crossing the western woods to his motorcycle club's camp, he had decided to hike north along Old Railroad Grade toward Oz. Tucked high above Broglie, the secluded artist commune was nearly hidden by the forest.

  Reaper had left his chopper overnight at Morey's Metalworks. He'd planned on finishing some custom upgrades with the shop owner.

  Morey was an eccentric hippie who smoked too much pot and liked to weld large sheets of metal into characters from his favorite movies — often at the same time. His prize sculpture was a larger-than-life Tin Man he called "Tiny Tin," which he'd created when he first came to Broglie back in the seventies. Tiny Tin still stood in the center of Oz holding a This Ain't Kansas sign.

  The first time Reaper had brought his bike to Morey, he'd asked the man what he meant by the sign. Morey had taken a long drag on his joint and said, even as he'd held his breath, "Ain't it obvious, kid? I'm telling 'the Man' to fuck off." Then he'd blown out ringlets of sweet smoke and offered the joint to Reaper.

  Reaper had instantly liked the crazy old man. And though he'd known that the pot wouldn't have an effect on him, he had accepted the joint and had taken a quick drag anyway. For Reaper, taking a hit had been less about the drugs and more about making a friend. At least that's how he'd justified smoking out that day.

  Haven't touched it since. Jamie would kill me if I did.

  Reaper smiled to himself. His mate was all that he needed now. She was his drug of choice.

  Fuck! Can't let Zeke find out about Jamie. Gotta get away. Away from that psycho Were cult...

  Reaper's guts boiled with rage. He clamped down on the urge to beast out.

  Chill. Get the bike, and it's adios Hell Hounds.

  Reaper arrived outside Oz just as the rain stopped. His grey leather kicks squished in the mud as he walked through the still-sleeping commune.

  Patty's Herbal Apothecary was dark. Open barrels collected water as it dripped off the store's rooftop. Faint ribbons of smoke floated upward from the chimney of the candle shop — None of Your Beeswax.

  Sugree's up early.

  A spattering of raindrops coated Tiny Tin, sparkling like diamonds as the sun broke through the clouds. The little village looked magical, an imaginary land straight out of a fairytale.

  Reaper crossed the commons to Morey's. The mildewy-compost smell — rotten eggshells mixed with wet leaves — wafted through the air.

  "Gah." He wrinkled his nose as he passed the communal vegetable garden.

  With its weathered wood siding, corrugated roof pitched on one side, and its rusted Morey's Metalworks sign, the shop looked more like a broken-down hermit shack than the largest, most profitable business in Broglie. Reaper didn't think the profits came from Morey's art so much as from the weed he grew a few hundred feet behind the shop.

  Surprised Zeke isn't all over Morey's pot business. Guess he's too distracted with this Were drug shit.

  Reaper spotted Morey through the side door slid halfway open. A joint wedged between his thick fingers, the old hippie crouched next to Reaper's chopper and cranked on a socket wrench as he attached new chrome pipes to the bike.

  Sweet! When we get done, my girl's gonna roar.

  Reaper's chopper was his prize possession. His only possession. And for the past year, he'd been painstakingly restoring it.

  After saving his life, Zeke had taken Reaper to a junkyard outside of Vacaville. The Hell Hound Alpha had insisted that Reaper find a bike. "You gotta ride if you wanna be in this motorcycle club, boy," Zeke had said. "The MC's your life now...Or you can fuck off. Take your chances with those cow town assholes back there."

  Out of options, Reaper had rummaged through mounds of twisted metal and hollowed out frames until he'd found the chopper sandwiched between two towers of flattened cars, rusty and dinged up.

  The most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

  He'd learned to ride quickly. Learned he loved the freedom of the open road. Learned he loved the high he felt as he blasted through the wind. Craved it. Going faster and faster. He obsessed over the bike, learned every mechanical detail. Now, he kept all of the Hell Hound bikes humming.

  "Looking good," Reaper said and shoved the sliding door wider.

  "Yeah, coming along," Morey replied and took a drag.

  "Kinda early." Reaper nodded to the marijuana.

  "Some people drink coffee…" He offered Reaper a hit.

  "Nah. I'm good."

  "Oh, right," Morey said. "Sorry, I forgot."

  "It's all good." Reaper picked up a rag from Morey's tool cart, walked to the front of the bike and began polishing the handlebars.

  Over beers one night, Reaper had told Morey about his sweet tooth for psychedelic pharmaceuticals. How he couldn't get high enough. How he'd stolen from his parents, stolen cars, broken into houses — all to feed his drug addiction. By the time he was seventeen, he'd gotten kicked out of school and thrown in juvenile detention.

  Lost a whole year of my life. Forced into continuation school. Went cold turkey. Didn't stick. Then K-Day happened…Now no drug works.

  The pathetic thought made Reaper sick to his stomach.

  Jamie's all I need now.

  "You okay, kid?" Morey's voice drifted into Reaper's consciousness.

  "Huh?"

  Morey arched an eyebrow. "Better stop or you're gonna polish the chrome right off."

  Reaper looked at the gleaming handlebars. "Oh, shit."

  "No worries." Morey rose with a groan. He twisted from side to side; Reaper heard the man's spine crack. "I was asking if you came from Granny's. You with Jamie?"

  Reaper nodded.

  "Be careful there, son." Morey tossed the wrench back in his cart. "Granny will have your head if you don't do right by that girl."

  "Oh, I know." Reaper chuckled. "That's why I'm here."

  "Still planning on splitting?" Morey sucked in another long drag of his joint.

  Reaper nodded again.

  "Well," Morey exhaled, "the upgrades are done." He scratched his chin and walked around the chopper. "Just needs the new seat for Jamie."

  "Where is it?" Reaper scanned the workshop.
"Let's put it on."

  "Ain't arrived yet."

  "Shit," Reaper growled.

  "Now, don't worry," Morey said, snuffing out his roach between his fingers and stuffing it in his pocket. "It'll be here in a day or two."

  "Might not have a day or two," Reaper mumbled and gripped the handlebars, flicking the kickstand up with his foot.

  Looks like Jamie's riding and I'm running. Good thing I taught her how.

  "Son." Morey's voice hardened. "You're safe here." His eyes narrowed. "You understand? This town won't let that bastard hurt you…or Jamie. You can stay…" He placed a calloused hand on Reaper's shoulder.

  Reaper had never come out and directly told Morey what he was. That he was a Werebeast. Morey just knew.

  Probably knows about Jamie too.

  The thought sent a shiver down Reaper's spine. But Morey had never said a word about either of them, and for that, Reaper was grateful.

  Sure Broglie's Hound friendly. Even took in a few Ferals. But for Werebeasts, it's shoot first ask questions later. Sacramento taught me that.

  From the woods, another howl — angry and threatening — demanded Reaper return to camp.

  Zeke's gonna kick my ass.

  "I gotta go." Reaper pushed his chopper outside and hopped on.

  "Just think about it," Morey said over the rumble of the bike's engine.

  Reaper cranked on the throttle, gave his friend a quick nod and roared out of Oz toward the Hell Hounds.

  Chapter 3

  Broglie

  Granny's Ranch

  Right now

  Xochi blew out an irritated sigh and steadied her gun.

  Granny, dressed in a blue velour jogging suit, leaned on her three-footed cane while aiming her Smith & Wesson at Lucy's head.

  Hola, Clint. You big, shiny gun, you.

  The naked young man also faced Lucy. "Like what you see, Werewolf Whisperer?" he asked with a dirty laugh. "Pointing a gun in my face get you off?"

  Lucy huffed, annoyed.

  "Callete, pendejo," Xochitl warned, "or Lucy might pull the trigger."

  "Drop it," Granny repeated slowly, Clint surprisingly steady in her hand. "Both of you girls." She glared at them through her thick, round glasses.

  Granny's dogs, the white poodle, the collie, the golden retriever from the Santa commercial and a couple of unfamiliar terriers, stood in a perfect line on either side of the old lady, like a miniature furry army ready to attack. A husky Xochi hadn't seen before wagged its tail and stared at the young man longingly.

  That dog likes the little turd.

  "Granny, get back!" Lucy urged, ignoring the warning. "That boy's a Werebeast."

  "Well, holy hell. I know." Granny sounded cranky. "That's why I brought you two boneheads here!" She shook her close-cropped purplish curls.

  "Granny!" the blond girl started to get out of the hot tub, then thought better of it. "Did you bring The Werewolf Whisperer here to kill Reaper?"

  Reaper? Really?

  "Kill?" Granny barked out.

  The dogs howled and snarled, accepting her word as their command.

  "No!" Granny yelled at them to stop. "Sit. Down. Settle."

  The six canines plopped down immediately and sat still as statues.

  "Lucy Lowell, why are you still aiming your gun at my granddaughter and her naked boyfriend?" Granny shrilled, clearly stressed out. "And you, young man, why are you naked in my hot tub?"

  Reaper fumbled for an explanation.

  "¡Híjole!" Xochi hissed. "Don't answer that."

  Lucy shifted her body toward Granny, gun still on Reaper and the blond girl. "What's going on, Granny?" she asked sharply.

  "I need your help with this boy Haywood—"

  "Reaper!" the young man corrected automatically.

  "I'd go by Reaper too." Xochi snickered.

  "Don't you get on my last nerve, boy," Granny shushed him. "Or I will have Lucy and Xochi take you behind the barn and shoot you in the head!"

  "Granny!" Hot Tub Girl yelled out.

  "Now relax, Jamie," Granny said more kindly. "And put some clothes on. The girls don't want to see either one of your nakedness." She shifted closer to Lucy. "Isn't that right?"

  Xochi almost laughed out loud at the deeply uncomfortable look on Lucy's face.

  Her face is turning as red as her hair. Priceless.

  Ignoring Lucy's obvious discomfort, the girl — Jamie — scrambled up onto the redwood deck and grabbed the white T-shirt and the jeans Xochi had thrown down. Jamie dragged the tee over her head and yanked it down. The shirt's hem draped mid-thigh.

  "We asked you for help!" Jamie shouted at Granny, ignoring the drawn guns. "You said you were meeting The Werewolf Whisperer in The City. You said she'd help us." Jamie threw an angry teenage look at both Lucy and Xochi.

  Easy, chica.

  "Jamie, honey," Granny said, sounding genuinely upset. "All I want is for you to be safe. And if you love the boy, then I want him to be safe too."

  "Your granddaughter's boyfriend is a Werebeast..." Xochi said, searching. "There isn't much we can—"

  "The girl is too," Lucy interrupted in a toneless voice.

  "You sure about that, Luce?" Xochi gestured to the hot tub. "'Cause, they're not acting like normal Werebeasts."

  Lucy dropped her Beretta at her side. "She is. Isn't she, Granny?"

  "Let's all just go inside and talk," Granny responded. "Lucy and Xochi, help me get the groceries. Put your pants on...Haywood."

  "Rea—"

  Jamie slugged him in the shoulder as she handed him his jeans.

  "Not shy, are you?" she snapped at Reaper under her breath. "I was starting to think you liked flaunting your junk in front of everybody. They were all staring."

  Lucy turned her back sharply, and held out her hand to the dogs.

  Good, Lucy. Go to your happy place. Hide with the perros.

  "Staring? Were they?" the boy said and smiled broadly. "Hadn't noticed." He kissed the tip of Jamie's nose and slid on his jeans.

  Xochi made a retching sound and headed over to give Granny a hug.

  They'd all helped stow the groceries while Granny brewed coffee and started in on making a caramel apple pie. The dogs had slurped up all of the water from their bowls and curled up contently while chewing on giant rawhides on the kitchen's hardwood floor. Jamie had taken Lucy to get the boarding dogs still crated in the van.

  "It's just three German shepherds," Jamie had said casually. "They belong to some carnies who have their permanent camp near Broglie."

  "Those are some very aggressive guard dogs," Granny had called after them. "Watch out."

  At Granny's request, Xochi had started spreading peanut butter on square pieces of toasted white bread. "Peanut butter and bacon sandwiches? Are you sure about this, Granny?" she asked, but Granny just smiled and busied herself with the pan and the bacon.

  "Granny's PB&Bs are like crack," Reaper said with enthusiasm. "Don't knock it 'til you try it."

  His slight hesitation before saying the word crack made an indelible impression on Xochi.

  Junkie.

  She felt sad for the boy.

  Junkie Werebeast. This can't end well.

  Xochitl studied the young man while his attention wandered out the large picture window. Transfixed, he watched Jamie walk away as if trying to memorize her every curve and line. The boy didn't say anything, but Xochi could read his thoughts loud and clear as he stared after his girl.

  Xochitl followed his line of sight.

  Walking next to the much taller Lucy, Jamie seemed tiny and delicate.

  Almost too thin. Shit, is she a junkie too? Ex-junkie?

  Xochi made a mental note to ask Granny at a more appropriate time.

  Jamie had traded Reaper's plain white tee for a fringed crochet halter-top that tied in the back, exposing her bony frame and a black rose vine tattoo that climbed from the small of her back up to he
r right shoulder blade and down her arm. Jamie's white blond hair gleamed in the sunlight.

  Reaper shifted in his chair and gulped down a large swallow from his cup of coffee.

  Ahh, youth. Can't remember the last time I was that hot for someone.

  Xochi's eyes absentmindedly roamed over the puppy magnets attached to Granny's refrigerator.

  So many perros.

  A goldenrod flyer attached by an I like big dogs, and I cannot lie paw print magnet caught her eye.

  "Were's the emergency?" Xochitl read out loud. "Cheesy." She scanned over the emergency flyer's plan of action and phone tree instructions. "Rescue. Alert. Hide?...RAH!" She growled to herself.

  She looked to Granny who was checking on the enormous pie baking in the oven.

  Xochi's stomach rumbled.

  "We like to be prepared," Granny said and hobbled back to the stovetop. "Broglie has quite a few Hounds and Ferals..."

  Xochi stole a glance in Reaper's direction.

  "Family members," Granny said insistently. "Marin County sheriff conducted a few raids in the beginning. Brought in the Catchers."

  Xochi shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  "Don't want that happening again," Granny continued. "You know the old saying... 'First they came'... So, I organized the Broglie folk. We made a plan. If the Catchers come back, we rescue our own Weres first, then alert the community with the phone tree, then hide in our designated location until the threat is over."

  "What if the Weres are the threat?"

  "Well, our resident carnie people aren't your typical odd ducks. They're strong, resilient folk. And they know how to handle animals. Xanthippe and Costin Begu are rehearsing a new rescue Hounds act right now."

  "Rescue Hounds?" Xochi's mind snapped to the image of little elf-clad Hounds running down the streets of San Francisco. "What rescue Hounds?"

  "I wasn't going to let that irresponsible director hand them over to the Catchers."

  "Granny!"

  "Someone had to take care of those poor creatures," Granny said, unrepentant. "That's why I gave them to the Begu family. And that's why I'm kenneling their dogs—" Granny broke off and dropped her spatula into the pan of sizzling bacon. "I didn't put the muzzles on those dogs!" she cried out.