Werewolf Moon (The Pack Trilogy Book 1)

by Chanel Smith

  Then the moon came into view at the edge of the horizon, and Petra felt a strange pull, a yearning for something she didn’t comprehend. Suddenly she fell onto her side with a heavy thump. A chorus of short barks nearby sounded suspiciously like laughter. She attempted to sit back up again, but again rolled sideways as her long tail was directly beneath her.

  “Wait just a moment. Her what was where?”

  Petra froze where she was and took stock as she stretched.

  “Four legs: check.

  “Extremely sensitive ears: check.

  “A long nose which picked up every scent for miles? Check.

  “The knowledge that life had permanently changed; was now eternal and could be enjoyed with a freedom that no woman of this time has ever had? Check.”

  It took her several tries, but Petra succeeded in standing on all four feet without pitching forward or sideways. Once she was up, she began to walk until another wolf shot past her like a star in the night. Her heart leaped. That certainly looked like fun! With one enormous bound, she landed next to the other wolf and then promptly broke into a smooth run herself. Tantalizing scents arose and faded as the three wolves shot through dense forest, swerving around trees and leaping logs with abandon. Once Petra skidded to a stop in a clearing, drawn by the enormous round moon just above the trees. She threw her head back and howled instinctively at length.

  Almost at once there was a response: the hair on Petra’s back rose with bliss. She wasn’t alone, and never would be again. She howled for a final time that night and set off running once again, wild and free.

  Born in Wallachia, one of the principalities that would become Romania, Michael Raya Pătraşcu lived with his mother and father and two other entire families in a tiny three-room house deep in the forest. His father made a meager wage collecting nuts and selling them: by eighteen, Michael was determined to leave the forest and make something of himself. He’d heard talk about Castle Bathory, some eighty kilometers from his home. Apparently a beautiful young Countess was married to the Count of Bathory who was more than twice her age. She had a reputation for enjoying the company of young warriors. Just what Michael aspired to be, coincidently.

  Perhaps the Count would train Michael to be in his personal army. He was big enough; a rare six feet and four inches tall and his dad had trained him in arms as best he could with his limited knowledge and experience. Yes, Castle Bathory held the key to Michael’s future. On his eighteenth birthday, Michael kissed his mom and set off on the long trek.

  Having lived in the woods all of his short life, Michael was unprepared for some the sights en route to the castle. He passed through several villages where he saw people so unbelievably poor that they resembled walking skeletons. How could such things be, when on the other side of the same street men in uniforms carried women in outrageously rich clothing along at a trot? And if the small group ever passed the paupers, mostly there was no reaction whatsoever from the wealthy parties. Occasionally someone would throw part of what they were eating at one of the skeletons, but that was the only interaction Michael noticed.

  Even the dogs looked more healthy than those poor souls.

  As Michael hastily left a village behind for the open road, he was forming opinions that would be with him all of his life—a life that would prove to be a lot longer than he or his family could ever have imagined.

  Finally Michael arrived at Castle Bathory, but felt too filthy to present himself. He needed a bath at the very least. Having passed a stream, he turned around and went back.

  Somewhat cleaner but still in the same worn clothing he’d had for years, Michael passed through the castle gate and was immediately challenged.

  “Name!”

  “Occupation!”

  “Reason for visiting Bathory!”

  Evidently his answers weren’t pleasing, as the gate-keeper held his palm out in the universal ‘stop’ movement: “Denied! Next.”

  Michael dropped his head and moved back to watch how others got through. It was easy enough, he learned: offer enough money and you were in.

  People dressed worse than he was offered coins and were passed through, to Michael’s distress. How was he ever supposed to make his own way if he couldn’t get his foot in the door?

  In despair, he shook his head and dropped it into his large hands.

  “You, there. What’s your name?” A female voice spoke.

  Michael pulled his head upright and there she was: the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Ever even imagined. She had long, pale hair freshly brushed. A long dress with familiar symbols painted down one side. At one time he’d had to memorize those symbols but it had been years ago. He doubted if he could—

  “Read me the first three of these, Michael,” the woman demanded in her light, wealthy sounding voice.

  Michael gulped in absolute panic. Obediently he stared at the top of the line of symbols, and the first one suddenly made sense: it looked like a pair of ears glued together. Hearing. That’s what it meant. The second one, though—try as he might, all Michael saw there were, well, nothing he’d tell a lady about. Not that he was right! He had no recollection of Dad ever teaching him about a symbol that meant THAT. The third one was once again obvious. A fist held in the air: off to war.

  Great. He had one and three but the second one eluded him. Before he could lose his courage, he blurted that out to the woman. To his surprise, she demanded to know what he thought that second symbol meant.

  “Nothing I’d ever tell a, uh, lady,” the young man stammered.

  The blonde woman slowly grinned. “Whoever said I was a lady? Go on, give it a guess.”

  Michael felt an incredible heat rising in his cheeks as he stared at that second symbol in sheer desperation.

  “Not a penis,” he mumbled as he tried to focus harder. “Not a damn penis. NOT a pen—”

  “That’s precisely what it is,” the light voice broke into his thoughts. “It’s the symbol for starting a family.”

  “Makes sense,” Michael mumbled. “Should have guessed that.”

  “You’re not the best reader, but maybe you’re strong and fast? Make a good warrior?” the woman said with a smile.

  Michael brightened. “Yes Doamnă. That’s just why I came. I can hit anything at 200 stânjen with a bow and arrow, and at half that with a spear. Oh and I can climb a tree faster than anybody I know.”

  It was the woman’s turn to choke back a laugh.

  “Know what? I believe I’d like a demo of that last talent.” She looked around and pointed at a wide white oak tree. “Can you climb that one?”

  Michael’s eyes followed her gaze. White oaks had luxurious, thick leaves covering branches that looked deceptively wide and strong. From past experience, Michael knew that many branches started out thick, then swiftly narrowed to a width that wouldn’t support a fat raccoon. Yet, this was a challenge.

  “Yes, doamnă!”

  “Right, then. One, two, three. GO!”

  Michael took off at a dead run. As he reached the oak, his superior height allowed him to make a massive leap upward where he just caught a branch no other man could have reached without climbing to it. From that branch, he climbed rapidly upward and reached the top in seconds to open delight and clapping from the woman below. Instantly he headed back down, aware that the faster he went, the less pressure he’d apply to these thin branches.

  “You’ll do, Michael. You’ll do!”

  And that is how Michael found himself being regularly beaten black and blue by a squadron of lads a year ahead of him in training. However, that meant nothing to Michael considering what else he was learning: the finer points of that second symbol, to his own disbelief.

  The lady turned out to be the Countess Bathory herself! After Michael had trained for two weeks, she met him as he walked to a nearby lake for a bath.

  “Bet that water is cold this time of year,” she remarked.

  “Yes, doamnă Bathory,” he responded nervously. />
  “Don’t call me that! My name is Liz,” she told him. “Come on. I know where there’s a much warmer place to bathe.”

  She’d led him to a remote castle entry point, then down so many halls that he’d been instantly lost. He was so busy studying his surroundings that it didn’t matter.

  The statues alone were so different from anything he’d imagined in such a castle. Naked people, mostly. Why have statues of something you see all the time? Rich people were a mystery, he concluded.

  He came to a room with an enormous tub of water being heated by a series of small fires, each tended by a child. His mouth dropped. Who in the world was rich enough to live like this! All of that work: the wood brought in, fires started, water hauled—just so rich people could scrub their arses. He learned quickly enough that there were other uses for heated water. Elizabet asked him to step up on the platform and look into the tub as there was, “Something interesting he should see.”

  Dutifully he’d climbed the ladder and arrived next to her. Looking down into the mist coming off the heated water, he said, “I can’t see a thing.”

  Next thing he knew, she gave him a massive shove and he landed butt first into truly hot water. She roared with laughter.

  “See well enough now?” she asked as she’d dropped her robe and stepped in after him, stark naked.

  For the first time in his life, Michael was truly speechless—a state he was to become familiar with during his time in Bathory Castle.

  They romped for hours. He learned what a mouth on his cock felt like (sheer heaven,) and what a twat tasted like (not bad, but nothing like heaven.) He enjoyed his first lengthy kiss and thought he’d die from the pleasure of it, and finally she allowed him to penetrate her.

  Then he knew he’d die from the pleasure of it.

  He learned through his own growing exhaustion that Countess Elizabet Bathory was just getting started. Michael went from being a virgin to experiencing three rapid orgasms within a few short hours; Michael didn’t know whether he was coming or going.

  Once he saw what Elizabet kept in a nearby box, he thought he might be going— anywhere, as long as it was away from what lay inside.

  “Michael, I feel like playing with a toy,” she began.

  “I can barely keep my eyes open,” he mumbled. In all honesty he held his eyes tightly close through both exhaustion and fear; in hopes he could avoid what was coming next. He wasn’t at all sure he could live through another orgasm. His heart pounded nearly out of his chest while the Countess clawed hell out of his back. This sex business—there was more to it than met the eye, at least with royalty. He hoped that maybe normal people fucked like horses and cows: a straight-up bang and done.

  “Oh this will wake you up, I promise,” she said and he heard a hint of laughter behind it.

  In time he’d learn to dread that not-quite-a-laugh.

  “Reach over and hand me that box, will you?” she asked, pointing at a burnished wood box on a bench near his left hand.

  He did as requested, and the weight of the thing actually did wake him a bit out of sheer curiosity. However, then she reached in and withdrew a familiar yet bizarre item and his curiosity vanished as if it had never existed. The sight of the object itself filled him instead with an undefined dread. It was brown and gnarled; about the size of a fennel root, but not that well proportioned. He had no idea what kind of a plant it was, or what it could be used for. He only knew that it so closely resembled a well known poisonous root: mandrake. But why would Elizabet have mandrake root in her rooms?

  She held it out to him, and now he saw that the plant in her delicate white hand, though it resembled the poison, wasn’t mandrake at all. It was shriveled and had several thin, stringy tendrils hanging from it.

  “What is it, Liz?”

  She’d obviously seen the question on his face, “Wondering what such a thing is used for, are you?”

  “Yes doa- uh, Liz,” he managed to respond. Once again he heard that little non-laugh and he was beginning to comprehend that he didn’t want to hear it.

  “Come to me and lay in my lap,” she commanded.

  He did as requested, looking up at her with bewildered blue eyes. Again she did that non-laugh, “Open your mouth, you idiot.”

  Again he followed her instruction; he felt he had little other choice. Immediately he felt more naked than he ever had before and worse was to come.

  She took a small paring knife from the table beside her, and for the life of him couldn’t figure out what on earth she was doing that required a knife. Maybe it was a rich person’s ritual?

  In the next second he felt something cold and hard poking at his lips, he opened his mouth, and then...

  “CHRISTOS!” he shrieked as he bit down on the piece of bitter herb in his mouth. He’d never tasted anything like that nor even known it existed.

  “Shut up you fool,” she hissed like an adder from the woods.

  “Oh dear God. What is it? It tastes horrible,” he cried frantically and spat onto the ground until the awful taste was gone.

  “It’s a Chinese potion called ginseng. It’s to invigorate you and awaken the senses,” Elizabet chided. She paused, taking in his ridiculous reaction. Then her expression changed rapidly. “Get the hell out. You might have awakened the Count, you fool. Get your clothes and go.”

  When he didn’t move with shock, she shrieked, “NOW! Go!”

  Michael was out of that water and gone like a shot. He was still running when he hit the woods, still stark naked with his clothes over his shoulders.

  “Not your night tonight,” a voice came out of the darkness. “Poor bastard. Let me help you.”

  It was one of the guys he’d been training with, and for the first time they weren’t laughing at him.

  Fredo, the kid who’d spoken, helped Michael to lay on his side on his pallet. No one was snoring or farting, a sign that all the guys were awake. Michael was horrified that they probably all knew exactly what he’d undergone.

  “Yeah, a few of us have been there,” Fredo said as if he’d heard Michael’s thoughts. “Looks like you’re the lucky favorite for a while,” he paused. “Rest of us will do what we can to help.”

  Michael forced himself to remain at the castle for years, so he might complete his training. By then, he was running the regiment, a development that didn’t amaze anyone. He was still seeing the Countess on a regular basis. He’d managed to establish boundaries such as anything involving the ingesting of mind or body altering substances was out of bounds; much to the Countess’s disappointment.

  To make up for it, he’d invented several games which were brand new to the jaded Countess.

  “Elizabet, can you get two servants up here? I have an idea for a really fun game,” he began.

  Puzzled, she rang for two women as he’d asked. He refused to say anything until they arrived, although he did also request a pair of sharp needles. He couldn’t help but notice Elizabet’s pupils widen at hearing needles. Yes, this would work: it would take her attention off herbs and drugs. It had to. And he’d make sure the girls were well-compensated.

  The two kitchen girls appeared, along with the two needles; the game was ready.

  Michael explained, “Now this is easy. Each of us pokes a needle into the girl we think can withstand pain for the longest time. Last girl standing is the winner!”

  Elizabet’s face lit up like an early sunrise.

  “Michael, you’re a genius. I get to pick first. Ladies first,” she winked at him seductively, she was turned on by his control of her, of understanding her, manipulating her, “…and I pick...” she stared at both girls. Michael could see wheels turning in her mind. Finally she spoke again, “I pick the brown-haired girl. Brunettes have thicker skin than blondes, you know,” she giggled a little with that non-laugh Michael had come to fear and hate.

  Michael gave both girls a look of pure lament when the countess’s face was turned away, but there was nothing he could do but go along.<
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  “On the count of three,” Elizabet commanded, excitement causing her voice to shake, “One, two, three!”

  There was complete silence for a moment, then a muffled groan and a crash that seemed to happen at the exact same moment.

  “You fool!” the Countess raged at the girl she’d been poking.

  “You got your shitty peasant blood all over my arm. Why, I should—” her voice suddenly cut off, and Michael saw that she was staring at her own arm with intense fascination.

  “My god, look at the skin where that young bitch bled on it. Look, Michael—it’s a miracle.”

  “You,” she said to the terrified young girl, “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen, doamnă,” the girl stuttered.

  “You a virgin, per chance?” Elizabet said.

  “Y-y-yes, of course,” the girl responded, “Im not yet married.”

  “That’s the answer to aging!” Elizabet screamed, bits of saliva flying from her lips, eyes gleaming.

  “Look at my arm closely! Wherever her blood hit my skin has become pure, beautiful, youthful!” She grinned widely, “Michael, I’m going to be young forever. You mark my words.”

  Indeed Michael never forgot that moment, as it was the spark that inspired a chain of atrocities that would become synonymous with the name ‘Elizabet Bathory’ until the end of time.

  He witnessed the Countess’ descent into madness. At first she’d use only drops of blood, but soon her blood thirst began to rise. After several years, she was bleeding girls to death, one per day. Michael’s training was almost complete five years later, and by then Elizabet demanded two girls every few hours... Michael’s training finally ended; he had reached his mental breaking point at the same moment. With nary a glance over his shoulder, the young warrior left Castle Bathory forever.

  Michael heard rumor of a major conflict in Transylvania and headed in that direction. He crossed Walachia and Moldavia to reach the state. There were sights along the way left him shaken to his core. He had lived like a veritable king while these people had been dying, slowly from of extreme poverty. This was another lesson that would stay with him forever.