Raised by Wolves

by Bridget Essex

  The poet is beginning a poem now that she entitled “What Big Eyes You Have.” I guess that Loren knows this poem, because she reaches out in the dark of the theater, and she clasps my hand, gripping it fiercely, so fiercely that the nails of her fingers mark me with tiny, perfect crescent moons.

  The woman on the stage casts a glance around at the audience, like they're co-conspirators in the magic she's about to create.

  “Once, long ago,” she begins, whispering the words into the microphone, just like you might whisper a word into a lover's ear, “there was a wolf in the wood. He was long and lean and lank and gray as death. He was a friend of mine.”

  The way she says “friend” indicates something else entirely. This isn't a “friend” she's talking about but a lover. Through the course of the poem, as the poet sits there and eventually stands, breathing words like soft whispers into the microphone, it's revealed that the wolf in the poem isn't actually a wolf at all...but a werewolf.

  I clear my throat a little, shifting in my seat as the poet goes on, explaining that the werewolf “friend” transforms into the shape of a man on the new moon, seeking out and finding the narrator of the poem—the poet, I'm assuming. He finds her, and he makes love to her because she asks him to.

  The four dancers have switched their black half-masks to wolf masks, and at this point, the wolf-masked people are circling the poet like a pack of wolves circles prey, their noses down toward the floor, their backs hunched as they prowl around her. The poet's head is thrown back as she murmurs the words of the poem into the microphone, but other than that, all is hushed and still in the auditorium. My heart is pounding, and it's in my throat as I watch the scene on stage.

  Does the poet really have a werewolf “friend”? Or is this all one big piece of art? It's hard for me to tell.

  She keeps talking, and I try to concentrate on her words again. About how, after the poet and the werewolf make love, he transforms from his human shape back into that of a wolf again, howling at the darkness of the sky, throwing his head back and yelling to the stars. And then he races off into the woods, leaving her. She knew he had to leave, that he had to be free, that he could not be contained by a love like hers. That to love him was to set him free.

  I shift in my seat uncomfortably at the end of the poem, as the stage turns dark, as the poet hangs her head and the curtains close. I can only assume the show is over. But when I glance sidelong at Loren, I'm surprised at how raptly she's still staring at the stage, her eyes wide, her breath coming fast in her chest. Loren blinks, as if she's waking up from a spell, and she glances sidelong at me now, her eyes shining.

  “She's incredible, isn't she? It was just... It was just so incredible,” she breathes.

  “What was?” I ask her, because I don't think she's talking about the poet herself anymore. And I'm right.

  “The poem,” Loren whispers, voice low, as if she's saying a prayer. She puts her hand up to her flushed face and takes a deep breath. “That...freedom. That wildness. Of being with a wolf... It's magical. So magical,” she whispers again, her eyes shining even brighter as she looks at me.

  I clear my throat again, lifting my chin as I try to hide my frown. “It's tragic, though. They can't... They can't be together,” I tell her, as if it were obvious. Although maybe it was just obvious to me, the werewolf.

  Loren's face takes on a firm resolve, and she's shaking her head, too. “They could be together. They could try,” she says, glancing at the stage again as the curtain peels back and the audience erupts into applause. The poet steps forward, a wide grin on her face, to take a bow.

  Loren and I both stand to applaud the poet, along with the rest of the audience, but I don't really hear the raucous cheers, don't really pay attention to anything else but Loren's smile as she holds her hands high, clapping and yelling, “Brava!”

  Against my better judgment, I realize that I'm allowing myself to feel hopeful at Loren's words. They could try, she'd said, and she'd said it like she meant it.

  I reach across the space between us, and I scoop up Loren's hand in my own. There are other poets after this one, and other readings, but I don't let go of Loren's hand until it's all over.

  Chapter 6: A Wolf and a Woman

  There's a little dive bar around the corner from the Lyceum that Loren swears has good food, so after the poetry reading lets out, that's where we go to get our drink and burgers on.

  I'm famished. The problem is werewolf metabolism is much different than human metabolism. Well, not crazy different, but we can certainly eat a lot more than, say, the average human being. I want to order ten burgers but realize that might look a little funny to my date, so I only order two double burgers with extra fries. Loren gives me a grin as she hands the menu back to the waitress and informs her she'll have a veggie burger and a beer. And then it's just the two of us, sitting across from each other, electricity darting back and forth as if we're two live wires.

  I know Loren can feel it, too. She's leaning toward me, her breasts sitting on top of her hands as she gives me a wicked little grin. Her dress is low-cut, and those gorgeous curves draw my eyes, but there's actually something stronger pulling my gaze—eye contact with her. I love holding Loren's gaze; her bright green eyes are so intense.

  She smiles at me, and I can hear her blood thundering through her veins as she toes her foot forward, snaking her foot in its strappy heel around my ankle as she puts her head to her side with a wry grin.

  “So I read A Lesbian Werewolf in London,” I tell her then, producing my own grin, and she stops playing footsie with me under the table, sitting up straight, her eyes wide.

  “Already?” she asks, astonished, but then she narrows her eyes again, puts on a seductive little smile. “Maybe you are a speed reader,” she tells me, voice lowering.

  I chuckle as I watch her smile, as I watch her blonde curls fall over her shoulder, softness brushing across the bare skin of her arm. “No,” I tell her, my voice a growl as I raise a single brow. “I just got hooked, I guess.”

  “You really enjoyed it?”

  “I really did,” I tell her, and I mean it.

  Loren leans back a little then and gives a soft, fluttery sigh. “Wasn't the climax romantic? Yolanda giving up her humanity for love...”

  I stiffen a little at that, and then I'm talking before I'm thinking: “Yeah, but she didn't have to give it up.”

  “No,” says Loren, tapping her red-painted nail on the counter. “That's the best part. She chose to. Which makes it even more romantic. She just wanted to be able to share everything with Polly—including her werewolfism.” She straightens a little, giving me a dazzling grin. “Werewolfism—is that a word?”

  I'm laughing, in spite of myself. “Yeah. Though I've always liked werewolfery.”

  But Loren doesn't laugh as she sizes me up from across the table, her flashing eyes narrowing a little. “Yeah, that does sound better,” she tells me, then eyes me thoughtfully. “So which team are you on?”

  I blink. “Which team?”

  Loren smiles. “Werewolves or vampires?”

  I stare at her, my breath caught in my throat, because for a panicked moment, I'm thinking she's figured me out. I'm thinking she knows exactly what I am.

  But then that moment passes, because she's chuckling, shaking her head, her blonde curls tossed over her shoulder again. “I mean, I went through a vampire phase in high school—didn't we all?—but now that I'm older and wiser, give me a good, earthy werewolf story any day over those angst-ridden vampire books.”

  I stare at her, and I clear my throat, but I can't think of anything to say. My heartbeat is still roaring through me. That was a close one.

  “Oh, God,” she murmurs, frowning. “Have I offended you? Do you have a thing for vampire novels?”

  I'm laughing a short, hard bark of a laugh before I manage to clamp my jaw shut. “Um, no,” I tell her a bit forcefully. “I've...I've never read one.”

  “So you prefer w
erewolves, too?” she asks me, her head to the side.

  “Um...yeah,” I manage. “By default. Actually, I'm not a big reader,” I tell her quickly, desperate to get off this topic. “I used to be, but...” I trail off.

  “But what?”

  “I discovered girls?” I give her one of my most charming grins and hope she takes the bait.

  And she does. All talk of werewolves (and vampires, I guess) ends as Loren leans forward a little, reaching across the space between us to trail her fingertip over the back of my hand that's flat against the tabletop. “There are a lot of girls in books, you know,” she tells me, voice soft and utterly seductive. “Girls like us,” Loren says, eyes glittering.

  I bite my lip. I can't help thinking, Not quite like me...

  “Maybe we could read together sometime,” Loren tells me, getting animated, her eyes bright as she bounces a little in her seat. “Or—oh! Oh! I could read to you.” She makes an adorable face, her nose wrinkled. “I sound like a first-class nerd, don't I?”

  “Yeah,” I tell her with a laugh, unable to remove my eyes from her. “But it's really cute. And I'd love to be read to—provided my reader had your voice.” I lean forward a little, drag my gaze away from her eyes. “Your lips...” I lean all the way across the table, going in for a kiss.

  Loren's eyes are sparkling. “Luckily, I meet those qualifications. Once we chow down on our food, wanna get out of here? Get some...reading done?”

  Our mouths meet, and I kiss her long and slow and steady, the heat of her skin, of her mouth, sending a thrill through me that's bright and strong and true. “I hope it's a long, long book...” I growl with delight.

  ---

  We make it back to her apartment—barely—before the heat of her skin, the rushing of her blood, the desire blossoming through her undoes me. Her hands are shaking as she turns her key in the lock, and by the time she's stepping through the door, with me right behind her, she already has the door shut, already has me pinned against it, already has her mouth over mine, kissing me with all the fierceness of a...wolf.

  I chuckle a low, throaty laugh as she trails hot kisses down my jaw, undoing the buttons of my shirt so fast that I can hear the fabric squeak in protest.

  “Hey, who's seducing who?” I ask her, wrapping my fingers around her arms. She's kneeling down in front of me already, and when she glances up at me in the dark, I can see the lust reflected in her eyes, making them dazzle in the darkness of the hallway.

  “I'm seducing you,” she tells me firmly as she slips the button on my jeans loose, pulling down the zipper and shimmying the pants along my thighs with a smooth quickness that my body responds to. And when I step out of the jeans, when she throws them over her shoulder, already peeling down my panties, I realize this is it. This is happening right here and now against the door.

  And I'm one hundred percent on board with this.

  Thank God Loren's cat, Little Red, is nowhere in the noticeable vicinity (I'm thinking she's asleep on the couch, if my preternatural powers are any judge. Also, I can see her little shape curled up on one of the cushions). So it's just me and Loren and the door.

  I'm stepping out of my panties, and then they're gone, tossed over Loren's shoulder, too, and she's reaching up, palming my breasts with her right hand as she crawls forward on her knees, glancing up at me again with dark, desiring eyes. My breath hitches in my throat, but I know what she wants, so I spread my legs, leaning my shoulders back hard against the door.

  Loren doesn't wait. She leans forward, her hot breath against my clit as she spreads my legs farther with her fingers, reaching between my legs to see how very, very turned on I am by all of this. And then she leans forward just a little more, her eyes rolling back in her head as she inhales the scent of me.

  I place my hand on the back of her head, running my fingers through her soft, blonde curls. Everything about this moment is bright and sharp and clear, like that second right before a thunderstorm, when the scent of ozone fills you, and lightning arcs overhead with pure power. Loren's on her knees in front of me, her fingers spreading me open, her mouth almost touching my clit, hovering over it, her warm breath rushing over my wetness. She exhales a hot breath again, blowing against my skin, my center, and the sensation makes me tremble, my entire body betraying how much I want her. I put my weight back against the door, trying to prop myself up as my limbs shiver again, and when she glances up at me with that wicked, perfect smile, I feel myself come undone, unfurling, every cell opening up to her.

  I push my head back against the door and hiss out into the darkness as her mouth connects with my clit. I can feel her smiling against me as she lifts up her chin, as she licks me there. My fingers curl reflexively against her scalp, and I can feel the heat of her; everything is so clear in this moment. My nose is filled with the scent of her own arousal, of the slight sheen of sweat that's covering her arms, the bright, sweet scent of her perfume. I know she worked today; I know her fingers touched the spines of books. I know that she had a latte and that she loved it. I can pick up on all of that, just through her scent, and when I close my eyes in the darkness of her apartment, when I let that sense overpower me...it's extraordinary.

  I've never let myself do this with anyone. A werewolf spends most of his or her time trying to blot out their heightened senses, ignoring them, shoving them down until they can handle the world at large.

  I've never let myself experience the wholeness of my heightened abilities with anyone because I figured it'd just be too much for me to handle. I've never talked about it with the other werewolves in my life, but we've certainly talked before about how we shove down our senses as much as possible to make life (when we're, you know, not in the wilderness in our wolf forms) bearable. Life in the world with all its people, all its scents and sounds and sensations, was never intended for werewolves. Everything is too much, all of the time. I'm used to numbing myself as much as possible.

  But here and now, there's Loren. And I find my chest, where I always feel the tightness of trying not to feel...loosening. I feel all of the tension in me, the usual, normal tension of a werewolf trying to survive in the “big city,” easing.

  I feel everything that I am opening up, expanding.

  Releasing.

  So, yes, I inhale deeply, letting my senses run wild, like they always want to do. I let go of my hold on them, let go of my hold on myself, and I can feel the wolf deep inside of me let back her head...and howl.

  I breathe out into the darkness, feeling the wildness rise inside of me, filling every inch of me as Loren presses her mouth to my center, tasting me, touching me, drawing out of me such exquisite pleasure that my body can't contain it. There are explosions behind my eyes, like supernovas, and explosions racing through every cell of my body as I feel the wave of the orgasm building and cresting and ready to drive its way through me.

  I open my eyes then, right before it hits. I open my eyes, and I look down at Loren. And she's looking right up at me, her eyes dark with desire, but there's a brightness, right in the depths of them, a brightness that fills me with something bright, too, as the orgasm moves through me. I let out a cry in the dark, my fingers tightening in her hair as I come, as I realize, shuddering with delight, my entire body pulsing with it, that I felt something much bigger than an orgasm as it hit me, as I looked down into those beautiful green eyes.

  God. I had no idea what it felt like. What it was. But I would know it anywhere. I felt it, bright and whole and true in my heart, and I can't deny it. Not anymore.

  Because it was love.

  ---

  After other sexual shenanigans, we're both lying in bed together, utterly spent. (I mean, I could probably go for another round or two...but I've got to try to at least act human). We're both wrapped up in each other, and when I look at Loren, gazing into her eyes like one of those cheesy romantic comedies where the lead stares at the love interest's eyes and goes all goo-goo over them...I realize that's exactly what I'm doing.


  God, I've got it bad. I'm falling in love with her, head over heels in love with her, the kind of love that I kind of wondered if it was possible for me to feel.

  And you know what?

  It feels good.

  Loren's thinking of something else, however, because she's giving me a mischievous little look before turning the bedroom light on beside her. The sheet that was pulled on top of both of us falls away, revealing her gorgeous breasts, and I enjoy the view as Loren leans over the side of the bed and pulls something out from beneath it. I reach out, running my fingernails over her ass, and Loren glances over her shoulder, chuckling. But she turns back at this moment, sitting up in bed, setting a...sheaf of papers onto her lap.

  I blink and stare at the stack of paper. “What's that?” I ask her, genuinely curious. I thought she might pull out a sexy toy or something; I really could have never predicted a stack of printed pages.

  Loren clears her throat, dramatically tossing her curls over her shoulder and lifting her chin. She says, in the worst mockery of a British accent ever, “My manuscript.”

  I sit up on my elbows. “That's the book you've been writing?”

  Loren's shoulders start to sink, and when she glances at me, there's worry in her eyes, and she's nibbling at her lower lip. “Yeah. I've never shared it with anyone before. I probably shouldn't—” She stops abruptly, shakes her head and gathers the papers up in her hands, turning to shove them down beneath her bed again.