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Chapter 5.0: Voices

I always hated the morning-after.

Finding yourself in a stranger's bed or with a stranger in your bed had all the components of a bad sitcom episode. Awkward exchanges, forced laughs, promising you'd call or send a message on the obscure social media service that peaked a record number of downloads this month and only this month. Rager or Findr or whatever the hell else.

"Sounding like an old man already."

"What?"

Could barely hear Ian's bark of a request over the roar of his motorcycle. This morning handily made the header of my Buzzfeed-style 'Top 11 Most Morning-After Morning-Afters' List. I currently clutched to Ian's backside tightly as his jacket, his bike rumbling beneath us. The endlessly tall canopies of the SoCal forests retreated behind us. A backdrop of short, squat business parks basking in early morning sun normalized me.

Well, at least something was normal after last night. My ass hurt like hell and the motorcycle wasn't exactly made for the smoothest of rides. I grit my teeth under the cover of Ian's spare motorcycle helmet. As we grazed a pothole, I thought I might break my jaw.

What a whirlwind of a night. After getting the fuck-down of my life, Ian had taken off into the woods to satiate his feral, wolfen desires. Not much for me to do except write, drink, and attempt to force in a few restless hours of sleep. The woods hadn't exactly been quiet though, which shouldn't have surprised me. Bugs and frogs hollered well into the morning hours and every time I heard the sound of a twig snap, I turned around expecting to be inches from Ian's ferocious Turned form.

Nothing quite so exciting. Upon opening my eyes to a glimmer of hazy morning sun, I had only managed to glimpse his haggard human form stagger into camp, nudity only masked by streaks of blood and dirt. Business as usual, from what I had gathered.

We hiked our way back to his bike, parked in that lone roadside gravel lot, where he had thankfully been able to fish out another change of clothes from one of his travel bags. Shortly thereafter, we set off for John's house, no more than a few words exchanged. Not out of any sort of discomfort, or so I hoped--we were both just tired.

With the free time, no ride home, and lack of modern distractions, I had managed to edit a new draft of the story overnight. Previously I hadn't hesitated to strike all mention of the supernatural from Ian's memories; however, this iteration embraced the concept. Could it be considered bold, daring genius?

No.

Simply the straw to break the camel's back. Susanne as my steadfast old camel, she'd finally buck me off. Rip up our contract and send me packing, tail between my legs. I smiled inwardly at the phrase, considering my current company.

Before I knew it, Ian cut the bike's speed. I could almost hear the sound of his deep, even breaths between the engine's guttural rumbling. I greeted our return to Suburban Hell--lined-up single family homes, picket fences, and community pools--with a shake of my head. In a way, I felt more leery of this locale than I had been about over-nighting in a National Park. All of these people, fake as hell, watering their unseasonably green lawns. Resigning themselves to domestic prison. Spine-tingling terror, if you asked me.

Gas stations flanked the busy intersections before we hit the first neighborhood. Could it have been at one of these dueling Gas-N-Go's where Ian had stopped before picking me up, causing a line of cars to honk at him as he cave-mannishly tried to navigate talking on a cell phone? Tempting to ask, but I realized my words wouldn't carry. Instead, my grip tightened on the rock-hard, leather clad body in front of me. Ian vibrated, a low rumble of acknowledgment coursing through me and playing off the vibrations from his bike.

The houses trimmed down in size, now more compact. Less land, yet twice the units. An odd early-riser or two tended to their yards. Men dutifully retrieved papers and mingled with their dad-bodded brethren. Suddenly on the receiving end of strange looks, I tended to think two dudes on a motorbike was basically par for the course on this side of the country. More than likely, the loud belches of exhaust disturbed the serene suburban morning and drew ire.

It would do us some good to stop about a block away from my brother's place. Give me some time to straighten up and look presentable, maybe to act like I didn't get bred by a massive werewolf cock less than ten hours ago. I tried to verbalize the plan to Ian, but he didn't seem to hear. Too much noise, not helped by helmet muffling an already poor plan of attack. I also remembered that even though he maintained heightened senses out of his Turned form, they suffered a massive downswing the morning immediately following his Turn.

Instead, we stopped on the curb in front of John's house. The bike's roar softened to a mild growl, then cut off completely. Ian's weight shifted and I followed his example to lean into it. I put my leg out in tandem with him, and we braced the girth of the bike against the storm drain.

"Some ride," I mused, stepping off from behind him and pulling the helmet off of my head. My ears still numbly rang. A brief glance in one of Ian's mirrors displayed a matted and sweaty mop.

"Not that bad, I hope?" Ian shucked his own helmet and hung it on a handlebar.

Ian sounded hoarse. He needed water. Our eyes briefly met in the mirror and I looked away. The door to John's house suddenly seemed the most damning thing on the block.

"Nah," I said absently. "Just uh, you know, kind of sore down there. If you catch my drift."

Ian chuckled. He dismounted his bike, which shifted in an absence of weight. He hit the kickstand. "Hey now, don't make me think about that. Not right now, at least."

I couldn't help but smile, feeling the hunger in his eyes. But he was right, this definitely wasn't the time, nor the place. Odds are I wouldn't even see Ian for a long time after these next few awkward minutes.

Without much more of a cue, he set to untying our bags from the back of the bike. I stepped in to lend a mostly-unnecessary hand, though did manage to stop my brother's camo bag from sliding off and getting swallowed up by the gaping storm-drain.

'That would be the final nail in my career's coffin,' I thought. The phantasm image of my laptop spilling out and being lost to the sound of a far-off splash echoed in my head. 'Could be a good excuse to put all of this behind me.'

I banished the thought and re-cinched Ian's sleeping bag into the bundle.

"I can get it," Ian said softly. "You can go, no big deal. I'm probably a little tough to, uh, explain."

"It's fine. They know the deal."

He went stiff as a statue. As always, the guy's body language was so easy to read, so completely uninhibited. Too much time spent on the road, away from people, getting lost in his head and losing track of typical human gesture. Whatever he did, or whatever he didn't do, spoke volumes about his mental state. I smiled, then put a placating hand on his shoulder.

"Not that part of the deal." I pat him on the shoulder. "Don't freak out. John just knows I'm writing a book about you. He doesn't really grasp what that's about. And honestly? It doesn't interest him enough to dig any deeper than that."

That last part, as nonchalant as it might have sounded, did manage to incite a flash of resentment within me. Despite whatever monumental strides that John and I had forged in our relationship as of late, I knew my career seemed nothing more than a quirky little side-gig in his eyes. It reassured me in a way--I'd never have to worry about those awkward, probing questions. Curious inquiries about Ian or otherwise.

"Mm," Ian grunted. He re-adjusted a few straps on his bike, idling for time.

It stood before us, dauntingly: John's simple two-story abode, somewhere between townhouse and single family home. A mailbox stuck in the small plot of yard, the H.O.A.-maintained hedges delineating he and his neighbor's identical patches of grass, and a Honda Civic loomed in the driveway. Normal. Basic. I could see a bit of motion stir behind closed blinds on the first floor.

Moments later, the front door cracked open. John stood there at the other end of the driveway. A head shorter than me, he sported another one of his slightly undersized army shirts and a pair of casual basketball shorts. He squinted, either from the early-morning sun or maybe one too many beers last night. No socks or shoes, but John stepped out onto the front stoop nonetheless.

"Need anything?" I asked Ian.

"Uhhh, no, it's--"

"Glass of water? Use the restroom? Maybe some coffee?" I prodded.

"I've got a canteen I could fill up, yeah," he admitted.

I strode from the curb, up the driveway, and approached the few steps that led into John's house. Ian followed a step behind me, shoulders squared and expression wary. I frowned a little at that. I figured him shy, especially around new people, but I wouldn't have pegged this as a dangerous situation. As I stepped up to the door, my companion hung back at the foot of the stoop.

"Chuck! What's the--I mean, uh, hey, man." His eyes narrowed momentarily before he nodded brusquely at what I imagined he could only assume was an incredibly fit member of L.A.'s homeless population.

"John, Ian. Ian, John." I quickly gestured between the two of them.

Pleasantries sufficiently exchanged, I stepped forward, attempting to walk past John into his house. My brother didn't budge. He had an arm stretched out, blocking entry at chest-level. I frowned, momentarily puzzled. A year ago, I wouldn't have been surprised.

"What's the deal? Riley still sleeping?" I asked. "We'll keep it down, Ian's out of here soon. Just need the Brita."

I stepped back, forsaking a step. Staring at John square-on, I tried to decipher what the hell was going through his head. He didn't look mad, at least not the usual type of anger I associated with him. This felt restrained, an anger tugging at a leash. His arm shuddered with tension. What I wouldn't give for those near-clairvoyant Turned senses right about now.

Ian skulked at the foot of the stoop. I realized he retreated slightly, maybe had a sense of what was about to go down? 'Figured he wouldn't be the type to back down from a fight.'

"Chuck, I called you like a hundred times last night! Your phone!"

"...Was out of commission." I supplied the excuse, stricken by realization. "Shit!"

I thrust my hand into my pocket and dug around for the phone, swaddled in the fabric of my pocket after having been tossed around by the bumpy motorcycle ride. So bumpy, in fact, I must have not noticed the numerous alerts and missed messages buzz to life when we passed into reliable service. Fuck, should have changed providers when I had the chance.

"Shit, shit," I repeated, flicking through the notifications. "Sorry, John. Didn't mean to make you worry. We were just kind of far out there, y'know? No reception."

He cocked an eyebrow. His gaze darted from me to Ian, settled on the haggard stranger, and sized him up. I doubted John could realize how easily Ian could tear him to pieces if push came to shove.

'Stand down, soldier.'

"I just--" John sighed. I could sense his clear unease with Ian. He stammered, then found his ground, looking me dead in the eyes. "It's irresponsible, man. Come on, little bro."

I fumed inwardly. 'Little bro.'

John continued, finding momentum. "You bail and just say you're gonna be gone for a bit, writing your book or whatever. But I can't even reach you? Make sure everything's alright? I mean, it's only been a few weeks that you've been here, but I feel like we were getting, uh, closer and stuff. Like a real family."

"We...were?" It unbalanced me. "We are a real family!"

"A-And Riley!" He continued, fettered by my interruption. "What was I supposed to tell her if you just up and disappeared in the dead of night?!"

I didn't have an answer for that. Honestly, it had crossed my mind as well. With all of the unpredictability of Ian's transformation, and the sordid state of affairs inherent for a Turned, it had been a very real possibility.

'Dying.' Shit, it hit me again. A wave of dread and guilt washed over me.

"Mm," I grunted. My hand fumbled at my seat pocket, for a packet of cigarettes I didn't have. Probably stuffed into the far reaches of my brother's backpack.

"Like jeez, little bro, use your head! I already have one kid, I don't need to take care of two! At least call ahead, or tell me where you are, or--Ugh, shit. Now I'm all riled up, a-and this wasn't how it was supposed to go. I-I'm just doing this for Dad's sake, you know? He--"

"...What?" I glared at John. This truly caught me off-guard. No longer unbalanced, I righted myself in the completely opposite direction. Anger boiled in my gut.

"It's what I promised Dad. When he, you know, kicked it. That hospital bed in Tulsa, man. He told me, he made me promise, to take care of the family." Then, glumly, he added, "what little we had left."

'He almost had me,' I mused. John nearly had me in his meaty grasp, almost won me over. Two fucking seconds from offering him a cigarette, see if we couldn't put the transgression behind us. Smoke in secret, like the one or two times we did back when we were dumbass kids. A decade ago. A lifetime ago.

"Almost..." I mumbled, caught on repeat. I smirked, incredulous.

"What?" John looked at me like I spoke a foreign language.

"You almost had me." A mantra now.

One of my fists clenched. I wanted to deck him, but I'd have to suffice knocking him around with my words. More my weapon of choice. Ian shifted uncomfortably behind us, and I felt painfully aware of him. Poor guy now found himself a captive audience. Privy to witnessing the small crack of resentment erupt into a molten geyser of white-hot family drama.

"Almost thought you fucking cared," I spat. "Out of the goodness of your heart, you reached out to me. Sent me an email, asked me how my life was going. Two years that old bastard's been dead, and I was fine doing my own thing. Whiling away the days by myself. Writing. Fucking around."

"I..." John seemed actually taken aback. He needed to find his footing, but I doubted he fully understood where this would head. "What the fuck, man?! I do care!"

"But it was all an act! The old man's final words guilted you into reaching out to me. All our fucking family drama in the past. Mom and dad kicking me out during college. Throwing my ass curbside for being, and I quote, a 'fucking faggot.'"

"I didn't have anything to do with that!" John protested, nearly eye level with me now on the tips of his toes. Drops of indignant spittle flew from his mouth.

"Yeah, well, you stood by. Let it happen. You weren't even deployed." I stated it calmly, despite my anger boiling over within my gut. I wanted to simultaneously heave up the contents of my stomach and hiss fire. "Just in that shithole apartment. I wanted to stay with you for a month or two, 'til the semester started back up. And..."

"You didn't want to stay there! After you asked, I said it was cool, and--"

"Whatever. You didn't want me there. No one wanted me anywhere. It was a shitty podunk Okie town, and I was the fucking liberal arts college-boy pariah."

"You were using!" He retorted. "At the time, I just...didn't need that kind of shit in my life! I was going through a lot!"

"Please. Using?! It was speed. High school chemistry teacher backwash, nothing dangerous," I countered. Truth be told, I didn't think John knew I had been dabbling back in the day. Second truth, it was usually worse than speed. "You just wanted any excuse to put me out on the curb. Make mom and dad proud, the upstanding fucking all-American army boy."

"You--that's not fair! You can't just write everyone off like that, Chuck!" John fumed. "You were different, people thought you were weird. Maybe you didn't fit in, but we were family!"

"Which is why you fucking decked me at the funeral, right?" I spat venomously. "Mom's funeral. Big fucking day, but--"

"Dude, DON'T! Chuck, I swear to God," John shook his head, wringing his hands through nearly-nonexistent hair.

"Five years," I hissed. "Christmas cards. Maybe. That is, when you remember the right address, but five years we don't say two words to each other. Then you send me an email out of the blue. Offer me a place to stay. Coincidentally, when I need a little break from it all...."

Maybe I was embellishing a bit, but did that even matter? The memories clawed at strings of emotion deep inside me, chords I tried to mute over the years, buried under the weight of being a washed-up, self-made novelist. Now all the dark feelings flooded me, spewing to the surface. For a flash of a second, I thought I might have felt moisture in my eyes.

"...And it was all just to appease our shitty old man?" I finished the thought.

John stayed quiet, let me say my piece. His eyes probed me up and down. Sandy hair to dirt-scuffed soles. He glanced to Ian, and then frowned. He clenched and flexed his hands and I could see him blink rapidly before turning his head down. We were alike in so many ways, really.

"...I know you and Dad didn't get along. Didn't see eye-to-eye or whatever. It...." He searched for the right words, but failed.

I rolled my eyes.

"It was tough to watch him die, Chuck. Even if you and I weren't close, to not have you there was rough. I thought I could make things right. Between you and him. Like, through me!? Be that sort of like, phone line for communication, or...I dunno, words aren't my thing. But you get it, don't you?!"

"...Not really," I said icily. "But it makes sense now. Puts things in perspective."

"God, will you give it a rest, Chuck?!" He yelled. "Don't hold this against me! Maybe I invited you here out of some sense of obligation to our fucked-up family, but...but we've been having a good time. You really don't think this has been genuine?"

I sighed. I wanted to believe. As great as it had been to reconnect with my brother, finally build some semblance of a relationship not based on double-speak and awkward hand-shakes, it was just off. Seemed wrong, like viewing my life through a tinted camera lens. Maybe now, for the first time in weeks, I finally got the clear picture.

Genuine, though? It was hard to say. From the get-go, sensed something artificial. Like sitting in a high-end waiting room, unable to tell if the sprawling corner plant looks legitimate or plastic. Maybe we had been forcing it. Conversation had been light these past few weeks. I hadn't brought a fling home, or gotten too drunk, or done anything to challenge my brother's conservative sensibilities. To be honest, this might have been our most genuine moment. This stupid spat on a humid morning in front of his unfurnished house.

"I don't know," I finally managed to mutter.

"Little bro, seriously--"

"Ugh, fuck! Drop the 'little bro' shtick, alright?" I fumed again, dropping an octave to mimic his voice for a moment, "You can't just choose to act like an older brother now! We're both trucking towards middle age, my man. Time's up for sage brotherly advice. This isn't working for either of us. Too much, too soon."

"Chuck, uh...."

Ian's voice, not John's. I whirled, witnessed his attempt to shrink into the background. Only about my height, but I had a mental image of him being so much more massive. A bigger presence. Now, though? The last thing in the world he wanted to do was occupy the territory of feuding brothers.

"I think it's best if I cut out of here." Zipping up his jacket to fully conceal his bare torso, Ian looked to John and met my brother's narrowed gaze. "I-I'm sorry. For keeping him out late, and out of contact. It was...."

"It's fine," John said gruffly. His gaze softened slightly "I...listen, you guys. You hungry? We could...."

"Forget it." I dismissed him with a wave, then turned to walk a few paces towards Ian. "Wherever you're going, I'm coming with."

"What? No, Chuck, you need to--"

"I need to get out of here," I cut Ian off grimly. "This isn't my scene."

"Chuck, what the hell?!" John yelled, any sense of keeping it down for the sake of neighborly politeness out the window. "You-you've got all your shit here! I can't, uh....Fuck! What am I gonna tell Riley?!"

"Whatever you need to." I walked back to Ian's bike and grabbed one of his helmets. I beckoned to my companion. He bowed his head, followed me, and scooped up the other helmet.

Not how I'd wanted to end the morning, much less my stay at John's. Be a pain in the ass to replace all the stuff I was about to leave behind. I absently jostled the camo bag, swearing as I remembered who I borrowed it from. Whatever. I had all of the essentials. Could pick up a new laptop charger and splurge on a few extra outfits.

"...Where we headed?" Ian asked under his breath.

"Didn't really think ahead," I admitted.

I turned to look at my brother, still standing at the front door. Our eyes lingered on one another for a few more seconds, then he threw up his arms in an exasperated, defeated shrug. Pivoting on a heel and skulking into the house, he slammed the door behind him. At least he didn't flip me off this time.

A part of me wondered if he would be relieved he didn't have to host a long-lost little brother anymore. Another part of me wondered if deep-down, I had wanted this to happen. Secretly engineered this argument in a grandiose act of self-sabotage.

'I guess I crave the lone-wolf lifestyle, after all,' I mused. 'If humans really are pack animals, then where do I fall?'

"Airport," I said belatedly. "Gotta get far away from here."

"You got it, Chuck," Ian said.

The bike rumbled to life beneath us as I secured John's bag to its flank.

~ ~

"...It's incredible...Never seen anything like it...One of a kind..."

I faded in and out of awareness, barely cognizant of my own hand in front of my face. The harsh glow of fluorescent lights beat down on me. I stirred back to a sitting position, ankle rapping against the hard table beneath me. Eyes readjusted, focusing on the doctor. She bore straight black hair, square glasses barely turning up from the chart cradled in her whip-thin arms. Certain manner about her, too, one that likely made even those not currently staring slack-jawed at her narrow face feel like an idiot.

"...Did you hear that, Ian?"

"Yeah, I...no. What?"

As of a moment ago, I had been laying down on the patient table--hard and green, a cadaver-sized shelf wrapped in tissue paper. The doctor tsked, then rifled through a folder, producing a collection of x-rays. Thoughts, not wholly my own, thrummed like a thunder clap in my head.

'Turned thoughts.' I quickly reminded myself. Not mine. I suddenly felt hot. I wanted to rip through the paper underneath me. Tear and mangle it, then rip off my clothes. Then rip her--the doctor--with my teeth.

I quashed the inclination for now. Had to. By doing so, I knew it would bite back tenfold later down the line. It would gnaw and gnash within my head, against my skull. I'd have to bury my face under a mattress, bite something hard to stifle a scream. Beat the thoughts back by pounding against my forehand with hard knuckles.

"Rays."

"Huh?" Too dazed to focus.

"Your x-rays." She sighed.

Mild frustration weighed on her shoulders, though the bitter scent simmering off her helped me more accurately place it. Agitation was more apt.

"The leg. Ian, it's all better." The face she made could have been her best attempt at a warm smile, though it seemed stale. "Your ankle, your shin. Everything. I really can't explain it, to be honest. Typically, injuries like this don't take well to casts and braces. Too much risk of sudden movement over such a long recovery period. Especially when you're young, and um, far less likely to...sit still? You'll twist it or stumble, and the healing is incomplete. Surgery. Then, years down the road, you have another mishap that tears it all up again."

"Guess I'm lucky."

Too tired to deal with her inability to read the room. Hunger gnawed inside of me. A special kind of hunger, one I wouldn't be able to satiate until the sun dipped beneath the clouds tonight. My chest expanded; the deep, cool breath, even sickly sweet filtered air from the checkup room, fanned an anger ready to boil over.

"It's really so fascinating that, and I don't say this often, it may actually be a one-of-a-kind case!" She took a seat on a stool at the other end of the room. Her look now reminded me of someone gazing forlornly at a collarless dog, wondering just how it could get itself into a situation like this.

"It was a bad injury to begin with, but then you re-fractured the femur, which caused the ankle to roll. We gave you twelve more weeks in the brace, but we hardly expected that to take. Maybe some minor healing, but nothing to this degree. And now here we are, Ian, six weeks in. I can barely tell that you suffered any damage to your bones at all." She gestured to the procession of x-rays placed along the fluorescent screen on the wall.

I nodded, vaguely, and tried to smile. If six weeks seemed incredible, it would have really shocked her to hear that everything was more-or-less patched up a month ago. Aside from occasionally coughing up bloodied lumps of old bone and muscle my new physiology rejected, my leg had been completely healed after my first Turn.

At this point, I only put the brace on for appearance's sake. Avoiding the doctor's office, much less the radiologist, had been top of the list on that plan. If they came to the realization I healed suspiciously efficiently after a grisly accident...well, what sort of questions would be raised? The little research I did in my downtime didn't exactly map a rubric for such complete, flawless healing.

One-of-a-kind? Yeah, she probably didn't have many werewolf patients.

"It's so incredible that, well, I'll be frank: I'd love to do a case study on you."

My ears perked up. I threatened to cave in the side of the flimsy table as I clenched fists.

"We can er, arrange compensation. Somehow. But my colleagues, wow, to think I've had a special case like you, Ian! They'll all flip out--they'll--I can't...." She stammered, excitement getting the best of her. She sounded like a girl my age in History or something, not a highly-skilled surgeon and physical therapist.

Her chest thundered, heart pounding with sweet-smelling excitement. She thirsted for the opportunity. In all of our time interacting over the course of these months, I had never seen her so animated. Who could stand in her way?

"No."

My doctor recoiled. Tempting to apologize, but I had to admit the satisfaction in her squirm. She pointedly adjusted her glasses. Her lip began to twitch as if she held a wasp in her mouth. I sensed the hot, bitter smell of anger.

"I understand," she said flatly, restrained. "It is your decision after all, and I respect my patients' personal boundaries. Case studies can be time-consuming, and you may be signing up for more than you realize, but...please consider it?"

At this, I closed my eyes and massaged my temples, digging my thumbs in as hard as I could without fearing I'd draw blood. Turned thoughts hit me, an instant reaction to my discomfort, my apprehension and weakness. Couldn't let it burst forth, as sweet as the prospect seemed, lose myself in its overwhelming power. No more stilted conversation, no more being talked down to by someone so pointedly inferior. My head pounded in primal protest.

"It'll still be no," I grunted. "But, sure, I'll...consider it."

She frowned. "I suppose that's all I can ask for. You--"

"You shouldn't be asking for anything," I snarled.

"I see." She tossed my chart loudly on the counter nearest the sink, then suddenly stood. "Just realize that you could be responsible for helping a lot of people, Ian. Whatever fixed your broken bones, so flawlessly, in such little time..."

Another annoyed grunt, but I didn't say anything more. If I did, the next thing out of my mouth would be an angry howl.

"I'm your doctor, and I understand," she said with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose underneath her glasses in annoyance. "Plus, you won't be eighteen for another few months, which would just complicate things anyway. Minors. Lots of paperwork. Just...wait here, I'll get your mother, fill her in, and send you off. We're done."

I nodded, and she left without another word. I laid back again, to wait in relative silence. A pair of footsteps grazed carpet down the hall. I predicted the jostle of the metal door handle not a second off the mark. The doctor stepped through, already repeating everything she'd told me to my mother verbatim.

I could feel the onset of a migraine; I judged it to be brutal, with the full moon hours away. I could barely focus as my head throbbed, words dissipating like static in my ears. The women continued talking, the doctor dictating instruction. My mother nodded every now and again, asking one or two questions. As soon as I heard the doctor mention 'case study,' I shot her a dark look.

Sensory overload pounded me, Turned breached my human body as I tried to hold it back. Annoyance bubbled off the doctor, which quickly fermented into a mild, sour fear as I stared her down, all predator. I sniffed, sensing her morning breath. Already noon, she apparently subsisted on little more than several cups of low-grade coffee.

My dagger-like gaze raked into her even further. She adjusted her glasses to mask the discomfort. Strong prescription lenses, from the way the light bent through them. I also couldn't help but notice she had a habit of favoring one leg--likely she suffered from a pulled muscle or twisted ankle of some sort.

Easy prey to take down. I could lunge forward, disable her bad leg, then knock her head aside with an open palm. Glasses would fly off. She'd panic, scramble. My hand would go to her throat, and my teeth....

"...And that's all!" My doctor finished with a curt nod. "You can get going now, but I think I'll schedule one more appointment to make sure that, um, we're on the right track, here. Maybe in a month?"

I phased in and out of awareness again. Hard to even know if my head still sat between my shoulders. Felt like someone else's head entirely. Something else. Too tough to keep my eyes open. White-hot beams of fluorescent light from the hall seared my squinted eyes as I followed zombie-like out of the office. Sunlight reflected off mounds of salt-and-pepper snow piled in the corners of the parking lot, the cold December air doing little to cool the anger burning inside me.

O

Cold wind danced through my hair, biting enticingly at exposed skin. Steam seeped off of my body. I stripped down, shucked the oversized sweater bearing my dad's college letters. My chest heaved. Hairier than it had been months ago. Meatier, too. I ran palms over the cold sweat running down mounds of muscle.

"Turning does the body well."

It had become a ritual. I should have been sickened, really, at something so horribly paranormal becoming so routine. Humans could cope with anything, so long as we woke up the next day. As someone quickly losing his humanity, I had to hold onto what little I could.

My family was one such thing, though they had grown suspicious of me over the last few weeks. I attributed it to my faking of an injured leg--I couldn't claim to be a great actor. Both my parents and sister caught me walking or hurrying up the stairs a bit too casually. Maybe they suspected other aspects of my life, too. To what degree, I had no idea. I regrettably realized it could be better for them to follow a false trail of me being a drug-addled teenager than the truth of what I really got into.

Hunter. I wanted to get into him right now. The thought hit me like a crashing elevator. Tonight. It was our night. My sire and I could be together, and we could....

He'd get here soon. Down in the woods, deeper than our last encounter. Farther than any stray humans had any right to travel on a cold December night. Figures danced at the edge of my mind, as if I walked in a half-woken dream. How I'd fantasized about this all afternoon, holed up in my room. Begging all parts of me to stay myself as the daylight hours crawled on.

I couldn't deny a part of my other side invaded my real life. Some of my more normal days, of going to school and studying after class with Meredith, now felt like a dream. As I ticked off days on the lunar calendar I stowed underneath my mattress, it became more difficult to separate my dreams and nightmares from the waking world.

Even now, cold and half-naked in the woods, heart fighting to free itself from my chest, I couldn't tell with absolute certainty I wouldn't wake up a second later in my bed, dripping wet with cold sweat, sporting early morning wood, nails longer than I remembered. Then I'd watch my midnight hallucinations play out like overlapping movies projected onto my bedroom wall. Walls to be ripped apart by claws, secrets gushing out like blood.

Well, I couldn't deny a small flame of thrill at the prospect. A candle flickering about singeing and slowly searing a treacherous hole into my mind. If I thought about it too hard, the candle might tip over, spread and consume the only safe mental haven I maintained. I could still delude myself into thinking my mind the only vessel of an old Ian waiting to be subsumed.

I felt hot blood bubble beneath my skin. Pinpricks of pain danced around my arms and torso. My skin, which had almost been as white as the snow melting between my toes, now flushed bright red. I itched furiously at my exposed flesh as the first stages of the Turn set in.

Hunter emerged from the trees, already naked. His head turned up at the cold, shimmering sky, long blond hair glimmering like a flash of golden fire against black bark and white snow. I could see a stirring at his crotch, which in turn elicited a response from my own member.

"Our night, Ian," he growled lustily, transfixed on the sky. "Just you and me. And you look so fucking beautiful."

He gazed towards me, sporting a smirk that became a guillotine as the Turn struck us. Hunter buckled over and a feral, bloodcurdling growl burst forth from his body.

A familiar sense of falling deeper into myself and yet away. My thoughts blurred and distorted, overwritten by a stronger and much more basal personality. I tore through my pants and threw them aside as a retreating part of my human consciousness whined at losing yet another pair. I wanted to laugh at this childish and almost alien thought. Berate this stupid, small voice in my head. Just clothes. Another human prison.

'I DON'T NEED THEM. DON'T WANT THEM.'

'...i do...' The small voice simpered.

I paid no heed to it. The Turn ran through my body like wildfire. Already, with every frenzied breath, I felt an old and familiar strength bloom in my muscles. My body breathed in deep, muscles gorging themselves on primal energy. Bones contoured and re-configured. A chain reaction of glorious cracks slithered down my spine. Cold air coursed through my expanded nostrils. I stood taller now, raw bulk filling out the frame, devouring fat. I rubbed my body sensually with my palms, which had now calloused into a hybrid of hand and paw. The rage and lust screamed from within, mingling into a new emotion I could not explain, only feel.

Claws. Snout. A familiar muteness as my ears readjusted, before the sound reverberated back into my mind tenfold. Similar for my eyes; I instinctively shut them in pain, but knew myself blind for a few seconds regardless. Another moment, then a new world of vivid dark colors and pinpoint movement welcomed me. Water and earth swirled in my nose. I smelled prey. Hunter. I smelled him, my sire. My lips curled into an eager grin as drool flew from my hungry jowls.

Hunter completed his Turn at nearly the same time. The two of us howled as we joined one another in the center of the clearing. He stood tall on his legs, body tense and arms flexed. I could smell the sweat and blood on his body as I circled around him on all-fours. Mad with excitement, I eagerly advanced to his rear. I sniffed, then snapped playfully at the slightly exposed flesh at his rump.

'FUCK!' The animal voice thundered in my mind. 'I NEED TO FUCK HIM.'

He bent over, feigned a defiant coyness as I quickly hopped to a standing position and grabbed him firmly on the ass. My fingers crawled down his back, kneading at the fur and bulging muscles. Without a second thought, I buried myself into his quivering hole and we began to noisily engage in our favorite of rituals.

Thrusts, grunts, howls, and barks. Time stopped existing in-between our multiple climaxes. It could have been two minutes, two hours, two lifetimes. Only the heat of our bodies and the fire in my groin mattered. At some point, a light dusting of snow caused ice to settle across my snout. I rumbled, and gave one final, climactic thrust, emptying my largest load into Hunter and collapsing backwards, knees buckling.

'FUCK...!' My head screamed again as I crumpled on the ground. 'MY SIRE.'

'...i love him,' the small voice whispered. 'my best friend.'

Hunter stood over me, stroking his hard, thickly-veined cock as I scrambled to a kneeling position. My mouth agape, I panted hard, watching eagerly as Hunter's claws thoroughly worked-over his shaft. Usually, he came several times over the course of me fucking him.

He snarled, then jets of white nectar shot towards me. I eagerly accepted the gift from my sire. I attempted to catch a strand in my mouth, but the majority of it plastered about my face. It matted my black hair and I welcomed the splash of heat against my exposed skin. I bent my head down to lick some of my sire's seed from my upper arm, panting in excitement.

He too bent down, resting the weight of his upper body on his knuckles in the snow, the pose almost simian. He brushed his head against mine, then snapped playfully at me. His teeth lightly nicked my left ear. I snorted and growled, before falling backwards, chest and belly exposed. This seemed to please my sire.

A familiar back-and-forth, instinctual rhythm running through my veins. My sire, superior, though our physical strength now seemed comparable; perhaps, I dared to consider, my bulk outmatched him in certain circumstances. Still, his experience and mastery over me could not be underestimated. His lean, deadly physique. All it would take would be a small upset of my hulking body. One misplaced footstep would see him pin me down. His teeth would go right for my neck. Would he hesitate to tear it out? I doubted I would even fight back if he chose to.

Wouldn't come to that. His power was my power. He put a palm on my chest and pressed me down into the ground, playfully. A rumble escaped my curled lips, feigned show of aggression. He held his palm there, firm and almost to the point of provocation, but relented moments later.

Then we stood, pacing. On all-fours, I watched in rapt attention as my sire raised his nose into the air. I mimicked the pose, inhaling. A mosaic of scents to sift through in the winter wind. The cold air filtered through me, but did little to lower my core temperature--I still ran blisteringly hot, panting hard from previous exertion. Even still, I sensed finding prey would pose more difficult now than during earlier, warmer Turns.

I smelled rabbit, the prototypical prey. Simple. Small and unsatisfying, though so numerous their culling proved a game. Another scent--deer? Also paltry. Meatier and bloodier than the rodent, but still an afterthought. The stag's weapons, if they could even be flattered as such, could at least scrape and poke in vain before a paw crushed neck.

I delved deeper into the finely tangled knot of scents. Detritus and droppings fell by the wayside. A deep, dangerous smell nearly lashed out within the mosaic. Musky, with blood and fur. A bear, perhaps? Typically a worthy challenge, though a bear roaming this late into the season, not tucked away for the winter, would likely be weak and near starvation. It would feast on the waste of man until it keeled over and froze to death. If unlucky, it would overstay its welcome and be slain by those same men.

Hunter beckoned to me, deeper into the woods. We moved as dark shadows on frost-speckled tapestry. The scent evolved the closer we ventured--not bear. Similar, in ferocity, but my inexperience generated a false positive.

The scent of a wolf flowed through my nose and into my body. Our brethren. Not prey. Allies in the night, to the moon. We would hunt together, if they did not immediately flee upon contact.

My sire tensed. I read his body, observed the haunches adjust and tighten with god-like muscle. I followed his lead, and soon we tore through the woods at the behest of our noses.

Control over my body finally came naturally. The less attention I paid to intricacies of my new body, of moving my legs and bending or ducking over obstacles, the better I fared. Instinct needed to take over, so I could better focus on keeping my sire in sight and maintaining our trail. Offload my faculties to more pressing matters. The lupine scent lapped at my nostrils, compelling me forward, higher and deeper into the woods.

We crested a ridge, then abruptly stopped. Hunter snaked sinuously around a mess of downed trees. His snout alternatively prodded the earth and pointed to the cold, black sky. I hung back, watching him. Waited for instruction. He grunted, then pointed his head down the other end of the ridge. A mist had rolled in, ebbing and flowing like white tide at the bottom of the ridge, closer to the river's edge.

He ran again, and I followed. Hunter dashed down the hill, using his seasoned sense of balance on the steep ridge as cold, hard soil and snow crumbled out from underneath his confident strides. I wasn't as lucky; a misstep early into my descent became a half-stumble down the hill's southern face. My larger body proved a detriment once again. I tumbled, but managed to roll and hit flat ground on all-fours, ready to keep up the chase.

It didn't take long for us to arrive. The thicket in front of us could barely be seen through a thick blanket of mist. Hunter swaggered forward and offered a rumbling growl. Instantly, I knew to defer to his lead; he would engage these wolves first. Parley how our kind did.

I echoed him, feeling the vibrations thrum deep within my throat. It would serve as a signal to the wolves we had arrived. They would either hold ground and allow us to asses the pack, or flee, allowing us to proceed with the night, free of distraction. Another scent suddenly mingled with that of wolf: man.

I could smell it pungent in the air. Before furious hunger took over, I glanced to my sire. The development seemed to give Hunter pause. Could a rogue Turned have intruded into our woods? Perhaps we could craft a pack of our own, with this newcomer a loyal thrall to our dual dominion.

No. The scents were distinct from one another, a binary of man and beast. Unlike the aroma broiling off the likes of Hunter and me. Ours was a mastery of fur, flesh, muscle, and raw power. Otherworldly. The intruding scent comprised one part animal musk, another man-crafted.

It only made me even more curious. I stepped forward, cold leaves crackling under my heavy footfalls. Hunter turned his head back to me and growled--a warning. Why? I did not know. Perhaps due to me acting out of line.

I couldn't help it! The smell of man, so far out in these woods--our woods! I wanted to feel the human bone crunch in my maw, marrow running down my throat, bathe in the pungent blood of my kill. A punishment suitable for man's crime of mere existence.

Without thinking, I bolted forward. Hunter snarled at me, attempting to grab one of my limbs in his jaws as I darted past. Though large, I found myself capable of great bursts of speed. Stamina unmatched by man or beast. In that instant, I resembled neither. Pushing aside trees, the fog parting as I speared forward, I flew at my target as a vengeful God.

A broad tree stood in front of me, alone in a flat riverside clearing. Thicker around than any of its distant neighbors, several low-hanging sturdy branches bore large globs of crystallized snow. My sharp vision cut through the fog and darkness, allowing a tangled dark mass to stand out nestled in the crook of the tree's two largest branches. Flesh, mangled and folded in on itself hung slack around the boughs. A stream of blood seeped onto the branch and flowed down the tree. Man's blood.

Bloodlust took hold around my throat, driving me to a sputtering mania. How this pathetic man's bloody fate had befallen him made no matter. All that mattered was this prize, presented to me on my sacred night. I howled, rising to a hunched-over, two-footed stance as I swelled and strode forward. I would savor the blood running down my lips, the crackle of bone in-between my teeth. I would strip this man of a face, consume him until he became a part of me, utterly bent and broken. He would make me stronger.

Hunter snarled, high and sharp as a cracking whip, as I lunged forward. An order to stay put, a cry of concern--but he was too late. Now airborne, my claws extended, ready to bite into the ground and provide me the tensile strength to leap into the tree cradling the dead or dying man.

Faster than a shot of thunder, Hunter intercepted.

As my palms touched the ground, my sire blindsided me, capitalizing on my lack of balance. He slammed into me like a cannonball, throwing me to the ground. As I flailed onto my side, scraping against the cold earth and stone, desperate for anchor, I snaked my head around in time for him to land in brush beneath the tree. Did he intend to claim this trove on his own? Feed first and perhaps not have me feed at all?! Sire or not, I'd kill him for getting in the way of my hunger!

'no.' The small voice whined. 'you can't. you won't. you need him.'

Even my heightened vision could barely follow my sire's lightning-quick form as something whipped him off his feet and strung him in the air. Ringlets so small and tightly-folded as to be a single hair glinting in moonlight. The snare hoisted my sire into the air, his body dangling and his claws grasping feebly for ground several meters beyond his clawtips.

He howled in pain, thrashing wildly. He curled upwards, towards his bound foot. I could see his abdominal muscles flex and ripple with fruitless strain, ears flat against his head in fury and shock. Lip curled, and he desperately clawed at the chain. No use. Trapped, no amount of tearing or slashing would free him.

'FREEDOM.'

The mighty voice thundered in my head. On my feet, I paced in agitation, cold air slipping through my raised hackles to meet blistering red skin. If an attacker lurked unseen, wielding a weapon, I did not wish to make myself a waiting target. Air flowed into my nose, but still the savory human lifeblood and the thick musk of wolf threatened to drive me mad. I growled and spat, mere moments from taking off into the woods. Forsaking my sire.

'no....' The diminutive entity in my head, its thoughts rasped as feebly as a dying man's final breath. 'save him. save your sire. save your friend.'

I continued to skulk around in a large circle, giving the tree a wide berth lest more traps lie in wait. Hunter's struggle continued. He growled and howled in pain, and I couldn't comprehend why. Surely something so simple, so primitive, could not have reduced my sire to a hanging flank of meat.

No, couldn't think like that. Had to save him. My sire. My...friend. The one who created me, poured his spirit into me. Cultivated me in his image. I had to.

The voices seemed to merge for an instant. A clear thought materialized in the churning waters of my mind. With little effort, I launched myself at the tree. My front claws dug in, piercing into the bark and peeling back cold cork as I held myself there, away from the ground. I climbed with singular purpose, my muscular arms pulling me up to the branches with ease.

I could smell the lump of gore now, more powerful than ever. I chanced it a glance. A huge mesh sack of meat, festooned to the tree and reinforced as only man could. Rags wet with blood and sweat clung to the nest of flesh. No longer did these scents have sway over me. Perhaps a vestige of human decency, revulsion took over. I realized this not a dying man. Nowhere near a fresh kill, in fact. Cold carrion and scented rags. Bloated from age, surface lumps frosted over due to exposure from winter wind. Hunter and I had been played as fools.

No...just me.

Furious, I snarled. A great betrayal, on this moonlit night. It served to give me strength to crawl out along the thick tree branch and see a man-made contraption disguised among the wiry under-branches. Some sort of noose. Or maybe a web? My mind faltered, unable to process machinery. I knew it had my sire, and only he mattered.

As I reached for the device, went to sever that reinforced rope with a series of six-inch long claws, I realized why it had upended Hunter. The metallic sheen of the rope. It radiated foulness, distorted the air closest to it. The cold metal stung my nose, wiping scents of blood and dirt from my peripheral awareness. It overwhelmed me, choking me from the inside. I retched and gagged, feeling faint. If not for my heavy backside resting in the crook of the tree, I would have fallen to the ground.

'need to focus. need to save him. morning is....'

I pounded my head with open palms. Beat the small voice into submission. Not now! No distraction and no dictation. I followed the moon, and I followed my sire. Painful as it was, vile as this metal rope wracked me to my core, I had to free him. Hunter continued to struggle. He uttered deep, guttural barks and growls at me, an attempt to communicate.

My mind clouded. I couldn't focus. Couldn't reconcile beast-speak. Through the haze, a voice rang clear. Whether small or large, man or beast, I couldn't even tell. I permitted it to advise me and without hesitation jammed claws into the tree branch beneath my bulk. They slid in unevenly, breaking the protective layer of bark and gouging splinters into my fingers. I didn't care, I knew it would hurt. I pulled my nails free, and dug in with the other claw. A dull wooden creak, and more pain in my fingers. Again, and again I did it, mustering up a nearly-banished second wind.

There was a great crack, and then we fell. Hunter hit the ground, then I capsized over the splintered branch to land on top of him. My sire yelped and struggled, but he could move. I quickly hopped away to give him room, and in my haste my foot brushed against the chain. Burning agony coursed through my body, icy fire nearly scouring my skin away.

A half-howl, half-scream escaped my throat. Man and beast again joined together, unified in raw pain. I tripped backwards and doubled over.

Hunter had escaped the snare, fumbling with large claws and a clumsy thumb to loosen the knot. I couldn't imagine how painful it was to willingly touch the metal rope. But he did it. Grunting and slobbering in determined fury, he freed himself, then barked a command at me.

We retreated, faster than chased deer, deep into the forest. Further than I had ever been as boy or beast. Away from this grove. Away from the scent of fake meat and metal that scoured flesh.

After minutes or hours, cold wind whipping off of the river's surface as we traced it downstream from the cover of woods, we stopped. For once, I had taken the lead as we fled the scene of the snare and the decoy carcass. My sire, out of breath and with a wound around his ankle which still bled, simply couldn't keep up.

He either deemed this a safe distance or, more realistically, no longer had the energy to spend on the retreat. Neither of us had fed all night; though the first signs of morning still loomed hours away, the gnawing hunger in my core couldn't be ignored.

Hunter barked at me. An order. With danger fading into the periphery, my understanding of his bestial tongue slowly returned. He commanded me to stay by his side, to stay alert. Implicitly, I understood it as to not run off and wrap my jaws around an easy kill.

His posture sloped, head and neck bent low to the ground as his limbs shuddered. It looked as if he were melting into the earth, turning his head to look at the bloodied imprints of ringlets on his ankle. It disgusted me--not the wound, though I did admit it grisly--but the way in which my sire presented himself. Weak, tired, and almost as if he begged for the sun's rays.

I growled, circling around him. I approached his back leg, inspecting the wound. My thoughts turned briefly to his rear, the quivering hole almost begging for my fourth or seventh seed tonight. Sensing my desires, Hunter lowered his tail, concealing the temptation. I snorted, returning my attention to the wound. It still oozed blood, singed and burned hair giving way for reddened human flesh around the exposed gore. The uncharacteristic way it hadn't yet healed spooked me.

I leaned back, one fist curled beneath me and my other palm in front of my eyes. I sniffed my hand, which already showed little sign of the cuts and lacerations I had incurred from digging my claws into the branch. My body rejected the splinters, which I assumed had been forced out during our run. Not so clean a heal for my sire.

He growled at me. A word, but also a warning, one my dueling mind parsed as 'Poison.' Not a simple herb or animal chemical, but something bigger in concept. The poison. The metal comprising the snare revealed itself as one of the few substances truly able to wound our kind.

'silver.'

'DEATH.'

I paced, agitated. Hunger abated for the moment at the reveal of our kind's bane. Foggy recollection came to me, gleaned from the mire of human consciousness swirling in me. A greater sense of understanding unfurled in the deepest recesses of my beast's brain. A primal fear, almost instinct, that required no tutelage. Much as a newborn would cry or suck, a Turned dreaded silver.

...Even still. The wound on Hunter's leg loomed as a specter of his mortality. Everything being Turned taught me, though it had only been a handful of nights, we had been shaped to rule and deal death. Not to fear silver and flee like frightened pups. Hunter struggled to stand on two legs, his thighs straining with muscle and eventually failing, the wound too painful to maintain his posture. He slumped with a defeated growl back to all-fours, still gingerly treating the crippled leg.

Disappointing.

My superior strength could overcome something like that if it ever came down to it. I saved Hunter, saved my sire, the one who gave me new form in this world. He should have been my superior, my invincible champion; yet, I freed him. A growl escaped my lips, which curled in disgust.

Needed to run. Needed food. If my wounded sire wouldn't satiate my other animal needs, I needed to use the few remaining hours to do it myself. I loped away from Hunter, the low-lying sticks and hardy winter foliage buffeting my face as I searched for satisfying prey.

Hunter snarled, which stopped me dead in my tracks. Ears flicked back, and though I wanted to ignore him, I found my head and hackles lower in deference. Though I had only gotten a short way before hearing my sire's summons, I did not doubt the command would carry far downriver. I could imagine deer hearing it and quivering in fear, paralyzed.

We approached one another, Hunter's limp only permitting him to move so fast. He met me at the edge of the brush, then forced himself to two legs, using a claw to grip the crook of a tree and its branch just above my head.

I gazed up at him, unable to deny my sire's raw beauty. His strong, lithe form so muscular as to momentarily make me forget his bloody, corrupted wound. Amber firelight eyes beckoned to me, and I drew even closer, admiring the way the long golden fur on his head, almost leonine in likeness, parted a sea of earthy brown on his chest and shoulders. Flushed abdominals flexed where the hair thinned further down his torso, tapering and directing me to his proud wolfhood jutting tantalizingly towards my mouth.

Unable to resist, the hunger in my gut traded with cravings of another carnal desire. I opened my mouth and savored my sire's cock. My tongue, longer and more pliable now than my foggy human memory could reconcile, danced around the length of his member.

Hunter growled in satisfaction. His free hand migrated to the top of my head. My ears flattened back as he stroked me, teasing me to take his entire length. I exhaled a fiery breath into the dark brown hair on his crotch, tasting the salty nectar of precum as the full length of his member pressed against the roof of my mouth.

Though far from gagging, I still needed to adjust, taking in a series of short, quick breaths. I leaned into Hunter, on my knees now, my palms finding territory on his thighs and buttocks. I squeezed and kneaded the muscle beneath brown pelt, captivated.

He slowly began humping, pulling the member halfway out of my mouth before driving it to the back of my throat. The rhythm grew fiercer by the second, each thrust knocking into me harder and eliciting lustful growls of escalating pleasure. A few of the movements became so erratic as to cause one of my many teeth to clip his shaft. In response, Hunter growled in almost a warning, and hooked his thumb between my jaws in order to pry my mouth open further.

I yowled in surprise and pain, though the cock battering my throat muffled the cry. Hunter rasped several successive growls, a mockery of human laughter, then withdrew the entirety of his member.

Moisture welled in my eyes, obscuring my vision as I lowered my head to hack and cough into the ground. No sooner did I take my eyes off of my sire than did he strike. He grabbed one of my wrists and threw it aside. I lost balance instantly, falling to the cold earth, but even my stumble was slower than Hunter's next maneuver.

He took his other hand off of the tree, crouched down, and reached under my body to pull my right leg out from under me and towards him, batting aside my own heavy and erect member. I went tumbling, completely in his grip, massive arms flailing and unsuccessfully trying to find leverage on the hard and slick ground.

In a second, Hunter had me pinned. With his good leg, he stepped onto my palm, the arm pulled down and parallel to my body. In each hand, he held my ankles up, only the mid of my back and my neck flat against earth. My legs spread and stump tail wriggling back in fear, Hunter's cock, slick with my own saliva, lined up with my revealed hole.

He glowered down at me, growled haughtily, and in that exchanged gaze I knew I'd made a grave error. Wounded or not, I'd never again doubt his ownership of me, of my body. My sire created me and it entitled him to me.

It would be a lesson I'd never forget. The tip of his cock pressed against my clenched hole. A twitch of fear and anticipation allowed the member to slide in. My breath failed me.

The added weight pressed my shoulders harder into cold earth. My back curled until it could no longer give. I finally exhaled, which caused a cascade of released tension. Hunter's cock slid in further, lubricated by my own saliva. Finally able to respond, I roared.

The new feeling, not quite pain but far from pleasure, sent shivers through my restrained body. Hunter growled, pressing himself further into me, grinding his foot into my palm. Perhaps the inevitability caused me to relax, as all at once I felt the warm, hard pressure give into an ease of being filled. Rocking slightly, in tandem with my sire's downward thrusts, my wet tongue lolled against the side of my snout.

Hunter growled. Primal satisfaction. The vibrations carried down through him, cock quivering in my hole as it found deeper spaces to probe. Hearing my sire's voice, the dominance within, massaged my body and mind. I relaxed, even as he pulled out and shoved down again, the pain masked.

A moment later, Hunter's foot slid off my hand. Freer to move, though still somewhat restrained with my face covered half in snow, I reached up, strained for my own cock, and began stroking it. Slow, cloying tugs, occasional knicks from the rough skin on my palms, and lubrication from my own precum afforded me another wave of pleasure.

Hunter growled. As I stroked my member, already hard, it seemed to involuntarily tighten and loosen my hole. Hunter pounded with more intent, perhaps attempting to match the speed at which I stroked myself.

My body a knot of pain and pleasure, I felt electricity building at the base of my cock. I shuddered, legs flailing. Hunter suddenly pulled out, chilled air lapping at my exposed rear and intensifying shivers of primal need rolling down my spine. I dropped, now flat on my back. Hunter reacted, on his knees after a grunt of pain, favoring one side. He snorted, as if to spit the weakness out like a bad taste in his mouth, then grabbed my ankles.

His completely willing victim this time, I aided in his attempt. I pulled my legs up towards my chest as he pressed them down. Then, inserting his throbbing cock into my revealed hole, I howled in pleasure from the unmatched feeling of being completely filled, the fur of his groin against my rear and his full length buried in me. Pulsing, spraying sacred seed deep into my body as I too erupted, coating my sire's face in a geyser of my own.

We locked eyes. Rather, I felt my gaze pulled to his. Two rippling golden orbs, alive with fires of power and pleasure. Hips still bucking into me, beads of his seed rolling down the hot skin around my hole, Hunter pointed his snout skyward and howled.

I returned the call, faltering between stolen breath, then attempted to match his ferocity. Powerful notes, honed over many turns I'd never experienced, drowned me out. Deeper, longer-echoed, he returned his gaze to me. Not anger, not mocking, but a sense of ownership. Golden fire bored into me, mixed with the remnants of howl in my ears, and then struck the warring voices in my mind.

"HE'S MINE."

"i'm his."

We remained locked and curled and embraced in one another for as long as Hunter needed. Before restlessness kicked in, before a need to gorge on blood and flesh took hold, the telltale scour of sunlight spilled over the back of my head.

~ ~

"I'll see you soon?"

"Yeah," I said.

Ian didn't buy it. I didn't buy it, and it was my lie.

He glanced down to his thigh, where a cellphone-shaped bulge protruded. I nodded, slung my brother's camo backpack over my shoulder, then weaved to the curb brooking a river of load-bearing minivans and fast-talking, luggage-laden families.

Ian gripped his helmet with white knuckles. As he stood next to his bike, one hand on a handle, I caught his eye. Withdrawing my phone from my own pocket, I tapped the screen and then knocked my head back in the direction of the check-in gates. Ian nodded, almost smiling, then mounted his bike.

I squeezed through sliding doors, choked with multiple parties of permanently-confused extended families. Despite the building made of glass, the angle of early sun cast everything in an otherworldly, liminal darkness. It took my eyes a few long seconds to adjust. I mumbled a sorry apology to a stranger I'd accidentally rubbed shoulders with, then squinted up at a cartoonish model airplane suspended a few dozen feet above. Then it hit me.

"Damn. He dropped me at the international terminal."

Oh well. Not like I had any place to be or any flight to barely-catch. I sighed, readjusting the bag, then hoped a loop around LAX would give me a little perspective. Twelve hours ago I had been willingly violated by a monster. An hour ago, my brother and I once again donned the roles as the bogeymen in one another's bleak, shared past. And then a minute ago, the first monster gave me a ride to the airport.

A better writer could pull something out of that.

The domestic byway didn't seem to be any less crowded, though at least smaller groups comprised the suitcase-dragging masses. I strained to remember which of my credit cards had mileage in reserve and for what airline, but I just settled on a kiosk with the fewest people hovering about its screen.

A few clicks and a swipe later, the kiosk spit out my ticket. OKC stared back at me in bold, stretched lettering. I made eye contact with a woman at the front desk. She looked at me with less an appraisal and more an annoyance, my one bag the only item I had with me.

Shuffled along through lines, security checks, and the daunting task of selecting the least-tacky airport bar to spend the next seven hours, I sat in a high single-seater and popped open my laptop. No sooner had I sipped my first shallow glass of overpriced scotch than the computer whirred to life, desktop flickering to battery-saver mode.

Of course. No opportunity to charge it since pulling an all-nighter writing and editing Ian's latest deep dive into disjointed turned memories. I bit back the curse with a strong sip of scotch, then leaned back and peered around the bar. Must have only lucked upon an unoccupied seat since it seemed to be the only one in the bar without an outlet. People had phones to charge.

I packed up, laptop pinned under an arm carrying a bag, and balanced my scotch into an empty seat next to a man in a midnight black suit reading at the end of the bar.

"May I?"

"Please," he said, voice deep and clear.

It took a few awkward seconds to settle everything, unhinge my arm to free my laptop, then fish out the power adapter from somewhere in the furthest corner of the camo bag. My well-dressed neighbor offered a helpful hand to plug it into a free outlet near his knee, underneath the lip of the bar.

"Thanks. Sorry for the trouble."

"Not at all."

Our eyes met. He wore glasses, frames bold and square. I looked past the glasses to see a perfectly-cropped black beard framing his pleasantly-smiling face. Fit, dark brown skin, and hair done in tight and neat cornrows; coupled with the book and the suit, he looked the part of a young college professor.

"What are you drinking? I'm going to be hunkered down for a while, can fill us both up."

"Ah, that's--well, alright then."

The tap of my empty glass on the bar cut him off, barkeep hustling to substitute both of our drinks. I smiled. The amber beer appeared a moment later, followed shortly by more scotch. I nodded at the barkeep, then offered up my short glass to my neighbor.

"Cheers," he said.

We clinked glasses. Typically I might find myself tempted by conversation, but I also had a burning desire to avoid being that guy and interrupt his reading material. Plus, I had a story to edit. I dove back in, quietly hissing in disdain as the mediocre scotch splashed against my tongue.

Needed to tie up loose ends in this chapter, which culminated with Ian and Hunter spending another night exploring their animal instincts before the sun put a stopper on beastly coitus. I sighed, realizing the painfully public corner of a bar I occupied, then scrolled up to tackle some of the more heavy-hitting earlier scenes.

My thoughts drifted, as they often did when forced to edit, and I couldn't help but draw conclusions between Hunter and myself. Challenging childhoods, alcoholic fathers, and a penchant for diving headfirst into something we didn't quite understand. I eagerly awaited more information from Ian about the mysterious pack Hunter alluded to, but I knew better than to push too hard.

I wrangled my cell phone from my pocket and put it flat against the bar. A text from Ian, fortuitously enough. I slid it out of the notification window, unread, not wanting to lose rhythm on my edit.

Despite my dedication, less than an hour later I found my bladder conspiring against me. I spun off the bar stool, stood more shakily than I'd expected for two glasses deep, and began to tuck my computer back into my bag. Hopefully no one would take the empty seat and scotch backwash as reason to poach my real estate.

"I can watch that for you," My barmate said, turning to face me.

"Appreciated, but you know the rules about suspicious people and packages. Never watch someone's bag, don't say the b-word, et cetera."

"But I'm asking you if I can watch it. Pretty convoluted mind-games on your part, right? Well, presuming you won't be back, of course."

"Nope, quick break." I jerked my head down the long airport walkway, towards what I assumed was either a restroom or a pretzel shop.

I didn't fail to notice he hadn't made much progress on the book. Regardless...horses, mouths, however the phrase went. Maybe I was a little less sober than I realized. Still, I took my brief leave, swinging around and making for the nearest restroom. I turned back to see my barmate sidle over slightly towards my computer, then give me a nod as he resumed reading his book over my keyboard.

Thankfully, it didn't take long. I jostled past shoulders to the weird new air blade-dryers you sort of jammed your hands in and hope for the best, then wiped the remaining moisture on the front of my shirt as I rounded the exit and arrived back at the bar.

"No funny business," my new friend said with a smile. "See?"

"I owe you one."

"It's really no problem. Writers have to watch out for one another."

I stopped midway into reclaiming my seat. Feeling my eyebrows strain in suspicion, I cast him a glance.

"Oh, I'm sorry! C'mon, don't give me that look."

"Sorry, it's just...." I grappled with my thoughts, once again wishing my weak constitution hadn't landed me in such an awkward situation. "Writing kinda, er, sensitive stuff here."

"I'll say." He smiled. "Look, forgive my curiosity. I only took a few glances over the last little bit, then only saw this current page," he gestured to my screen, "when you ran your errand. It seems interesting."

"Well--"

"Sensitive, yes, but interesting. I'll be blunt: I see a lot of stories in my line of work. Some barely-finished, hot off some touch-starved fanatic's fingertips. Others a slow build, years of work, appendices of barely-mentioned world building. But, neither quite captures me like the small taste I got looking at your novel."

I paused, considering my words. I hastened to catch a glance of the so-called tasty screengrab, thankfully not seeing a mention of two fucking seventeen year-old werewolves. "It's...not really a novel."

"Well, whatever you call it. Story, novella, anthology, fan fiction...." he seemed to shudder at the idea of that. "My name's Desmond. I run a small publishing organization. We mostly focus on amateur writers."

"Well, I wouldn't really--"

Before I could even route myself toward offense, he pulled a card from an inner pocket of his suit jacket. I couldn't even muster the awareness to refuse. The perfectly black rectangle slid into my sweaty palm.

"Er, I'm...Charles--Chuck--Penn."

"Pleasure's all mine." Instead of meeting me for a shake, I felt a hand on my thigh. "I only got a taste, but I'd certainly love to sample something more filling."

'Oh, so we're doing THAT again, huh?' What, did I land myself a vampire this time?

"I'd appreciate you drop me a line. Call, text, email, Instagram...I'm available. Looking for some new blood for my brand of clientele."

Yep, for sure vampire.

"I'll uh, hm. Thanks." I flipped my hand up from the bar, noting the business side of Desmond's card.

'MIDKNIGHT Publishing Group'

"Do a little research, if you'd prefer. Honestly, I encourage it." Desmond spoke in a manner that stopped skepticism from even taking root. Rehearsed, but not insincere.

"Thanks. I'll do that."

"Great. Give it a little thought, get back to me later today if your flight doesn't take too much out of you. Now, I think I'll be going. Get out of your hair for a bit, keep the story flowing. Editing isn't for the faint of heart, after all."

The waiter dropped a receipt in front of him. A signature later, and Desmond made a much more elegant exit than I had managed prior.

"Huh. Sneaky bastard planned all this out, huh? And I said the drinks were on me."

In response, my bartender jabbed a thumb down at the receipt. A few strokes of neat prose had been written around a block of fine print.

'You'll get the next one. -D '