FSE

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Jack awakes to a glorious silver moon shining through a breach in the clouds.

Flat on his back, memories come running back from the werewolf attack. The beast’s claws had shredded his flesh like hot-iron pokers, ripped through his muscles, and crushed the bones.

Yet, he is alive. Bleeding from a deep chest wound, but still very much alive and in distressing pain.

Crows stand guard over his body, perched from the trees and awaiting in morbid silence. Out of reflex, Jack reaches for his gun, but finds nothing. Ryan had taken his rifle and his knife was left stuck on the roof of the carriage.

The crows flap their wings and call for the Mother of the Night to come collect this stray soul.

“I’m not dead, devil bird!” Jack challenges. “You don’t get my soul just yet!”

He staggers to his feet, besides the pain and the warm blood spilling out of the wounds. Standing just to prove he could, that his heart still beat. He leans against the trees, takes a long breath of cold night air that restores his forces. With his back to the tree, barely standing he glares at the birds.

“I’m fucking alive!” He just wishes to keep like that for a little longer.

The first steps take too much effort, but he keeps thinking of being back at the tavern with Ryan at his side. They would share a mug of warm spiced wine, and he would tell him all about how he survived.

Such a tale it would be! Surviving on the Black Forest without weapon or supplies, with a gushing wound on his chest. Ryan would laugh and ask how he survived all of this, Jack would take a long swig of the wine, smile confidently, and…

Jack coughs blood against the back of his hand. Yeah, that would make one hell of a story.

The trail is easy to find. Their carriage left deep groves on the old trail, followed closely by the pawprints of the werewolves on the muddy soil. He follows with hefty steps, the wound on his chest burning, probably infected by whatever diseases these beasts carried.

He undoes the straps of his armored coat and let it fall to the ground. This was much better, the coat had been too heavy on his shoulders, constricted too much.

“I should have been a farmer,” he grunts between pained breaths. A quiet life in the farm would have been easier, secure. Nothing dangerous about watching beets grow and doing whatever else farmers did. Who really knew what farmers did anyway?

The wolves howl.

Jack shakes his head and straightens his back, his steps lighter now without noticing. Nah, that would have never worked, it was too hard to keep his proclivities hidden when they kept moving from city to city, barely spending more than one night in every place.

He had chosen the forest, and would do so again.

“I’m still alive,” he murmurs with less conviction, but knows he will once again win over the forest.

The wolves howl.

He comes upon the remains of the carriage a couple of minutes later, jutting like a broken piece of civilization amidst the ancient trees. The small vehicle is silent and still, no signal of the passengers, from Charlie or even Ryan.

The crows circle above, some perched on the remains of the carriage. Silently they stand watch.

Still stuck to the ceiling of the upturned carriage is his knife. He pulls the knife free and let its weight be a comforting presence between his fingers. He slides it back into his belt’s sheath and keep on searching.

Jack takes a canteen left behind amidst the wreckage, he recognizes the cheap golden initials “C.C.”, nothing the old asshole would be missing. He takes a sniff and finds cheap wine.

It tastes like vinegar, acrid and unease on his mouth, but Jack drinks and let it banish the cold. Memories of the attack play in his mind, the gnashing fangs, dark fur, those ruby red eyes. And blood, his own blood spilling over the claws of the giant beast.

He takes another long swig and takes out his shirt, the wounds under it itching, but at least they had stopped bleeding. A sweety, drizzling smell brushed pleasantly against his mind, invited him into the night.

The tracks tell a pretty simple story. Five sets of human prints had taken the road due east. Ryan’s military boots are familiar enough that he recognizes them immediately, then Charlie’s cheap boots with a badly patched up hole on the left foot, followed by Mellissa’s slim and elegant shoes, her husband’s Italian, good quality shoes just next to her, and finally, to the back, Victoria’s sensible shoes.

Worryingly, three other human sets followed not that far behind, two wearing boots and one walking barefoot.

“Who the hell are you…” he touches the soil with two fingers, getting a feel for their weight and shape. By the distance of the steps, they are tall, by their depth, they carry a heavy load.

He takes to the east the trail, following the trail of Ryan and the strangers. The cold breeze of the night tickling his long-suffering skin. The night is clear for him, the barely glimpses of moonlight glow with a newfound intensity.

At a distance, two shapes wearing long, dark coats had stopped in a clearing. Hunters? Inquisitors? His mind races with the possibilities as he approaches in silence.

He moves faster now, coming upon the strangers with silent steps. He makes four steps into the clearing when the cold touch of steel against his skin makes him stop. A heavy blade touches his neck with just enough pressure to let him know its wielder could easily cut him open.

“That’s close enough, stranger,” a young man that smells of unwashed flesh and stale sweat holds the blade to Jack’s neck. Near six foot tall and strong enough to make an ox envious, his messy dark hair falls over dark eyes that follows Jack’s every move. He wears the long coat preferred by hunters, but under it there is metal armor. He carries a long rifle on his back, and holds a long, two-handed sword.

“Took you a while,” the older one says, barely turning to acknowledge him. “What do we have here?”

The older stranger wears the same long coat, but his is stained by age and use, many times patched up. He carries a light sword on his hip, and a collection of pistols on his belt and on a bandolier crossing his chest. His hair is grey and his dark eyes are dour. He holds a heavy chain in his hands that connects to a silver collar on the neck of a young men.

“Don’t bother,” the young hunter mutters. “He’s a mongrel.”

Jack looks over the chained man with some curiosity, he looks pallid, and sickly. His strawberry blonde hair messy and dirty, one of his eyes blackened. He wears ragged clothes and no shoes. The effects of the change were evident in his body, his ears pointed, his canines sharp and elongated. He looks at Jack with curiosity in his piercing red eyes.

“Franklin Q. Silverman,” the older hunter presents himself with a short nod. “And this fellow is my son, Luke R. Silverman, he may be a tad rude, but we don’t like strangers coming unannounced.”

“Jack Mercer,” he replies, eyes still locked with the mongrel, a glimpse of strange recognition between them. “What’s a mongrel?”

“Half-wolves,” the son answers quickly, putting the sword down. “This fucker was bitten by a werewolf, but haven’t been turned yet. They are really good to track down other werewolves.”

“What my son is trying to say is that this fellow here had the bad luck to be bitten, but we saved him from being dragged by those dark creatures back into their den,” Franklin explains with an academic tone. “We give him doses of belladonna to halt the transformation.”

“You are poisoning me!” The mongrel grunts, struggling against the chains, the silver collar around his neck has left a distinct burnt mark.

“Quiet,” Franklin replies with a heavy tug of the chain. “It’s a shame to see a life being wasted away, but at least you will have a human’s death.”

Hunters were an old profession by now, the fools and braves that ventured into the Black Forest and similar places of dark powers. Alchemists needed their precious reagents that could only grow in the tainted soil, explorers needed capable escorts to keep them safe as they tried to map these dark lands, couriers needed bodyguards to keep them safe until they could deliver urgent messages. There were hunters clads all over Europe and with time each had developed their specialties and own agendas. Still, Jack hoped, few would condone these brutal and inhuman methods.

“And what you doing out here on a full moon night?” Luke asks. “No weapon, no armor, no friends. It’s mighty dangerous.”

“Werewolf attack, I got separated from my group,” Jack replies curtly, these two hunters didn’t need to know the details. “I’m trying to track my group, stumbled into you two first.”

Luke looks Jack over, clinical and cold. “You got lucky those beasts didn’t scratch you, or you would be going crazy with moon fever. We haven’t seen anyone else on these areas, just those werewolves.”

Jack put his hand instinctively over his chest, his fingers touch only the soft flesh. He hides his fear from the hunters, but the mongrel can smell it.

“Damn wolves!” Franklin spits. “Most dangerous creatures in those woods if you ask me. They fought the Inquisition, the Crusaders, and now the British Army. Every village within a hundred miles has been raided at least once!”

Jack looks over the sickly mongrel, his pupils dilated by the poison. He feels the weight of the knife in his belt. Silver edged blade, it wouldn’t hurt much, just a quick strike over his heart and he could die as a human too.

The wolves howl. Don’t do this.

“The farmers are paying us twenty coins of silver per scalp, ten times that if we bring out their alpha!” Luke adds proudly.

“There’s no such thing,” the mongrel mumbles and Franklin pulls his chain to silence him.

“That’s a lot, all of that over some stolen sheep?” Jack questions.

“Oh, the dark hungers of these beasts can’t be sated with sheep, isn’t that right mongrel?” Franklin pulls on the leash and the mongrel growls painfully.

“No,” the older hunter continues. “These beasts have been luring people into the forest, dragging them to their nests. Those unfortunate fellows end up as food or things even worse. Now, our little mongrel will take us straight into their nest.”

“You are the ones invading our land and killing our pack,” the mongrel interrupts loudly.

“You talk too loud for chattel!” Franklin pulls tight on the metal chain, snapping. “You are a fucking debt on my back, mongrel. When we finish here, we will sell you to the boffins on that big university of theirs, and they will cut you up real good! Drain you of all blood. Now shut up if you don’t want me to black your other eye!”

Jack’s palms prickle. He looks up at the old scarecrow of a hunter and his towering son, their eyes dark and horrible.

“We will blow them all up! We got two boxes of TNT from the old mine in Silvertown,” the son laughs. “It’ll kill those bitches dead!”

The laughter crawls at Jack’s spine like icy fingers. It had the same effect on the mongrel, he curls in on himself.

Franklin shakes his head at his son lack of discretion and eloquence. “My babbling son is correct, even if he lacks the eloquence to properly explain it. Say, you look like a strong fellow, maybe you would want to help us here? We could even offer you a tenth share of the reward, plus some new clothes, and a pair of boots. What do you say, son? It’s honest pay.”

The winds change direction and the three hunters assembled on that clearing could smell the violence bound to happen like an incoming storm, before their minds can properly react to it all. Hands rush to holsters, and it is only just in time that Jack dodges out of the way of a pair of shots coming from the father and son.

Jack pulls out his knife, but in the first moments he knows that’s a fight he is going to lose. Adrenaline coursing in his veins gives him the initial advantage, jumping the two hunters while they lose precious heartbeats dropping their discharged pistols and unsheathing their blades.

Jack focus on Luke first, trying to get him out of the combat as fast as possible, but the brute parries the knife strike with his gauntlet and fight back like an enraged bull. His movements are large, swinging his long sword with pure brute force, not much of a style, but enough strength to compensate for it.

Franklin moves less, letting his son do the brute work and using his blade like a scalpel. Every strike economical, quick, and with deadly intent.

“So, what are you, a mongrel or a wolf-lover?” Franklin spit the words with a fast lunge that Jack barely managed to block. “You betrayed your kind, fucking over all of humanity for some piece of tail.”

“Die, you fucking fucker!” Luke steps forwards with heavy lunges, putting all his weight behind every strike.

Never properly trained in sword fighting, Jack can still hold his ground with the knife in tavern brawls or against the occasional thief on the road. He keeps on moving back, staying out of range from Luke’s long sword, but Franklin is a wicked smart fighter, exploiting each weakness and opening in Jack’s defenses.

And Jack dies twice times by their blades.

The first time his neck was slashed open and left to bleed over the dark soil. A quick, but dumb, way to go. Jack was certain of that up until he felt the wound knitting itself over.

The wolves howl. Not yet.

Jack tastes blood in his mouth as his wounds close, strange new sensations twisted inside of him. The forest lit up with red eyes, werewolves coming to witness.

He let the beast come out. Fangs burst out of his gums; claws sprouted of his fingers. His muscles tightened and grew around his bones. It was painful, but deliciously so.

Rage fuels him, hot, sudden, and uncontainable. He lashes out against the hunters; his claws now find Luke’s armor with enough force to cut the metal and force the big hunter to retreat. Franklin still tries a surgical strike, but Jack twists out of the way with inhuman grace.

Still the two hunters weren’t easily overcome. Knowing his curse now, they draw pistols loaded with silver cartridges. The couple of shots hits his flesh with an agonizing burning sensation that seems to reverberate through his bones. He bites his teeth until they bleed to keep going.

Blind with rage he is trespassed by Luke’s long sword. Franklin is almost upon him with a long carving knife with silver edge as he agonized, kept alive only by the powerful regeneration of his curse.

The old hunter raises the knife, and is tackled savagely by the Mongrel, still wearing the heavy chains and cuffs he throws himself bodily over the older hunter and bashes against him with his heavy cuffs.

Luke impulsively goes to help his father and leaves Jack behind.

Jack blinks, struggling for breath as his wounds couldn’t close properly. He is being dragged down, drowning into darkness, he struggles once again for every breath. From the corner of his eyes, he sees the mongrel and the silver blade in the hunter’s hand.

“Mother of night!” Jack pleads as hand by hand he pulls the sword out of his chest. “I give myself to you.”

He invites the change now. His bones shift and grow under his skin, the world brightens up as his eyes turn to a deep red, his hunger becomes keen. His human skin falls off to reveal the dark fur underneath. His bones shift his face into a muzzle. He becomes a celebration of the night.

Jack howls.

The two hunters hesitate for a moment, staring into Jack’s red eyes.

“Are you afraid now, old man?” Jack says, his voice the whisper of a predator, taunting with open claws. “Come closer, old man.”

The blood of the pack is racing within his veins, he becomes more. His claws grow longer, his fur thicker, his instincts sharper. He becomes complete.

He leaps with claws out, pins down Luke before he could reach for his guns. The hunter punches Jack hard enough to draw blood, but the wounds close as fast as they are made.

They become locked in a moment of pure, unbridled violence, their blood spilling with each punch and claw strike. Jack becomes the predator, the savage animal of the night that he once hunted, he bites down the hunter neck and with a disgusting give he breaks the flesh and bone at once.

Franklin shoots, pulling out pistols from his bandolier and discarding them after each shot, he couldn’t be bothered to reload them now. Each shot hits Jack like liquid fire, the silver digging deep into his flesh, boiling his blood.

“Thou shall not suffer a dark beast to live,” he punctuates every word with a shot of his pistols. “Vengeance is mine, said the Father of Light!”

Jack howls in pain. The silver weighs him down, spreading like poison in his body, dragging him down to the place of pure darkness. He staggers to his knees.

The old hunter cocks his pistol and Jack stares down the barrel of gun, he can smell the silver inside of it.

“Should have stayed dead, boy,” Franklin spits the words. “Now die like an animal!”

Black claws rip out the hunter’s arm. His screams of rage and pain are lost amidst the howls and roars of the werewolves coming out of the forest and pilling up, their claws rip him apart.

The dark beasts disappear back into the forest as quickly as they had come, but a few stand behind, they look at Jack when it’s over, their red eyes filled with curiosity, their noses tracking his scent.

Jack tenses, waiting for an attack, but it never comes.

“What are you waiting?” The mongrel says, freed of his chains at last. “Let’s go!”

The mongrel changes in front of Jack. He does it with grace and euphoria, there’s only the swift transition from man to wolf. His black fur had a couple of discolored markings now where the silver collar had held him, but Jack couldn’t deny those complimented him elegantly.

His red eyes hold Jack’s gaze with an almost playful air, the confidence and the grace that only comes with the certainty that he is the biggest, meanest being around.

Jack follows him, letting the rage slip out of his mind as he shifts fully into a wolf. On four legs they run through the woods as a pack, their keen senses turn the forest into something of serene beauty, its mysteries unveiling themselves to Jack as he finally can understand it.

And he listens to the wolves, their distant howls that convey meaning and understanding. Without words they teach Jack to be a wolf.

And he is fast, running in four legs through the woods as if he always belonged to them. Hearth thundering in his chest until his lungs burn, until his legs ache, and until his mind can’t keep pace. So easy to become one with the pack and embrace the night.

He opens his eyes and lifts his head, catches the enticing smell of prey. Hunger consumes his mind, a simple and powerful desire that seems to spread through the pack.

Jack now leads them, hierarchies being malleable and changing in a way he couldn’t have understood before. The mongrel is at his side, the distinctive white marks make him easy to spot, nudging him forward. Challenging Jack to take the lead.

Easy to forget the constraints of humanity with the full moon at their backs and the sweet scent of a white stag in their minds. Jack is the first one to jump on the prey, biting down and holding the elegant creature down for the others.

He tastes the blood in his mouth, a sweet-tart flavor that only makes him crave for more. The flesh is filling, helps his body deal with the silver wounds until he is left with only dark-blue scars to remember the encounter with the two hunters.

Werewolves are creatures of excess and energetic emotions. Their passions gave them strength, their rage made them fearsome.

Now Jack draws a deep breath, watching the mongrel and knows their lust. It’s ravenous, a burning arousal that goes down his spine to his cock. All the adrenaline coursing in his system definitely don’t help, his cock slides out of his sheath, red and glistening with beads of precum.

Shame is something little known between the werewolves, such a silly human concept of guilty over their own bodies, of denial of their desires. The mongrel smell Jack’s arousal and he is eager to reciprocate.

Shifting slightly into a more humanoid shape, something between wolf and man he takes Jack against a tree. His tongue fills Jack’s mouth and he tastes the wolf mixed in with the sweet stag’s blood. Jack’s black paws hold him against the tree, squeezes his toned ass.

“My name is Dante,” he whispers in Jack’s ears in between sharp, eager kisses. “My brave savior.”

Jack can’t answer with words, instead pressing Dante against the tree, pinning him. One paw tangle in Dante’s blonde hair, jerking his head back. Licking his glistening, sweating skin and his hard nipples. His fur tickles Dante as his mouth closes around his nipples and sucks hard. And Jack’s red, hard cock press against Dante’s thighs, dripping with precum.

The wolves don’t seem to care about privacy either, the adrenaline of the hunt and the sweet meat of the stag now gives them the burning desire of fucking. It’s a raw desire, a passion that dominates all other thoughts. They give themselves freely and without shame, in pairs and small groups in a wild passion. He sees a woman still in her changed form take two men at once. Two men back into human shape holding tightly to each sharing a long and intense kiss. A couple of women back in their mixed sucked and kissed the red cock a big werewolf.

It’s Dante moaning and digging his nails at Jack’s muscular back that brings him back to the moment at hand, the desire in his body carnal and dark, intense in a way that quickly erases all his concerns and worries. He wants Dante, so very badly, not to love, but to fuck.

Each stroke of Jack’s rough tongue against Dante’s nipples only makes him want more, make him crave to feel this powerful werewolf inside of him at once. A smoldering heat taking over his body with those raw, crass desires.

"Fuck," Dante snarled, grabbing at Jack’s neck, pulling him into another kiss. Hungry and possessive, their tongues enlaced, their bodies rubbing against each other. Dante’s hand reach down and take Jack’s cock between them, caressing, cupping, and guiding it between his thighs.

"Fuck me, Jack," Dante begged. This isn’t sex, it was much too desperate, too hungry for that. And Jack obliges, lifts Dante and pushes his cock, thrusting and plunging his way inside of Dante. Jack’s paws catch him at the hips, holds tightly and let Dante controls the rhythm.

"Ohhhh..." Dante moans, tortured sounds coming from his throat. Deep growls of need as his eyes close, as he takes every inch of the werewolf cock. His own cock gets erect, presses against Jack’s black fur with each thrust and every movement of their bodies.

"You're so fucking big!" Dante hissed in Jack’s ear, the rapid lust mounting in his body. It burned away the poisons, let him become pure, let him feel the lust, and the passion, and the desires with a burning intensity. He clings to Jack’s body desperately, his nails dig in his flesh, that dark and seductive prince that had come to his rescue in the middle of the night.

Jack takes him hard; the wolf has freed him of guilty and shame. Even now, surrounded by their pack there’s no hesitation, not a single doubt in his mind to taint this perfect moment of pleasure. Then comes his knot, slapping against Dante’s ass with every thrust, easing his way inside until they are tied.

“Oh Jack!” Dante cries out. “Oohgods yes!”

It’s desperate, lustful. The knot stretching him, tying him to the werewolf as he comes. Hard pulses of hot semen fills Dante, the knot throbbing inside of him until Dante himself was also coming, writhing as his semen spilled over Jack’s chest. Breathing in deeply to get accustomed to the girth of the knot inside of him.

Jack lowers him into the ground, the two still tightly tied by the knot. He listens to Dante’s soft, ragged breathing. Holding onto the last fragments of his orgasm.

“You are amazing, my wolf,” Dante murmured.

Looking at the pale moon, Jack feels the all too tired. Cradling Dante into his arms, but his mind now goes back to Ryan. The warmth of his smile, the silken touch of his fingers.

What was he going to do without him? Would Ryan even want to see him now?

He lost his breath at the thought, he didn’t had illusions about ever being back in Ryan’s arms, but he needed to at least know they had come out of this safe.

“We will find them,” Dante says, his voice soft and comforting, knowing the worries in Jack’s mind without needing a word. “Nothing in this forest can hide from us and nothing can endanger what we protect.”