Beatus Vir
#8 of Und Des Nachts: Danny the Killer
Disclaimer: I apologize for none of this. None. You know what kinds of things are going to happen. There will be death, yes. And gore, too. In fact, there will be less of it than normal.
But that doesn't make it any less awful. This is the penultimate chapter. There will be one more, and epilogue, and then this crazy fucking symphony will draw away, left to echo in your ears.
And for that? Well... I apologize.
Danny stared into the darkness, awake again. These nights were getting too long for him. Four. Four thirty. Four thirty five. He lay placidly, idle paws clutching the iron cross slung loosely on its chain. It was cold and heavy, practically burrowing into his chest. The moon was sinking low. And Ian was crying again.
It had been three days since he'd gotten the phone call. He'd never heard the wolf breathe so raggedly, he'd never heard Ian's voice shake like that, and it struck him with a feeling of concern that he rarely possessed, let alone expressed. He had done his best to be sympathetic with his dear friend's plight, but his nerves were shot- and had been every night since. Ian was going to kill him, at this rate.
"Danny." The white wolf had whimpered into the receiver. "I screwed up really bad this time. I didn't mean to, but I did." Danny could barely hear his trembling words over the roar of the truck engine. "Help me. You have to." He sniffed. "I didn't want this."
"I know," said the weasel. He smiled, but did not laugh. He knew how Ian felt.
Ian brought the puppy in, carrying him with careful paws and shaking tenderness, a nasty grimace stretched across his normally proud muzzle. They laid him out on the table, next to all the medical "supplies" the two had kept handy- and they had quite a bit.
Danny was at a loss for words at first, but took the pup's paw anyway, staring intently into a pair of glassy, soulless eyes. He felt for a pulse, and found one. He checked the eyes for alertness, and found that, too. Its jaw was broken, yes, and there was blood everywhere... But the damn thing lived, at least. Was Ian truly that vicious when he wasn't around? It wasn't like the wolf to wander around all alone these days. Let alone bring such a broken victim home with him. Strange Danny thought, dabbing a little blood from each lupine's eye. Very strange.
At the time he had decided to unquestioningly do Ian's bidding and bandage the puppy's wounds, brutal and numerous as they were. It had taken a full day to cleanse the little bastard of his dear friend's DNA. The only time Ian's victim showed any sign of life was when Danny brought out the ammonia and the swab. He momentarily thought about recording the moaning. If only they had been able to keep him for a little while longer.
When they'd finally delivered him to the hospital, the puppy was truly on the verge of death, clinging valiantly with frail little claws. Everyone wanted to know what happened to him, and Danny told them the truth- he had found the boy in an alley, undoubtedly abused by some violent gang of coyotes that sometimes hung around loud bars, blaring their death metal through crappy motorcycle speakers. It was enough to break Danny's heart.
They had done well- they were in and out of that hospital before anyone saw their faces. The weasel expected that to be the end of the whole bizarre experience. But now Ian was upset all the time. He went days without eating a single thing; he sat up all night and howled at the moon on the back porch. But more and more often, he would sit at the foot of Danny's bed. He would lay still, paws clenched over his muzzle or his eyes, the pained sound of a clenching throat occasionally alighting across Danny's ears. The evenings would stretch on, and Danny could hear it like a sonata. The low whimpering would build on itself, at times an unbroken stream of legato sound- pulsing with his own heartbeat. It would crescendo, blossom into a choked sob or a percussive sniff, and return again to formlessness, drifting in and out of his ears. It was like listening to a river. There were nights when muted lupine howls would echo hollowly in Ian's throat, gulped back down as soon as they manifested. They were heavy as the cross. Beautiful, deranged and sorrowful. Real, honest expression. Truth.
Tonight's serenade had come to a sputtering end, and Danny shook off the daze. Ian shuddered slightly as he felt a paw wrap around his shoulder, drawing him close to a furry chest. There was a muzzle at his ear. No one ever touched him like that anymore.
"Do you think he'll be ok?" he breathed.
The weasel mercifully pretended to think about it for a few long moments. "No." he said finally, giving Ian's shoulder a squeeze. "You broke him, Ian. Split him into pieces. Now he'll be like you."
"I didn't want that." The wolf said. "I..."
"I know. Shh... You did good." A soft paw slid over flattened, black ears, and Ian stopped his shivering. "You're a good wolf."
There was a long pause. Danny wasn't sure how long they had sat there. Through the bedroom window, the sun was beginning to lift above the horizon. Red shafts of light filtered through the fan that served as their air conditioning, casting long, rotating shadows across the room. "It looks nice out." Danny said.
Ian howled. The sun rose.
"I think we've found a lead, Reynard."
The fox frowned and shifted the phone in his paw. "You think you've found a lead? You're part of a federal agency. It's been a month since you've put me on this case, and I've barely managed to scrape up the hints of a lead. I understand he's elusive, but you have his name for Christ's sake. I find myself a little ill equipped, John."
"Well," the voice at the other end was strangely cold today. "Maybe this will make you happy. We have someone. A witness, if you will. Better, actually. A survivor."
A set of vulpine ears cocked at the sound. "Is that so? A survivor? And you're sure it was Ian's doing?"
"A wolf cub. We almost didn't catch it- I'm amazed the kid was even alive. Some good Samaritan brought him in a week ago, and fed us some story about how he found the kid in an alleyway. The doctor's weren't sure if they were supposed to believe him or not, but they took it on good faith. Besides, the pup was dying in their paws. They didn't exactly have time for questioning."
"What exactly about that story entails White's involvement? Who brought him in?"
"They don't even remember- he was in an out like a flash. Some guy with black fox ears, but ah... Not a fox, according to these folks. No name, no information. There's a guy on the tapes with black ears, but he never looks at the camera."
"What about my first question? Why is this Ian's case?"
"Ah yes, well..." The voice on the other end sounded a little indignant for the fox's liking. "We found flecks of dried paint in the fur on his muzzle, and we wondered where they came from. Turns out it was dried wolf's blood. It just didn't belong to the puppy."
The fox's black lips curled. "Excellent." He murmured.
"We've sent a car." John said.
"I'll see you there."
It was a rare evening indeed- eloquent and fine. It was a night for nimble fingers, clever paws, and eyes with vision. It was a night for foxes, oh yes.
An autumn moon was casting down white light, shedding it in brilliant spears through latent, curling storm clouds. Very rarely was Reynard moved by such beauty, especially by nature, a thing he found rather un-poetic. This evening, however, it was as if the moon was piercing the night itself, and the night, in retaliation, was twisting and squirming- bleating like a hurt lamb with peals of far-off thunder and wild shots of lightning. The fox was loath to waste such precious film on a lifeless canvas, but opportunity knocked when it would. Besides, the car hadn't even arrived yet. It was a good a time as any to reassure himself of his timing.
His throat ached desperately for a finery of some sort, though it made do with the cigarettes that hyena had been keen to provide him with. "After all," John had said. "I want you sharp. I want every creative neuron of yours firing for the day we find him." And so he sat, trying to think of poses, techniques, compositional frames and all manner of good things while the smoke curled lazily out of his wet nose.
Fantastic, he thought. I'm a dragon.
There was a quiet moment, and the rain broke. Such a shame, too. He was feeling particularly violent tonight, and sudden cold was sapping the ill intent from him. What was an artist without intent? What was art without a mode of expression, without a feeling to convey? What was a dragon without a village to set ablaze, huh? Nothing. All nothing. Finding his vigor restored, Reynard grinned. Finding his cigarette put out by a fat raindrop, Reynard frowned. At least the fucking car was here.
He was very curt with the driver, almost to the point of rudeness. It was to Reynard's dismay that it was not, in fact, a government car. Instead, it was a yellow taxi, the color of which pervaded his artist's senses and the odor of which pervaded his vulpine ones. The ride was mercifully swift, and the conversation was as well- though it did tweak a paranoid nerve in the fox's body to see that the cab driver was a white wolf. Still, there were none of the telltale marks, and his subject didn't drive cabs for a living- they would have caught him immediately. A wolf with this little craft (even if it was just driving a taxi) couldn't possibly be the legendary killer.
"So where you headed?" He slurred, curving the car in and out of the pathetically small amount of traffic.
"The hospital." Reynard said. "Make it as fast as you can."
"You in a hurry, buddy?"
"If you like tips, you'll watch the road. I suggest you point yourself in the direction of the hospital and drive like hell."
There wasn't a need for words after that.
The hospital loomed. Reynard really loved this kind of thing. People came here to live, people came here to die. And the aesthetic was pleasing on its own- white and sterile like a canvas, just before the real painting had begun. He asked at the front desk for a wolf puppy and a large, broad-shouldered hyena with an eye patch. He was told to put the damn cigarette out before he offended any burn victims, and advised to proceed up to room 317 on the third floor.
The elevator ride was pleasant.
"Do you believe in miracles, Reynard?"
Reynard found the agent sitting on a white-sheeted hospital bed, gingerly stroking the ears of a dazed and heavily bandaged wolf pup.
"It's been a few weeks. He can't move his jaw. But his paws work just fine. Don't they?" John shifted his weight back, looking up at the ceiling for a minute. "It's been forever since fortune smiled on me quite like this. Go easy on the kid, would you?"
The fox had already started snapping pictures. He knelt next to the bed. The expression of agonized embarrassment was too pure to ignore. "We're from a newspaper." He said, putting his camera momentarily on the bedside table. "And we just wanna ask you a few questions, alright? I hear you've been through a tough week."
Did the cub answer "yes"? Who gave a damn?
John spoke. "His name is Mason, he knows. Mason... something. It seems he's suffering some memory loss... though they're hoping that could just be temporary." An uncomfortable whine manifested in the pup's throat. "Poor kid," John said.
"Do you remember what happened?" The fox was looking for something. A pen. Here it was.
"Yes, do you?" said John.
An uncomfortable scribbling sound manifested on paper. "Yes" was written in barely legible script.
"I know it seems strange for us to talk to you like this..." John said.
"And we're sorry if we make you uncomfortable."
The pup shook his head.
"Where is your mother right now? Shouldn't she be here?"
More scribbling noises. Pathetic and cute. Reynard smiled. "Don't remember who," the paper said.
"You don't even remember your own mother?"
It was a little bit of a shock, and clearly the wolf pup had taken his fill of questions. It wasn't until Reynard reached out to stroke them and comfort the child that he realized just how perfect they were. An excellent shape, a very solid color, very dark... A strange marking to have on a wolf. Very strange. His black glove wiped away an idle tear on the pup's muzzle.
"Try not to cry, would you? Do your remember your name?"
"Mason," came the chicken-scratch reply.
"Last name?"
"No. Forget."
Reynard was transfixed. Those ears, so perfect and dark. They drew him in, clutching his mind and wrapping it gently around an artistic ideal he couldn't place. Something aesthetic about the ears pleased him, aroused him, made him faint with envy. They were like beautiful dark flowers that bloomed out of the side of his grey head. What merciful God would give a child ears like that? His paw inched closer, black claws trailing over white bandages to creep softly across a young face. Was it comforting? Was it disconcerting? The eyes weren't half as expressive as those ears were. He felt his body shudder.
"Mason..." The hyena continued, thinking to himself for a few moments. "Do you remember who did this to you?"
"Wolf." Said the pen to the paper. "White. Tall."
"White?" The fox whispered excitedly, caressing the delicate fur on top of the pup's head.
"White." John repeated.
Reynard's heart was beating in his chest as he retrieved his camera. He wanted those ears. He wanted them in every snapshot he'd ever taken. He wanted them on his own head, next to his own ears. His body heaved, gingerly pulling itself up onto the bed. Mason looked on with nervous, nervous eyes. The fox smiled. Mason flinched. Priceless- he took a picture.
"Do you remember what he said his name was?" John said, leaning against the wall and taking a sip of his coffee.
"No." Came the reply. Mason's eyes were locked on the fox.
"Come now... Can you remember nothing further? Tell me if you can- I'd love to hear it." Reynard was up on the bed now, laying next to Mason and touching his face, and his bandaged chest. "Don't you remember? The fire running up your legs?"
He shifted again, straddling the pup. Mason's eyes widened. "The wetness dripping down your chest?" He whispered seductively, holding Mason's head like a lover. A perfect, beautiful head. No wonder Ian had chosen him- he was beauty incarnate. Soft feminine features, kind, doe-like eyes... and those ears. Perky. Soft. Dark. The absolute perfect shape. Reynard could only imagine how his tail must look. He ran his lips along Mason's jaw, planting a small kiss right below his eye, in the well above his cheek. "Come now!" he whispered. "His breath on your neck, the feel of his dominance! Don't you remember anything?"
The fox leaned far, far inward, shoving his muzzle up into Mason's perfect ear. "You should tell me, Mason. I want you to tell me. I want you to say everything, and leave nothing out. I'll know if you lie. I'll know if you keep something from me. And I'll take it out of your mouth."
Soft features. Perfect lighting. From whence came the darkness that saturated the child's gaze? They were leaking sheer purity- innocence mixed with knowing. Though he shivered, it was not in fervent denial. What part of Mason wanted this? What part of him accepted it? The first and only survivor of a brutal killer like White. He should have had a scalpel run from his tailhole to his throat, and his skin peeled back, his muscles and veins all rent by vicious, beautiful lupine teeth. Instead, he looked at Reynard with sick desire. Quiet love of his suffering. That had to be it.
The only trouble would be deciding when to take the picture. Would he howl through those bloody bandages? Reynard hoped he would. He could make an entire installation with this lone puppy. He could send him through every emotion, from fear to agony to pleasure, to orgâ€"
"Reynard."
John... The fox felt himself fall back into reality. "Yes, Agent?"
"Get down from the bed."
Where was he? Ah... atop a hospital bed, straddling a cub, the bulge in his jeans stroking lewdly across the pup's damaged ribs, his muzzle pressed into an eye socket, literally making love with the tearstained fur. How embarrassing. Reynard obeyed.
Mason was slapping his paw wildly against the call button, desperately hoping to summon a nurse. It was good that John had had the foresight to disconnect the power chord.
"I think you should leave, fox."
"I think I will leave." His voice was shaky, and unpleasant to listen to, he knew. "I have a little information now. I'm done."
"I'm gonna ask the kid here two more questions. By the time I'm done with the first one, you should be in your cab, headed for your hotel room. I'll give you a call when we're ready to act. Understood?"
"Very good, agent."
The hyena adjusted his eye patch. "Very good."
Ian had a dream haunting him at night. It would perch behind his eyes and preen itself, admiring its dark pinions in the light of his imagination. They'd been coming to him more and more often lately and he hadn't told anyone about them. He never told anyone. Not his mother, not his father... Not even Danny. The dreams had always been there... Hadn't they? They'd been there as long as he could remember.
He could hear the night wind- that was always first. And then he could feel it slicing through his thick fur, like he was falling into the world piece by piece. He could see the moon, feel his hoodie wrapped tight around him. Was he in high school? Or maybe he was younger? It was impossible to tell. His lungs hurt, and he was clutching his chest, searching his fur for something that wasn't there.
There was fear in his blood. It was so cold here. Where was Danny? God, he was so out of breath. Every time, he would look down, and he would see them, and wonder what exactly they were for. It made him shake with distress. It made him feel crushed and mangled, starved and broken, all at once. A pair of scissors, red grips, probably new. He never knew where they came from, or why his paw was gripping them so tightly. He would fall to his knees, only to be shoved right back onto his paws by an invisible force. "Run!" his brain screamed, but he couldn't do that, either. He was paralyzed.
Ian could hear the shrill voice of a cub- the one he hurt.
A bright light washed over him and seared his eyes. Someone was watching him. Someone was looking at him What did they want with him? Why were they watching him?! He wished that they would stop, that everyone would just leave him alone. Forever. Christ! That's all he ever really wanted- he didn't want to be looked at. Stop it... And then it was like having a bag pulled over his head, and chains wrapped around his wrists. He was hoisted up by his neck, and dragged away to some dark place where he could be all alone. This settled his heart, but only slightly. He could hear someone shrieking in pain- the violent cries of a weasel, he knew. In an instant, he hated what he had always longed for.
Someone died. He woke up whimpering his mother's name. That was just the way of things. Every night. Every time he slept. That was just his life. Every time.
Ian was ripped from his sleep that night- there was a sound. Something wasn't right in his territory. It smelled like rain. It sounded like rain. The wet patter of a heavy storm. He looked out the window and into blackness, staring intently. He couldn't see anything, he couldn't hear anything... but his nose knew something was wrong. He sat up on his haunches, brushing away the blankets that Danny had laid on him in the night. From the foot of the bed, he could see the weasel snoring away in ignorant sleep. Who was here? What did they want?
Were they here for Danny?
Outside, Reynard stood in the pouring rain, clutching his poncho close.
"You're going to what?!" the voice on the phone said.
"I found him. I'm going inside."
"Reynard, stay there." The voice was worried, harsh. It was commanding and pleading at the same time. Pathetic.
"Why, John? He's right here. In this house. All I have to do is slit his throat. He's probably sleeping."
"I just wanted you to find him! Stay there and wait until I arrive."
"Those weren't your words. Do you want to pull the trigger yourself now?"
"Where are you, Reynard!?"
"I won't subject a brilliant mind like Ian White to the bland and un-poetic death by bullet, Mr. Evans. I won't. If you didn't want me to kill him, you should have asked long before I found my way to his front lawn. Even then, I can't really assure you that asking would have worked. You've given me the opportunity of my life, and I refuse to squander it based on semantics."
"Reynard!"
"Goodbye, Agent."
"Reyâ€""
Reynard closed the phone, clutching it tight in his ebony-furred paw. Here he stood, fierce and alone, yellow eyes glowing in the darkness like fire, he knew. His muse was not whispering in his ear tonight- she was screaming. All the grace and glory were his, in his paws, molded into the shape of a single killer wolf whose name Vermont had whispered in fright. White! White! The Kit Killer! The Psychopath! Sick! Twisted! They cowered in the streets in shameless cringing fear of the day they felt his breath on their throats, his paws wrapped greedily around the skinny, crushable necks of their children. Through the years of strangled, vicious screams, the semen and blood and tears and vomit, the rapes, the murders, the cannibalism, HE â€"Reynard the fox, artist and god- would lay that white beast down and cut him, scrape his flesh until poetry flowed free and red from the touch of his knives.
It was so beautiful, it hurt to think about. He stood for a few moments, savoring what he could still feel and smell. Thunder crashed in the distance. Beautiful. Like music.
Ian slunk around the corner on all fours, his throat growling lowly. Who wanted in here? This was his territory- couldn't they smell him? It belonged to him and his pack- no one else. He bared his fangs at the darkness, creeping along the ground with bizarre, animalistic grace. Who came here? Who wanted to die? This was his home. Not theirs. Never theirs.
His door opened, just a crack at first. Cautious, excited paws edged it along, and he could see the light spreading itself in the darkness of his den. He shrank behind a shadow, his half lidded eyes focused into a hunter's gaze. The interloper strayed from the door, crouching low and cocking an ear. His lungs drew no breath.
"Ian White." The stranger had words. It was almost a question, the way he said it.
His only response was a guttural growl, a warning that lit the interloper's blood aflame. "Leave," it said. "Or I will bleed you dry." Ian's snarl cut the silence and sent tremors racing up the stranger's ruddy fur. The wolf watched as the slender shadow stood, casting a wet poncho to the floor- the dim porch light shining through a nearby window was enough.
Feral eyes. Feral teeth. Feral breath. Ian was still and serene, his senses locked and sharp as knives.
It was absolutely magnificent. Reynard was careful, but he was awed by the solemnity of it all. The light was too dim, and the sound of rain was filling his ears... but he could feel Ian there, with him in that room. His presence was absolutely chilling. "I never thought I'd meet you." He whispered to the dark, his eyes searching desperately for some visage of a tall, foreboding wolf. "I watched the coverage of that husky you raped. You ate out her throat. They thought you were an animal, but I knew better."
Shadows. Sounds and shadows. Ian snarled, and sank to the floor, his muscles coiling. Sink low and cut him down. Snap his neck with iron jaws. Drive him from your home.
"I saw you bear your soul when you took those lives." His voice would not stop shaking- and neither would his paws. He slid them easily back, palming the knife. It was a beautiful blade, long and sharp. It cut his hairs when he trailed it over the back of his paw. "And the soldier- yes. You destroyed him, crushed everything he was. I gnarled my paws on a camera for years trying to grasp craft like that."
Ian shook a little. Who was this? It was a fox, he knew. Obviously. Something kept his muzzle clenched, and his body pinned in the darkness.
"You took his body, took his pain, and you turned it into meaning. Beautiful and shining- they found him with a knife buried in his skull. They dared not show his twisted agony on the screen. A cameraman even vomited- they say that feline's eyes were rolled in different ways, but his mouth kept moving. He had to starve to death, brain dead. Christ, I felt myself wishing I could wretch my innards all over the forest floor along with him." Reynard slunk along the wall, palming the handle of his weapon, looking for a gleam in the dark of a firearm, or a knife, or anything at all that would reveal the location of his idol, his prey. "Do you know how badly I ached for your vision? For your strength? I never had courage like you, White. Never ever."
The fox laughed.
"And you refused to be caught! They even found that raccoon you abused. They thought it was a hate crime because his boyfriend found him first. His genitals chewed off, that collar wrapped around his neck... You ripped his tail out, too. He was so full of his own blood and your seed- he kept throwing it up all the way to the hospital. He died right on arrival. No one else has that vision, that passionate soul for poetic experiment! It was like listening to music, Ian. I wept."
The fox was clutching himself, running the blade along his fur. "I cried like a kit."
Ian cut him down. In an instant he was on the fox's chest, throwing all he had into a feral leap of faith, crushing the breath out of the vulpine intruder with a heavy paw. Reynard let out a shuddering gasp as he hit the floor. There was a flash in the dark and lupine blood sprayed along the wall. No pain. Sharp teeth. Sharp claws. Chew him down.
The knife lanced across his thigh; he could feel this one. Reynard caught him, driving his boot between the wolf's legs. Ian howled as nausea leapt free inside of him. The fox scurried from beneath him, climbing to his feet and baring his teeth. "You won't even speak?" He spat, wiping a little of the blood off on the fabric of his slacks. "You won't even talk to me?"
Ian staggered, his paws groping his naked body in a fruitless attempt to ease the sickening pain radiating from his crotch. He moaned. He fell to his knees. Danny...?
Reynard eyed him in disbelief "Why?! Say something, wolf! Say anything! I know you're brilliant! Don't you dare ignore me!"
Ian snarled in defiance, his muscled body shaking off the aches and the weary, nauseous pain creeping in his gut. Reynard brought the knife down in a swift arc, driving Ian back to the floor and onto his back. Several white hairs floated to the floor, shaved from a lupine neck. "Say something!" the fox said, raising the blade high above his head.
"Fuck off..." Ian half whispered, half whimpered.
Reynard snapped. Who the hell was this?! Had he actually idolized this idiot? This mockery of expression itself! Barely able to say one word- good Christ in heaven, he would SKIN this bitch! This whole situation was fucking pathetic. In what capacity had that bleach-white puppy fuck ever warranted his artistic devotion!? His paws were actually shaking as he drove the knife down, falling to his knees as he did it. They practically let go of the knife instead of plunging it into that naked chest. They almost LET. IT. GO.
They almost did let it go. "You goddamn puppy! You moronic, feral SHIT! I should cut your paws off and make you crawl around on all fours!" Reynard pressed with all his weight, but the damn thing refused to puncture that heaving mass of lupine flesh and muscle.
Ian was gasping for breath. Why couldn't they leave him alone? The knife was dancing on his fur; he could practically feel it thrusting into his heart, now. His arm ached from holding the fox back, and he could feel tears in his eyes. Where was Danny? Couldn't he hear this? Why wasn't he helping? Ian could barely bring himself to meet the vulpine's gaze.
"Danny..." He whined.
"Who?" Reynard said, welling all his force into a final push.
And everything went black.
Ian was nine years old, and it was nighttime. He was outside of the leader's house, his little grey paws balled up in fists, his ears flattened against his head. He was sick of being afraid every day, sick of being called "retarded" and "weird". He was sick of getting beat up all the time, he was sick of having to tuck his tail between his legs. He was sick of having his problems ignored by his stupid foster parents.
So what do you do when there are problems in the pack? You challenge the leader. It had taken him a week to gather up the courage to do this, but he was determined. He checked over his shoulders one last time. No one was watching. Then... it was time.
He didn't know John all that well. He'd only seen him a few times at school, but the hyena was clearly everything Ian was not. Handsome, strong, smart... At least, he got good grades, and everyone seemed to ask him about their problems. They looked up to him, respected him. Hell, Ian respected him. John was the alpha, and he deserved it. And if things were going to change, then the alpha had to change. Ian wasn't sure what he was going to do. The house seemed so big now that he was standing right outside of it.
The window was low enough to the ground, and open to boot. Ian was amazed that John's parents would leave it open like that, but it was kind of balmy that day. Maybe their air conditioner was broken? The little wolf kicked his feet as he wiggled up onto the sill, landing with a plop on the inside.
The room sort of smelled like cigar smoke, and it reminded Ian bizarrely of his father. It was really warm, and dark, too. Minutes passed as Ian stood, afraid to move. He could hear movement, couldn't he? There was someone in here! Someone he couldn't see. He shivered- even if he didn't want to move, he still had to. Creeping softly across the room, he hit the light switch, cringing as his pupils constricted. God, that hurt!
He rubbed his eyes for a minute. It was parent teacher night, so John had to be somewhere in the house. Ian tried to remember if the hyena had any siblings, but none came to mind... If he ran into an older brother or sister now, it would all be over, and he'd be in big trouble. Why hadn't he thought of that before he had snuck inside? Stupid! So stupid!
And then he heard it- the crying. It was so loud, it hurt his ears. He had to cover them with his paws just to think straight! Who was it!? Jesus, there wasn't... a cub in here! Oh God! Oh God, oh God, oh God, there was. How had he missed the cradle? It was visible in the moonlight! He had to walk right past it! Christ, Ian! So stupid! He dashed over to the cradle and peered in, his eyes locking with... A crying hyena cub. She couldn't have been more than six months, and she was bawling her eyes out, afraid of the light. "Shhh!" Ian pleaded, feeling his heart sink. "Don't cry, don't cry!" He looked over his shoulder. No one was coming, right? Right? Were those footsteps real or imaginary?
Ian bit his lip. Several moments passed, but no one came in through the only door. God, why wouldn't she stop crying? He held her paw over her little muzzle, but she just squealed louder. He tried comforting her, but she just kicked him away. Why wouldn't she stop? Ian was getting anxious. Those footsteps! He could hear them! His heart was pounding in his chest. He was getting dizzy! She wouldn't stop crying! Oh, God!
The footsteps were getting louder. His eyes darted around the room- what could he use? What could he do? There had to be something-
Ian saw them on the table. A pair of scissors next to an ashtray filled with spent cigars. He barely knew what he was doing when he picked them up. His paws were faster than his brain, his movements fluid and thoughtless. Seamless. He watched in horror. Desperation guided his paws. He loomed over the cradle for a moment.
The little hyena cub was silent, staring up at him with innocent eyes. Did she know what he wanted?
He shoved the scissors against her neck, and closed them. Something wet hit his face. It was so warm, and Ian was so ashamed. He wanted to run. Far away. Where he could hide from everyone. And God.
He was starting for the window when he heard the voice. "Marnee, whatâ€""
Ian turned and locked eyes. A moment passed, and he was out the window, running like hell itself.
"Wait!" the hyena cried, shivering with the sudden realization. John sunk to the floor, and clutched his chest.
"Who... are you?" he whispered solemnly.
Ian cried, smiling. Oh God... it felt just like the birds.
Those black ears... Reynard hesitated, just a moment, his knife still hovering over his final victim's chest.
The fox howled as Ian's jaws came down on his paw. There was a crack as his flesh tore and his bones shattered, crushed by raw lupine fury. Ian was fighting like the devil himself. The knife clattered harmlessly to the floor as the wolf rolled, pinning the fox with strong arms and a vicious gaze. His claws slashed up bright streams of blood that drew lines in the night air like musical staves. Sharp teeth ripped into the vulpine's nose pulling away blood and flesh and fur.
Ian chewed on his face like a bone, ignoring his screaming pleas for mercy. He pulled away more and more of the flesh, listening to it snap and break, leaking dark red, all over the carpet. He took the ears in his teeth, and he bit them off, pulling away cartilage. He took the fox's scalp, and he pulled, yanking like a dog playing tug-of-war until it folded back and came away completely, exposing white bone.
His sharp fangs crushed flesh, they dug into bone, they ruptured eyes. He ripped the writhing body below to shreds with his sharpened claws. Somewhere along the way, he found the knife and cut a hole. Reynard screeched as Ian fucked it, stretching the flesh wide. And when he was finished, he made another and used it, too, howling and making small, pleasured yips as he literally rearranged the fox's insides. Reynard could feel it every time, pressing in and making lewd squishing noises. His life was slipping away from him absurdly slow... was this his punishment.
Ian's jaws closed around his neck, and he found himself watching the ears. The wolf's hips pumped endlessly into his stomach, and Reynard realized that he was finally being used the way he'd always wanted. No purpose, no meaning other than animalistic release, mixed with intelligent cruelty that could only come from the depths of Ian White's dark genius. He had searched everywhere to find the essential soul of art, and here it was.
The sounds were softer now. The darkness was eating him, devouring, just like the wolf above him was. He could feel the flesh on his chest tear away, he could feel the hot tongue lapping up his blood, scraping away raw flesh for the teeth to nibble at muscle. His frail form was taken in. Fucked and eaten by a wolf. Fucked and eaten by art. Fucked and eaten by music.
What was left of Reynard's face cracked into a smile. He'd looked so hard, and what do you know? There was nothing to find. Ha ha. His world went dark with mercy.
It took Ian an hour to realize he was humping a dead body. He had used the fox's tailhole twice, what was left of his mouth three times, and the several holes he had carved into his body... who knew? His knot refused to budge at first, but a few good pulls freed him. His vision swam. Something... was wrong? Was it? Was anyone watching?
"Danny?" He called. "Danny!"
Where was Danny? Ian rushed back to the bedroom. There was the bed, its sheets neatly folded, completely unused. Ian clutched the cross around his neck close. He had... a horrible feeling in his gut. It wasn't familiar, even, like most of his bad feelings. Was he really going to cry? Tears welled up in his eyes. He raced through the house.
"Danny!" He yelled into the empty darkness. "Danny!"
The kitchen? No one. Where was Danny? The bathroom?
Danny? Where... where was Danny? Where was he?
Where was he?
About fifteen minutes out of town, John watched the sun rise, his idle paw trailing over his eye patch. They finally had Ian's location... and he was finally nervous. It was rare that he thought about things like this, but today he would end it all.
Leah was at home with his son, now. Probably sleeping. He didn't want them to become orphans, but so many things had gone wrong, and now he was going to pay the price. Reynard was probably dead, and he hadn't told his superiors yet. What would they do anyway? Send a hit team, probably? Ahh, it bothered him to think that it would end that way. He'd spent years on Ian's case, and it was his right to close it, wasn't it? His right and his duty- he didn't want to leave it to some trigger-happy squad freak.
He looked at the photo one more time. His good eye still got a little misty when he held the picture to the light.
So many years ago, his revenge had failed. He hadn't even known the wolf was that crazy, that violent- should he have guessed. Ian had taken his eye because he was stupid and proud once before. Maybe confronting the wolf today was merely John's way of committing suicide.
No. It was lethal to think like that. Ian had changed, and John had changed, and maybe that was enough.
"Marnee..." He whispered, planting a soft kiss on the photograph. She was only five months old, but his heart still ached when he thought about her.
How many lives had Ian taken before he was finally discovered for what he was? There wasn't any way to know. After that malamute, Mary had gone missing, things just sort of spiraled. People had suspected a pack of wolves, people suspected a duo working together- but that was all bullshit.
Or maybe it wasn't- John had always believed it was Ian's doing off of some bizarre instinct. Call it wishful thinking, call it intuition, whatever. Right from the beginning, he knew it was Ian's jaws wrapping around those skinny throats. How that bastard had managed to evade the law for so long was nothing short of a mystery, but John had him now.
He had him in his paw, finally.
And, he figured, it wouldn't be so bad. No matter what happened, one of them would finish the job.