I risked taking a moment, both to catch my breath and see if my mouth was about to start cursing me out of its own accord.

  Needless to say, it was not the best time for introspection.

  The other werewolf tried to spin around to get at me. Fortunately, with us still pressed up against one another, that made it an awkward move at best.

  With my back against the proverbial wall, I did the only thing I could. I shoved him away with everything I had, sending him flying a good fifteen feet to land face first in the dirt.

  Impressive as it looked, such a fall wouldn’t have stopped a pup much less an adult werewolf – not that I’d ever seen any werewolf puppies.

  Heck, I wasn’t even sure they existed. For all I know our condition didn’t manifest until a certain age. As I’ve said, it’s not like this curse came with an instruction manual.

  Now was not the time to dwell on such trivial things, though. I had moments at best to catch my breath and figure out my next move.

  By then, the other werewolf was already rising and turning to face me – his red eyes glaring with feral malevolence.

  All right. Let’s try that again. I’m ready for you this time. That wasn’t entirely true, but a little positive thinking never hurt.

  Regardless, I braced for the inevitable attack. However, rather than charge me as I expected, the beast raised his head and took a deep breath.

  Oh crap!

  Call it werewolf instinct or just plain common sense, but I immediately understood what he was about to do. Though I hadn’t done much more than toss him around a little, the beast had come to the realization I wasn’t going down as easily as a scared rabbit.

  And what did a lone wolf do when it came to that conclusion? Well, if he was part of a pack, he’d probably howl his fool head off calling for reinforcements.

  Oh, this is not good.

  I was too far away to stop him. If he succeeded in alerting any others, I’d quickly end up outnumbered. That meant either becoming more brutal in my battle tactics or making a run for it.

  There was no real choice in the matter, because staying also meant a near certainty the narcoleptic monster inside my head would wake up.

  I wasn’t ready for that to...

  BOOM!

  A thunderous report echoed through the forest, loud enough to feel like an icepick through my brain. I covered my ears and winced, praying the blast didn’t double as an alarm clock.

  The sharp whine of pain that came from the other werewolf, however, caught my attention. I looked up to find copious amounts of blood dripping from an ugly wound that had appeared on his right arm.

  Realization set in even as my head continued to throb. He’d been shot. Then, a mere moment later, smoke began to rise from the bloody wound, causing the beast to whimper even louder.

  Smoke?

  The werewolf’s ears folded back and his ratty tail drooped. It was a look I knew all too well, similar to the one Spud liked to guilt me with if I so much as raised my voice. Hot urine splashed to the ground between the werewolf’s legs as I watched all the aggression drain from its face, only to be replaced with raw naked fear.

  An instant later it turned and ran, yelping like a kicked dog.

  It took a moment for the implication to sink in. Someone shot it with a silver bullet.

  It was the only explanation that made sense.

  Silver. When it came to the precious metal, Hollywood had it both right and wrong.

  It wasn’t a magical anti-werewolf MacGuffin that would destroy us if we so much as picked up the wrong salad fork. However, there was something about silver that caused it to react negatively with our bloodstream. It was less a poison, though, and more like shoving a lit road flare into the wound.

  I’d had the displeasure of being grazed by a silver slug not too long ago and could attest it hurt like a mother-lover. I had no intention of letting it happen again.

  Make that doubly true as I realized who was responsible for this shooting, as well as the fact they almost certainly had ammo to spare.

  So, I made the only logical choice.

  I put my hands up and surrendered.

  HUNTER’S MOON

  Please be someone I know.

  I stood there with my hands raised, not moving, not even daring to change back into a human. Probably a good idea on that last point as I’d dropped the bag containing my clothes during the fight.

  Now wasn’t the time to go looking for it, though.

  No, right then I needed to focus on not getting shot. I wasn’t afraid for my life, per se. I knew the hunters had a strict policy of wounding first whenever possible to deter further conflict. However, even if the pain of being shot didn’t wake the beast within me, there was also the agony of feeling my blood boil thanks to the silver in their bullets.

  No way even a narcoleptic wolf could sleep through that.

  Would my inner wolf then try to run, as my opponent had, or would he take a more aggressive stance?

  I didn’t care to find out the answer.

  Long minutes passed. The only change to my surroundings, so far as I could tell, was the scent of recently expended gunpowder. It was one of the few things even the hunters couldn’t control.

  Where my nose failed me, however, my eyes and ears served as the first indicators I’d made the right choice in surrendering. I picked up the faint crunch of foliage, two pairs of footsteps. Not surprising. The hunters seldom operated alone. It was too risky against the sort of prey they stalked.

  The faint glimmer of lantern light caught my attention from a few dozen yards away. I turned my head to see two shambling mounds of rotting vegetation rise from the surrounding foliage and start walking my way. One held a lantern, while the other had a rifle trained directly on me.

  Though at first sight their appearance was gruesome, I knew better. My eyes cut through the darkness well enough to recognize their ghillie suits – allowing them near perfect camouflage against the forest around them.

  Fortunately, the upside of being one of only two werewolves able to maintain control was it made me easy to recognize.

  “Don’t ye dare move,” the one holding the lantern cried out. “Only warning ye get. We’ve seen the witch’s devilry, so don’t think us easily fooled.”

  Or maybe not. I wasn’t sure what devilry they were talking about but had a feeling I knew the witch in question. Myra. Far as I was aware, she was the only one from her coven who’d aligned with Hobart.

  Being I still had no idea how long I’d been missing, I could only hope the situation hadn’t changed for the worse.

  Guess I’d find out soon enough.

  The one with the lantern approached, finally drawing close enough to bathe me in its light.

  “Dear Lord, that looks like...”

  “Looks mean nothing, Amos,” the other cautioned, “not when that witch’s magic can cloud the minds of men. Use the charm and be quick about it.”

  The first one, Amos – a name I vaguely recognized – reached his free hand into a hidden pocket and produced ... some weird Blair Witch type fetish made up of corn husks and old housekeys. He tossed it at my feet.

  I glanced down at it, then back at the two men, unsure if I was supposed to pick it up or do something else.

  Amos waited a beat, his eyes darting between the object and me. “Change back. If ye are who you look like, then do it. If not, we’ll know ye as a deceiver.”

  The threat was quite clear.

  I knew witches like Myra were capable of creating illusions so lifelike you would never guess until it was too late. Still, illusion or not, I was standing there calmly with my hands raised, something regular werewolves were mostly incapable of.

  Oh well, I could either comply with their orders or risk eating a bullet. The choice was an easy one.

  I once more focused internally – this time grasping onto a mental image of my human self, my humanity. As before, euphoric numbness spread through me in the moment before my body began to shrink.

  “Achoo!”

  Pity those wondrous brain chemicals didn’t also keep me from being allergic to my own fur.

  A sneezing fit overcame me as my fur, tail, and fangs all receded – making it extremely difficult to keep my hands raised.

  “It’s him. I told ye so. He’s back!”

  “Stay yourself awhile. We don’t know for certain yet.”

  “The charm is right there, Elijah. If there was any devilry about him, it would’ve been dispelled.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it.”

  I ignored their argument as my sinuses continued to protest. Finally, the sneezing jag began to subside enough for me to see that Amos had removed his ghillie suit and was approaching while Elijah held back, gun still raised.

  Now that I could see his face, I definitely recognized him. Not one of the hunters I knew well, but we’d conversed a few times.

  “Your name,” Amos asked, no doubt playing it safe.

  “M-Michael,” I started, trying to ignore the tingle in my nose, “Hunter Walden.”

  That seemed to do the trick. Amos’s demeanor instantly became more relaxed. “Aye it is. I see you’re still allergic to yer own fur, Michael.”

  “Lucky me.”

  The one named Elijah pulled the hood of his suit down and lowered his rifle. “My apologies to ye, but that witch has been getting clever as of late.”

  “Myra?” I asked to which he nodded.

  Amos then replied, “Enough of that for now. I’ve got two questions for ye. Where have you been and do you have any britches stashed in yer bag over yonder?”

  I followed his gaze to the discarded duffel bag, on the ground with its strap broken. I nodded my gratitude then stepped over and unzipped it. The clothes I’d worn back at the house were still soaked, but there was more and I already knew their former owner was a close enough fit to make it work.

  “That first one is a long story,” I told them, pulling a pair of jeans on, “one I don’t have all the details for. But maybe you can answer something for me instead. How long have I been gone?”

  Amos and Elijah exchanged a glance, making me fear the worst, that it had been months or longer.

  “It’s been two weeks since the night you disappeared with those nightcrawlers. I swear, Hannah’s been out of her mind with worry.”

  I barely heard that last part. Two weeks?

  In truth, it was a lot better than I’d feared. Heck, if that was the case I might even still have a job. My manager Stucky, not his real name obviously, would no doubt work me like ... a dog in retribution, but he was also the type to hold a job for a friend in need.

  I let out a chuckle that my first thought was regarding my employment status. What a strange thing to fixate on now of all times.

  “Something funny, Michael?” Amos asked.

  “No. I was just afraid it had been a lot longer.”

  “You mean you didn’t know?”

  I shook my head. “I literally just woke up a few hours ago.” At their shocked expressions, I added, “Like I said, long story.”

  “Best save it for Isaiah then,” Amos said. “He’s going to want to hear it awhile. For now let’s get ye back to Barley Hills.”

  Elijah nodded. “Especially since yer pal Hobart is going to realize you’re back soon enough. And when he does, he’s liable to send reinforcements. My apologies. If I’d known it was you, I would’ve done more than wing that fell beast ye were fighting.”

  “All things considered, I’m glad you didn’t.”

  Once again the two men exchanged a glance until Amos said, “Ye say that now, but I have a feeling tis a decision we might all soon regret.”

  ISAIAH HOOD – MEN-IN-ITES

  The sect that called Barley Hills home was as mysterious as the ritual’s origin. All I knew was the town had been there as long as Harris County, maybe longer. The local history texts confirmed as much.

  Mind you, those same history books said nothing about werewolves, witches, and other monsters, so perhaps it was best to take them with a grain of salt.

  Growing up, it had been common to hear gunshots coming from the direction where Barley Hills lay. Heck, some nights, back when I was a child still afraid of the dark, I found it downright comforting – telling myself nothing could be stalking the nearby woods so long as the hunters were nearby.

  Little did I know how prophetic that would prove to be.

  Following the big scuffle at Jacob Vesser’s place, I’d taken to patrolling an ever-widening circle around Harris County. I wasn’t trying to provoke a fight, mind you, merely being vigilant in case Hobart’s crew decided to harass anyone else.

  As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one in the woods keeping an eye out for trouble of the werewolf variety – not by a long shot, pun fully intended.

  That fact became painfully apparent a few days later when I found myself surrounded by enough firepower to put a hole in the moon.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Then...

  I was patrolling about two miles outside the Harris County city limits, as if the word city even applied. My mind was still reeling from what had happened at the Vesser place, both the weirdness of the battle itself along with the fear it might happen to someone else.

  My senses were on high alert keeping an eye out for any of Hobart’s thralls, because that’s what they were once they changed. They might still be themselves during the day, folks I knew and respected, but come nightfall they were his to command.

  Unfortunately, I had no idea how to fix that. Best I could do, for now anyway, was act as a spoiler if they tried that crap again.

  Mind you, I doubted anyone else in town was secretly friends with vampires, but who could say. I still had more questions than answers. Too bad Jacob had made himself scarce ever since, not that I could blame the guy.

  I was running along, keeping my nose and ears perked for pack activity, but thankfully there didn’t seem to be much going on this night.

  It wasn’t uncommon to sense a few werewolves out and about on any given evening – Hobart no doubt flaunting his influence. However, being as they were all about as smart as Spud on a good day, they were easy enough to avoid.

  That was fine by me. It was more the bigger gatherings I was interested in, making sure there was no one else on Hobart’s personal hit list.

  I’d stopped in a clearing to catch my breath. My ears picked up the sound of foliage crunching but I didn’t think much of it. This was the forest. Something was always moving around, going about its business. The important thing was I hadn’t smelled anything off.

  I was just about to resume my patrol when the ambush happened.

  Flashlight beams cut through the darkness, momentarily blinding me. By the time I could see again, it was already too late. It was as if the bushes and shrubs had grown legs and surrounded me. Talk about freaky, but the fact all of them had rifles pointed my way was enough to rattle my nerves even further.

  Nothing! I’d smelled nothing. How the hell had they gotten the drop on me so easily? Unless ... they were using a descenting agent similar to the one I’d used to spy on Hobart.

  Damn it! It had been stupid to not figure my own trick might be used against me.

  “One chance.”

  I turned at the sound of the voice to find a man in camo fatigues stepping out from behind a tree. He appeared to be in his sixties, with a long greying beard and a wrinkled brow. Definitely not one of Hobart’s crew.

  But then who?

  It was the severe look etched upon his face, however, that really caught my attention. He was staring me down, showing neither surprise nor an ounce of fear.

  This was the face of a man who knew he was in charge.

  Unsure of what to do, I turned his way – slowly, as being riddled with bullets held little appeal.

  “One chance,” the old hunter repeated. “If ye be a man as I suspect, then surrender and let us speak. Otherwise...” He let out a grim chuckle as he gestured toward the armed men in their ghillie suits.

  I glanced around, momentarily weighing the odds. I was strong and fast, but not stupid enough to think I could take them all.

  So, rather than do something I would almost certainly regret, I raised my arms over my head.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Now...

  The walk back to Barley Hills was quiet and slow, same as it had been on that night months ago.

  Unlike my first encounter with the hunters, though, I didn’t mind this one in the least. The company, while not super talkative, were pleasant enough. And by that, I mean they shared some water and beef jerky instead of forcing me to eat a live pig or constantly berating me for every little thing.

  Go figure but I’d discovered a newfound respect for people who weren’t jerks.

  Most of the hunters living in Barley Hills were simple folk living a traditional lifestyle. Amos and Elijah were no exception, even barring the sleek new rifles both carried – in stark contrast to Amos’s old oil lantern and the obviously home-woven ghillie suits both men wore.

  We collectively decided it was best to save any questions until we got back to the settlement and the elders could be roused.

  Can’t say that bothered me, as it gave me time to consider what I was going to tell them, since blathering about the last few hours alone would almost certainly paint me as a crazy person.

  I did, however, warn the two hunters that things had been ... off with me ever since waking up, urging them to keep some space between us as a precaution.

  It was probably a safer plan than telling them my wolf half had gained sentience and could not only talk but seemed to have dominion over the left half of my body.

  Yeah, that was going to be a fun conversation with the elders.

  Thankfully, my inner wolf continued his slumber party as the lights from the town came into view.

  Despite its quaint citizenry, Barley Hills had plenty of modern amenities – electricity, running water, and even cable TV. Strange as that might sound for an insular religious sect, when your job involved hunting werewolves, you used whatever advantages you could get.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33