Men of the Otherworld (5 page)

I don't remember the first time I changed into a wolf. One night, I passed out and awoke to find my body covered in yellow fur. My brain was beyond reacting. It took this in stride, as it had everything else in my new life. I got to my feet and went in search of food.

As a wolf, I learned to hunt… or at least to scavenge. If I managed to kill the odd mouse or sparrow, it was more dumb luck than skill. Even that added food wasn't enough to feed the fire in my gut.

*   *   *

One day, as the hunger threatened to gnaw through my stomach, I realized I had to find something larger than a mouse or half-eaten hamburger. I left my bed of matted newspapers and went hunting.

The city was in the midst of a midautumn heat wave. The sun shoved through the buildings and trees, and broiled the pavement into a stinking stream of asphalt. Every living thing with a brain had taken shelter, leaving me hunting for food in a scorched wasteland.

Fortune let me stumble onto a cat napping beneath a bush. The cat jerked awake and stared at me in heat-stupid confusion. I flung myself forward … and leapt clear over the cat, which quickly regained its senses and ran away. I got to my feet and went in search of new prey, but it was no use. Fortune, thoroughly disgusted with my ineptitude, left to find a worthier recipient.

I wandered through the alleyways, eating from the open trash cans and drooling at the ones sealed tight. In this weather, most people covered their cans, so easy pickings were rare. Finally, after what seemed like hours of searching, a smell hit me, the stink of dirt and decay, but underlaid with something that cut short my retreat. The smell of death. Of fresh meat.

I followed the stench, rounded a corner and came upon a pile of rags shoved under a concrete step. The smell overpowered my senses, making my eyes water, and prodding me to turn tail and run for cleaner air. But the lingering scent of meat kept my paws riveted to the pavement. Buried somewhere under those rags was food, and I damned well wasn't leaving until I found it.

I eased forward until I was under the step. Then I grabbed the first layer of cloth between my teeth and tugged. A filth-crusted blanket pulled away from the heap beneath, and the heap became a man. A dead man. A derelict. I don't know what had killed him. Maybe the heat. It wasn't important. All that mattered was that he was dead, and I was starving.

*   *   *

With the added strength of a full belly, I was able to roam farther in search of food. After a couple of days I came to the bayou, and soon made it my home. My den was probably a cubbyhole in some hillock or outcropping of rock. I remember it only as someplace warm, dry and safe. I was comfortable there, away from people. I quickly learned to hunt rats and birds. While they didn't always fill my stomach, they kept me from starving, and that was enough.

One evening, I found myself back in the city. I don't remember how or why. Maybe somehow I knew that on that day I had to be in Baton Rouge, at that hour I had to be in that particular park, at that moment I had to be beside that pathway, waiting. My life pivoted on this point as much as it had the day I'd confronted the old werewolf.

I was in wolf form. This wasn't intentional—it was no longer a matter of intention, if it ever had been. I vacillated between forms endlessly, falling asleep human, waking a wolf, hunting as wolf, eating as human. I'd stopped noticing the difference. The agony of the Change became part of my life, like the ache in my gut.

That evening, I lay hidden in a stand of flowering bushes, watching the passersby. When the scent first wafted past, my hazy brain recognized it as familiar, bringing to mind an image of the old werewolf who'd bitten me.

A growl escaped before I could choke it back. The sound was soft, barely louder than the rustle of dry leaves. Nobody noticed except one dark-haired man, maybe as old as my father, and about the same size, average height and broad-shouldered. He was strolling through the park gardens with a young woman. When I growled, he turned and scanned the area.

I pushed back into the bush. He caught the movement. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. He said something to the woman, the sound reaching me only as garbled noise. Leaving her behind, he started toward the bush, his long strides devouring the ground between us.

As he approached from upwind, I caught a whiff of scent. It was the smell that had reminded me of the old werewolf. But this obviously wasn't the same man. My muddled brain struggled to make sense of it. Finally, some deeper instinct solved the riddle, and I realized that what I'd recognized was the common scent of a werewolf.

As my brain hit the answer, it freed my legs. I tore back out of the bush and didn't stop running until I reached my den in the bayou.

The next morning I crept from my den in human form, groggy, shivering and eager to find a warm place in the sun, so I could go back to sleep. The mornings and evenings had grown too chilly for human form. I didn't wear clothing. The impulse to cover myself had died long ago under the sheer impracticality of finding my clothes each time I Changed.

I stumbled out, still half asleep, heading for a trail that would take me to a warm clearing. Like any wolf, I had my favorite trails—paths through the swamp that I'd walked along so many times that they reeked of my scent. It was a matter of habit and safety, sticking to what I knew. All the trails led, in some convoluted way, back to my den.

I'd walked about five feet when something grabbed me around the neck and hoisted me into the air. The panic came slowly, formless, my sleepy brain still trying to decide whether this was another of my nightmares. When I realized it wasn't, I twisted and kicked, but my feet struck only air.

A man laughed. The grip on my neck tightened. I struggled harder, twisting and flailing. My leg struck the man in the chest, and he cuffed my ear so hard my vision clouded. The trees swayed. When the spinning stopped, I resisted the impulse to fight. Resistance only makes them hit harder. A lesson long learned, though often challenged.

As I went limp, I caught a whiff of scent. Werewolf scent. It was the one from the park. He'd used my trails to track me to my den. Instinctively I started struggling. Again he struck me, and the world toppled into momentary darkness.

He said something—a volley of words that made as little sense as the chirping of the birds overhead. I'd long since lost the ability to understand human speech. When I didn't respond, he shook me and repeated himself. His words sounded clipped, impatient. Still dangling me by the neck, he swung me around to face him, then lifted one brow and said something. I still didn't react. He tossed me to the ground.

I hit the dirt hard, my head striking a half-buried rock. When I opened my eyes, he was crouched with his head inside my den. I tried to growl, but the sound came out strangled and ridiculous. He swiveled on his heels, looked at me and laughed. He said something, then went back to investigating my den. After a few minutes, he got to his feet, grimaced and wiped his hands on his pants. Then, without so much as a glance in my direction, he left.

I lay on the grass, listening as the thud of his footsteps retreated through the trees. When the sound stopped, I lifted my head, then gritted my teeth and tried to stand. The pain forced me back down. I lay there, panting and trying to focus. I had to get up, get away. He might come back. My heart hammered so hard it drowned out the birds in the trees. I stretched my legs and rolled onto my stomach. Waves of agony pulsed through my skull. I closed my eyes and concentrated, got to my knees, then passed out.

*   *   *

When I came to, I'd changed into a wolf. I couldn't remember what happened or why I was lying outside my den. The sunlight jabbed needles through my eyes. It hurt to blink, to turn my head, to move. As I stumbled forward, my legs tangled and I fell headfirst to the ground, muzzle bulldozing through the dirt, nostrils filling. For a second, I couldn't breathe. Mindless panic sent me flying to my feet. Excruciating pain forced me back to the ground.

Lifting my head, I saw my den. It wavered, miragelike, just feet from my nose. I crawled forward, belly to the ground. Time crawled even slower. Only the promise of my den kept me moving. Finally, I was there. Forcing myself to my feet, I made that last step. Then, just as I was about to lurch onto my bed of leaves and rags, the scent hit me. His scent.

I backed away, my legs shaking. Old emotions—human emotions—surfaced. Frustration. Humiliation. Rage. Hate. Im potent, overwhelming hate. I threw back my head and howled my anguish to the rising moon.

I spent days lying outside my den. My brain prodded me to find shelter, but my throbbing head wouldn't let me move. The den was soiled for me now. Cold nights, bitter rain, the fear of predators, nothing would make me take that final step inside. Sleep brought no relief from the pain or the cold. I was too terrified to close my eyes, certain he'd come back. A few times, the hunger and exhaustion became too much and I passed out. More than once, I thought he'd returned. I saw him there, looming over me, but just as my teeth were about to graze his throat, he'd vanish into mocking laughter.

One day I awoke and found the strength to stand. I stumbled to the swamp and drank the fetid water, coughing half of it back
up again. Next, my nose led me to the decaying carcass of a nutria and I ate. And life continued.

Days, maybe weeks later, I was sunning myself on a rock by the bayou, enjoying one of the last rare bouts of early winter heat. A cloud kidnapped my sunlight, and I shifted my position. As I moved, I caught sight of something. It was him—the werewolf who'd beaten me—standing downwind less than twenty feet away. My heart jammed in my throat.

He leaned against a tree, arms crossed. When I moved, his arms fell to his sides and his lips curved in a crooked, almost hesitant half-smile, nothing like the arrogant grin of my nightmares. Also, I remembered him as shorter, more muscular. Older, too. This man looked barely out of his teens. But the dark hair and something in his face matched my memories exactly.

I began to wonder if I'd fallen asleep and was dreaming. I rubbed my eyes and looked around. Everything was as it should be. Everything except the intruder. I shaded my eyes from the sun to get a better look.

Yes, this man definitely resembled the werewolf who'd invaded my den. Therefore it must be him. So why was I sitting here? Was I eager for another beating? My gaze slid from side to side, evaluating my escape options. The man was still watching me, making no move to approach.

Maybe he didn't see me. I focused on his eyes. They were black and slightly slanted over high cheekbones. When I saw them, I knew this wasn't the man who'd violated my den. I had looked into the other man's eyes and I would never forget them.

The stranger said something. The inflection reminded me of the other man, but the timbre was different, deep and low. He tilted his head and smiled, even more hesitant this time. He
spoke again. I barely heard him. My attention was focused on his body, waiting for the first twitch of movement. I was in human form, vulnerable.

After a short silence, the man resumed talking, his voice low and soothing, the sentences stretching into a monologue. Then his left leg moved ever so slightly. I tensed. He stepped forward, moving slowly, still talking. I inched backward. My toes brushed water and I froze. I looked from side to side. The bayou surrounded me, blocking off all escape.

The man continued his approach. I began to shake. He stopped, now only five feet away, then dropped to one knee. I watched his hands. He lifted them and turned them, palms toward me. Bending down more, he tried to make eye contact. His shoe slipped in the mud. At the sudden movement, I panicked. I leapt at him. He yanked back, fast, but not fast enough. My long nails raked down his forearm, three rivulets of blood springing up.

He inhaled sharply. I fell back, shielding my head, waiting for the retaliatory blow. Everything in my early life had conditioned me to recognize this simple cause and effect. I cowered, head under my arm, eyes clenched tight.

Nothing happened. My heart thudded. I knew this trick. He was waiting. The second I exposed myself, the blow would come, a cuff across the head or shoulders that I'd feel for days.

I opened one eye, keeping my arm over my head. He crouched on his heels, tying a handkerchief around the wound with one hand. When he noticed me watching, he managed a pained half-smile. Then, still crouching, he eased backward and stood.

I closed my eyes, tensed and waited. When I peeked again, he was gone.

Only a few hours passed before he returned. The day was darkening and I'd begun to hunt. I'd changed to a wolf, possibly in a subconscious reaction to the fear.

I was chasing a mouse when I heard a noise behind me and turned to see the man step into the clearing. He smiled. I wheeled and ran.

I ran full out until I was certain he wasn't following. Then I turned around and went back to find him.

I crept through the undergrowth, ears perked. As I approached the clearing, I slowed, crawling along the ground, ready to bolt at the first sign that he saw me. I slunk into a thicket bordering the clearing. Then I closed my eyes and inhaled. He was there.

I heard nothing. I crouched, sniffing and listening, every muscle poised for flight. After a few minutes, I worked up the nerve to peer through the weeds. He sat on the grass, leaning against a tree, legs outstretched, arms crossed and eyes shut, as if dozing. I stopped, confused. I'd seen people do a lot of strange things, but settling down for a nap in the middle of the bayou was not one of them.

I pushed my muzzle out farther to sniff again. Not a leaf rustled, but somehow he seemed to hear the movement. His eyes snapped open. I jerked back into the thicket. He laughed. No, not a laugh really—a deep chuckle that rippled through the night air.

I heard a rustle and peeked out to see him rooting around in a paper bag. He pulled something out and threw it. Although I was over thirty feet away, it sailed through the thicket and landed squarely at my feet.