2
That night, Terry joined the men from the diner at the Lyon Bar and Grill. They were enjoying a round of liquid courage before setting off, and all were excited by the prospect of the impending wolf hunt. Terry was absurdly pleased to see Clyde sitting among them, and maneuvered his way to a seat at his end of the long wooden table. When they all had to move their chairs to make room for a handful of late-comers, Terry managed to grab a space at Clyde’s side.
“Good to see you again,” said Terry, raising his glass in a mock toast. “I didn’t know you’d be joining the hunt.”
“I’m actually just here for a drink,” replied Clyde uneasily. “I’m not much of a hunter.”
“Really?” asked Terry in surprise. “I would have thought you’d be passionate about the sport given your business.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Clyde retorted, “but I do like to fish.”
“And is the fishing good in these parts?” asked Terry suggestively, letting his leg brush lightly against Clyde’s jeans.
Clyde swiftly moved his leg away and stared fixedly at the far wall. Terry tried to hide his disappointment and sipped quietly at his beer, wondering if maybe he’d read this moody stranger wrong after all. He could feel a mounting heat radiating from the man beside him, but nothing from his body language indicated anything other than discomfort.
When Clyde rose abruptly, clutching at his stomach, Terry looked up in alarm.
“Are you alright?” he asked, for the second time that day.
Clyde’s powerful hands gripped the edge of the table and Terry could see the tendons writhing in his wrists and forearms. “I’m not feeling great,” replied Clyde through clenched teeth. “I need to get some air.”
As Clyde made his way hurriedly to the door, Terry heard several of the men chuckle.
“There goes Clyde again,” one of them laughed. “That guy can never hold his beer or his bowels. He should really see a doctor.”
Terry quickly drained the bottom inch from his glass as the group made their preparations to leave. “I left my ammo back at the barn,” he announced ruefully. “I’m going to swing by to get it and catch up with you guys later.”
Terry heard the door slam behind him as he scanned the parking lot for Clyde. There was no sign of him, but Terry spotted a figure entering the forest a few hundred yards from where he stood. He started running towards the trees, but by the time he got to the edge of the woods, the figure had vanished.
There is nothing quiet about a pine forest in Wyoming in the late fall. The raccoons and squirrels were busily foraging before the winter snow arrived, while the bobcats and coyotes made quick and noisy work of their smaller prey. Terry heard a rustle ahead as he entered the trees, startling a white-tailed deer who leapt across his path. He stopped abruptly, closed his eyes, and listened.
After a full minute of concentration, Terry thought he could hear Clyde beating through the undergrowth, deep in the thick of the forest. At least, he could hear something that didn’t sound quite right amidst the chatter and grumblings of the natural inhabitants. He set off at a slow jog, dodging the rotting logs and piles of dying leaves.
The noise ahead of him was growing louder now, a low moaning that could only be coming from a creature in pain. As Terry emerged into a small clearing, Clyde lay before him on his back, clawing at the ground as his limbs jerked in a rhythmic frenzy. A soft down of hair was rapidly thickening across his cheeks, and nails as sharp as razors protruded from his fingertips.
Terry absorbed what he was seeing as his brain struggled to convince him that it just wasn’t possible. He had come across werewolves in the past, and had even observed the shift before; ethereal moments between man and beast. Yet this night held not a whisper of moonlight, and surely no man could shift without it. He bent to the ground and reached a cautious hand to touch Clyde’s shoulder.
“Why is this happening without the moon?” he asked gently.
Clyde tried to roll away but had lost control of his muscles as the change took hold. “You need to get out of here,” he rasped.
“I need to know,” Terry insisted. “How can this be happening?”
“I’m cursed,” Clyde groaned, “I shift every night.”
“That’s not possible,” cried Terry in disbelief. “Who’d put a curse like that on anyone?”
“A witch. Now get the hell away from me,” growled Clyde, summoning his strength to push Terry’s hand from his shoulder.
Terry rose and stood at Clyde’s feet, spreading his arms to the side and enveloping the nascent werewolf in his aura. He began to chant the ancient words and watched carefully for signs that the shift was receding. Very slowly, he saw the line of fur at Clyde’s neck begin to melt away.
“It’s a powerful magic,” Terry mumbled, “and I can’t seem to locate its source.”
Clyde’s eyes darkened in fury. “Get away from me you fucking warlock,” he cried. “My kind has enough problems without assholes like you getting their kicks from torturing us.”
“The war is over Clyde,” replied Terry calmly. “Those are old grudges and need to be put to rest.”
“My pack will rip you apart,” retorted Clyde, “so you should be running by now.”
“I can help,” said Terry, “so stop sounding like a frightened five-year-old. I obviously can’t reverse your werewolf nature but I can certainly stop you from shifting every night. It’s just a curse, and curses were made to be lifted.”
“I don’t want your help,” said Clyde, but the lines of pain that were gradually easing across his handsome face spoke of gratitude. “I mean, thanks for helping me out tonight, but that’s where this thing ends.”
Clyde lay calmly and waited for the shifting to stop. Within moments, his nails had receded and his entire form had shrunk inwards, leaving his clothing in shreds but the rest of him intact. A fresh and tender wound snaked from his ribs to his lower back, beginning to heal but still raw and enflamed.
“Did you hurt yourself tonight?” asked Terry in concern.
Clyde appeared puzzled at first, then looked down and traced a finger along the scar’s ragged edge. “This was your fault,” he said grimly.
“How do you figure that was my fault?” asked Terry. His irritation with this ungrateful werewolf was growing and he was starting to think that his tutor had been right. Werewolves were monstrous jerks.
“I cut myself open rescuing you from that fire. Don’t you remember?”
Terry’s mouth fell open as the penny dropped and the whole thing began to make more sense. “That was you?”
“Of course it was me. You think wolves are looking to earn a scout badge by just roaming the woods, looking for a good deed to do? I smelled the smoke and I’d seen you before so I knew you were probably still in there. Now I wish I’d just left you to burn.”
Terry hardly heard Clyde’s final words as he felt a distinct stirring in his loins. Clyde really had been interested, and had risked his life to save him. He looked at the man’s bare and muscled chest, past his sculptured abdomen to the thin line of hair that ran into the waistband of his now battered jeans.
“You can stop looking at me like that,” said Clyde self-consciously. “It’s never going to happen.”
Terry had the good grace to look embarrassed. He didn’t ask for a reason. He already knew. During the time of his father, a mighty war had raged across the world of the unseen, with the witches and warlocks allied in mortal combat against the creatures of the night. The werewolves and vampires had taken a beating and now lived with a seething resentment which had made the two camps sworn enemies. No werewolf was ever going to hook up with a warlock, and his own kind would think he’d lost his mind for even thinking about it.
“My father was killed in the great battles,” said Terry softly, “by a shape-shifter though, not a werewolf. I don’t know how the war began, but I do know that it’s ended. The truce has held for many years. It’s time to come together again.”
“We were never together,” replied Clyde angrily. “The magicians have always looked down on us, using our strength when it suits them and ignoring us in times of need. The war was a struggle for independence, and we’ll never again bend to the yoke of your mastery.”
“I want peace Clyde, that’s all,” said Terry helplessly. “I just want it to be over.”
“It’ll never be over. I’ve never met a warlock who meant me anything but harm, and that’s all I see when I look at you. Danger, malice and hate.”
Before Terry could protest, Clyde turned on his heel and sped into the night, weaving between the trees until even the sound of his labored breathing was gone. Behind him, Terry was aware that humans were approaching, laughing and entirely unconcerned with announcing their progress for all to hear. Bob and a man Terry hadn’t met burst into the clearing with a limp weight hanging on the pole that they balanced between their shoulders.
“Terry,” yelled Bob, dumping his load. “Come and see what we found.”
Terry’s heart seized in this throat because he knew immediately what would be waiting for him on the ground. It was a young male, lithe and glorious in life now lying in a heap of fur with a bullet in his head. A regular wolf, but a wolf nonetheless, the first victim of the village hunt.
“Can’t believe you missed it,” said Bob excitedly. “We had to chase him across half the county. It’s not easy to nail a wolf you know.”
Terry silently agreed, but kept his mouth shut as his fingers furtively traced the mark of resurrection across the lifeless body.