Thursday, 6:25 pm

San Antonio, Texas

Jobe whistled as Gavin set another twenty pound plate on the barbell. He waited until Gavin set another plate on the opposite side before he remarked, “Ease up, Superman. If you try to find your one rep max, you might freak out the muscleheads.”

Gavin chuckled, his voice booming as he worked the collar locks down the bar. “Are you worried about them, or is this starting to bruise your ego?”

“I’m keeping up,” Jobe said.

It was a weak defense. He was straining to keep up with Gavin, and by his estimate he would need to bow out of the competition on the next round.

Gavin unracked the bar and lowered it slowly, his mouth twisting in a smirk. He spoke with a booming volume, asking, “So what is that? That’s 410, isn’t it?”

Heads spun in the gym, and Gavin pushed the bar up, letting it drop again with a slow speed.

Jobe laughed. “No, it’s 450.”

“Oh, right! It feels so light, but I guess I don’t know my own strength.” Gavin did two more reps before he got up and rolled his head on his shoulders.

It was a cocky gesture, and Jobe wanted to take him down a notch.

The only problem was, Gavin was nowhere near his maximum weight, and Jobe was pushing his upper limits. He was in control mentally, but his body was red and swollen up in berserker mode. He was also sweating buckets and tired, and Gavin didn’t even have a damp forehead.

Jobe got under the bar, his face straining while he lifted the bar. He lowered it slowly, though not with the control Gavin had. Lifting the bar on each rep involved a lot of shaking and hissing, and his face was purple as he finished the last repetition.

He racked the bar and rubbed his face with his towel. “If you add any more weight, I’m just going to spot you.”

“You’re dropping out?” Gavin asked.

Jobe wheezed a breathy laugh. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Gavin laughed and nodded. “I probably am.” He turned to look at the mirror mounted behind the weight tree. “I’d love to see the look on Stephanie’s face if she could see me now.” He looked back at Jobe. “Do you think she’d be surprised?”

“Only if we didn’t tell her how you got the new muscles. If we told her, she’d probably say, ‘Oh, well, that explains it.’”

“Yeah.” Gavin returned his attention to the mirror, and he made a few mocking poses, all of which looked better than he expected.

But once he’d mentioned Stephanie, he couldn’t stop thinking of her. “I miss her.”

Jobe nodded. “I know.” He got up, taking the hex key to unlock the collars from the barbell. “You never stopped thinking about her before the curse muted your thoughts, so I didn’t imagine things changed much after the curse.”

“Do you ever think about Wendy?” Gavin asked.

Jobe sighed, nodding as he looked down. He kept working to slip off weights from the bar while he talked. “I think about Wendy sometimes, but I try not to. She asked me not to come looking for her, and even if I miss her so bad my chest aches, I have to respect her wishes.”

“Is that why you were so willing to offer your help to Rosa?”

Jobe shook his head. “I had nothing to do with that, and neither did Wendy.” He slid the last weight off the bar and returned it to the tree.

“The berserker chose to help her because she’s a berserker too, and he feels bad about what she’s suffered only to become cursed as well. I’m going along with his plan because it’s a good idea.”

Gavin nodded, and his face pulled into a contemplative look as they moved on to the next weight station to continue their workout.

“I haven’t said it before, but I’m glad you got off of your medication.”

Jobe was surprised by the comment, but his ruddy face relaxed into a smile. “Thanks. I am too.”

***

Thursday, 7:39 pm

Boerne, Texas

As Gavin pulled the Mustang into the driveway, Jobe glanced up from the book he’d been reading. His mouth fell open, and he slapped Gavin’s arm.

There was no need, because Gavin was already slowing down the car to stare at Rosa.

In the backyard was a pair of clothesline T’s strung with three wires. Rosa was pacing the middle wire. She walked fast, stepping onto the T and pivoting on the ball of one foot before she set out across the wire again.

Gavin rolled down his window, pulling the car farther up the driveway. “Hey Rosa.”

Rosa spun, setting her foot on the wire too fast. The line wobbled and she stiffened, riding out the tremor before she waved to Gavin. “Hey, check this out!”

She crouched and took off her glasses, dropping them onto the ground. Getting up, she walked to the end of the line and leapt off of the T.

Landing lightly on her feet, she turned and walked back to the spot where she’d dropped her glasses. She didn’t need to pat the ground to find them, and when she slipped them on, she walked directly to the car, sitting on the hood.

Laughing, she pointed forward and said, “Mush, doggy!”

Gavin snorted, putting the car in gear. “George is the dog.”

He parked the car and got out, rubbing Rosa’s shoulder. “That was a pretty good trick. Are you using echolocation?”

“No, I heard where they fell, and I counted my steps, like I always do. But the real trick was, once I got close enough, I found them because I could smell myself on them.” Rosa patted the hood of the car. “I used my nose to find the car too. Pretty neat, huh?”

Slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder Jobe shut his door. “And, you’re sure the real trick wasn’t you walking on a wire?”

“What possessed you to think of such a weird stunt?” Gavin asked.

“I was testing out my phantom tail,” Rosa said.

Jobe snorted. “You’re suffering from a phantom limb already?”

Rosa shrugged, walking away from the car and back toward the front door. “I wouldn’t call it suffering. I was trying to sit forward in my chair, because otherwise, I kept getting this feeling like I was crushing my tail against the seatback.”

She paused to ascend the steps, and she still had to pat for the doorknob before she found it. “I decided to try coming out here to test if the phantom tail affects my balance.”

Jobe laughed and favored Gavin with a lopsided grin. “And you thought benching 450 was cool.”

Rosa gasped, turning around while her expression filled with surprise. “Can he really?”

“Yep, and I can squat almost double that.” Gavin winced. “I tried to do 900, and I popped my knee.” He shrugged, moving around Rosa to walk to his room. “Still, I can’t recall any of the other guys laughing at me over dropping on my knees. Most of them looked stunned.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Rosa said. When Jobe tried to walk to his room, she slung out an arm to catch him and pull him into a hug. She laughed and stepped back before she said, “I’m happy to have you home because I’m starving.”

“Nice,” Jobe said.

Rosa giggled. “So, what’s for dinner?”

Jobe snorted and walked down the corridor to put his duffle bag in his room. “What does the lady of the house feel like having?”

“Something with meat,” Rosa said. Following his footsteps, she tilted her head back while she faked a thoughtful expression. “Yes, something food-like, with a lot of meat. Tasty can be optional if it’s meaty.”

Jobe said, “In other words, fire up the coals and toss on some steaks?”

“Wow, Jobe! It’s like you’re a freakin’ psychic or something.” Ignoring his groan, Rosa spun on her heel to head to the kitchen. “I’ll put some potatoes in the oven.”

***

Thursday, 8:05 pm

Dave glanced around the field and thought, I shouldn’t be back here. I really shouldn’t be back here with a gun.

Both statements were true, but neither convinced him to turn around and get back into his truck. He started walking across the field to the salt lick where the bear had taken down the white tail stag.

He could smell dried blood well before he got close to the lick, and he wondered if being scared shitless was what made his senses so much more keen.

But no, his senses had been getting stronger for the last few days, and today his sense of smell was so strong that standing across the pasture, he could still smell the burnt oil coating the underside of his truck’s engine. Which shouldn’t have been possible at that range because there wasn’t a breeze to carry the scent to him.

Dave pushed the thought aside, dropping his head to follow the line of scuff marks in the ground. Here was where the bear and stag hit the ground in a jumble. He stepped lightly, his gaze roving the ground.

He found the first splash of blood, a bite wound to the throat, but the animals still had not come to a landing. Momentum carried them through another tumbling somersault before the patches of blood emanated from the same source.

The carcass was gone, and a set of grooves indicated the direction that the bear had dragged it away.

Dave looked up at the woods, his hand rising to the gun locked in his shoulder harness. The .50 Smith and Wesson had seemed like a good choice back at the trailer, but the handgrip felt dainty in his hand just then.

Dave unsnapped the holster strap and drew the handgun. He crept into the woods, his head bobbing often as he followed the tracks and tried to keep track of his surroundings.

He’d progressed only a few yards when he stopped looking at the rut marks made by the dead stag and really looked at the bear tracks.

Dave had never hunted bears before, but he’d studied bear tracks numerous times, with the first being all the way back in Cub Scouts. Since then, he’d seen bear tracks in the books of his dad and his uncles.

He’d already expected the front paw track to be wrong, and it was. The front prints had too much pad, and the digits seemed too long. The tips of each digit should have ended in a claw mark, just like the back paws.

The rear footprints were too long and wide for a bear, and there was no back pad. It looked like the bear was somehow walking tip-toed on its back legs.

Snorting, Dave thought, So, it’s a mutant ballet dancing bear, possibly escaped from the circus. He laughed as he imagined the giant bear dancing ballet.

Dave knelt down, sniggering at his joke while he stared at the front track. Right, no front claw tracks because you were running on your… His eyes narrowed in concentration while he tried to figure out whether the bear was running on a closed fist or an open hand. The fingers were too long for one scenario, but too short for the other.

Turning his hand over, Dave looked at the pad on his palm. He made a fist, and then he flexed his curled fingers. He kept the tips folded against the base of his fingers, noting how the position would nestle the claws somewhere near the hollow of the bear’s palm.

Turning his hand, he put his palm on the ground and settled his weight on his arm.

What he left behind was close to the larger track in shape, if not size, and it was certainly a closer match than any breed of bear. Dave looked closer at the bear’s track, nodding to himself when he found traces of the claws in the middle of the track.

So the bear probably has feet like a human too. The thought dropped him onto his butt, his hands fumbling to untie his steel-toed work boot and shuck it off. He peeled his sock off and draped it over his boot.

Rolling over, he set himself on his hands and rose up on his toes. It was an awkward position for him, and he held the pose just long enough to be sure that he’d made a track. He spun around, comparing his print to the “bear” track.

Yes, the heel had been raised, so only the front of the foot touched the ground. The creature looked bear-like, but it had hands and feet similar to a human.

Several possibilities presented themselves in his mind, but he rejected most right away. Of those, one kept returning, and even after he’d rejected all other possibilities, it nagged at him.

What if it was a werebear?

Dave pulled his boot back on, dusting away his imitation tracks before he got to his feet.

He thought, Do I go back to the truck, or keep looking?

Obviously, he wasn’t chasing a real bear, but if it was a human who was somehow cursed to change into a bear…

Dave didn’t want to let the thought complete itself. But he’d no sooner pushed it away when the original question returned, What if it was a werebear?

If it was, then he was cursed too.

No, before he would believe that, he would have to find the bear, to be sure. And to be sure, he would have to kill it and see if it changed into a human.

He decided to keep following the tracks.

***

Thursday 8:16 pm

Jobe laid the steaks on the grill, and the iron sizzled, searing the flesh on contact. The aroma of charred meat rose in the air, and the conversation in the front yard died. Jobe looked up, and the four faces of the pack were all slack.

Three pairs of eyes stared, and even Rosa seemed to be staring at the grill. Her face was filled with an hungry look similar to her packmates. The pack’s attention was singularly focused. The sizzling meat delivered a fiery sermon, and it had their undivided attention. The meat was the pack’s new religion, and the barbecue grill was their altar.

Laughing at the silly thought, Jobe grabbed his beer from the shelf on the side of the steel barrel grill.

He walked back to his lawn chair between Gavin and Rosa, laughing again as he sat down. “It’s a good thing the government is funding this operation. There’s no way we could afford to go through one cow a week.”

Gavin nodded, about to make a joke when a breeze rolled off the lake. His mouth snapped shut, and he swung his head around. Sniffing at the air, he frowned and leaned his head over.

George, Rachel and Rosa also turned their heads toward the lake at the same time. The pack stood up as if on a timer, all four members tense.

Jobe smelled nothing, but he chose to trust their instincts.

He set his beer on the ground before he got up. “Is it the orc?”

Gavin shook his head. “I don’t know, but it’s definitely werekin.”

Jobe frowned and glanced back at the grill. He waved a hand toward the lake. “You guys start walking. I’ll move the meat away from the fire and catch up.”

The pack needed no further encouragement to take off at a brisk walking pace.

Jobe set the steaks of the far side of the grill. He closed the lid, but left the smoke vent open, and then he ran to follow after the pack.

They were starting to jog.

Something on the other side of the lake had their attention, and it seemed to Jobe that they were walking toward the same spot were the orc had emerged from the woods three nights before.

But there was no trace of the orc around the lake. Every day, the sheriff’s office had received new reports of stripped cattle. The orc seemed to understand that the lake was the pack’s territory, and he chose to hunt in a much wider area to the north of the lake.

Perhaps he’d returned, but as Jobe caught up with the pack and looked sideways at their expressions, it occurred to him that their anxiety was familiar. They were panting and glowing with sweat.

This then might be a reaction to a new werekin.

He gave voice to the worried thought. “It’s not the orc.”

Still jogging, Gavin shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Whoever it is, he’s downwind of us now. I think he’s trying to avoid us.”

They ran for another hundred yards when Gavin snapped his head around. “Stop, we lost him.”

“No, the wind shifted,” Rosa said.

“It’s the same thing,” Gavin said, irritated with Rosa for stating the obvious. She growled,  and he snapped, “Knock it off, Rosa! I don’t have time for your shit!”

She sulked, but said nothing. Her hand tightened around the bundled tubes of her folding cane, but when she heard bits of fiberglass cracking she forced herself to relax and let Gavin lead the pack in the hunt.

Gavin glanced back and forth before shrugging. “I know he’s around here, but it’s just his presence, not his scent. He’s getting away from us, but I can’t tell which way.” He noticed Rosa fuming and asked, “Rosa, can you pick out a direction?”

Her face relaxed, and she leaned her head back, sniffing at the wind. But, being a werecat, her sense of smell was much weaker compared to the trio of caniform members in the pack. If they’d lost the scent, her chances of finding it were worse.

She gave up quickly. “No, I can’t tell which way to go either.”

Jobe said, “Let’s just finish a lap around the lake and see if we can find him.” The pack fell into a diamond pattern around him, and they started jogging again.

Jobe glanced left at Gavin and raised an eyebrow. “You are sure it’s a him?”

“Yes, and he’s had the curse long enough that he doesn’t smell human anymore.” Gavin shook his head. “He’s some kind of cat, and I’d recognize his scent if I smelled it again. But he’s either doubled back or moved into the woods to avoid the wind.”

“He knows we’re following him,” George said.

Having the strongest sense of smell gave him the point position in the formation, and his head looked like it was attached to a spring for the frequency that he spun it from side to side. He sniffed the air, finding nothing. “He could sense us too, and unlike me and Rosa, he wasn’t trapped in a room under doctor’s orders to give you time to catch up.”

Jobe said, “Right, he’s reacting to his anxiety by avoiding you.”

They completed a full trip around the lake without finding anyone, and when the pack returned to Rosa’s yard, Jobe expected to find a set of blackened cinders on the barbecue grill.

So he was briefly puzzled when he opened the lid and found nothing but smoldering coals.

He snorted and set the lid down. “Guys, it’s Goldilocks, and the bitch just took off with our steaks.”

***

Thursday, 8:27 pm

Dave ran back to his truck despite his full stomach, swinging his head back every few steps to check for his pursuers. But once he’d moved back into the woods and the breeze shifted, they’d lost track of him. And after they completed one circuit of the lake, they didn’t make another.

He got back to the truck and got in, taking off quickly. He was halfway back across Boerne before he would let himself think things through.

He’d just emerged from the woods when his skin felt too hot, and his heart started thumping fast. He was tense, and his skin broke out in an oily sweat.

Across the lake, he spotted a group of people, and they got up to walk around the shore. Dave wasn’t sure why, but he got the feeling that the people would be looking for him, and he took off running.

Each time he dipped into a pocket of shadows to hide and get his bearings, he found the group behind him, still jogging with a synchronized pace.

Dave plunged into the woods for better cover. He kept ahead of the group, waiting until the breeze shifted before he cut a wide path back the other way.

He watched the group as he passed them, and his eyes widened in disbelief. He almost ran into a tree, hearing it rushing at him. He veered away from it, barely avoiding the trunk, and he still couldn’t stop staring.

Three of the people, two men and one woman, were complete strangers. However, he recognized George and Rosa both, having gone to school with them. George was a bit older, exiting high school as a senior when Dave and Rosa had just arrived as freshmen.

Dave had spent several pleasant evenings with Rosa before the trip to Austin that destroyed her future, and they’d been the best of friends before their ill-fated attempt at “going steady.” So it could be said that they had been on intimate terms in the past.

That she was outside jogging was shocking enough, but the sweatshirt she wore was sleeveless, and for the first time, he saw the scars left by her attackers.

He almost stopped to call out to her, but the hot uneasy feeling stilled his tongue. Then the group was past him, unaware that he’d doubled back.

When he emerged from the woods, the group was still jogging the shoreline. He glanced across the lake, to the property where they’d come from. He spotted the trail of smoke from the barbecue grill, and his mouth watered.

His brain shut off, and his stomach took over. He barely noticed the distance as he ran around the lake. The trees and scattered houses blurred until he stopped in front of the grill.

He lifted the top, and the heavenly smell of the cooked meat almost dropped him to his knees. How long had he been subsisting on ramen and bologna sandwiches?

Sitting in the truck, he was consumed by a feeling of guilt for what he did next. In all the twenty-four years of his life, Dave had never stolen anything. He was a slacker, yes, and he had problems with staying faithful to his girlfriends.

He’d always earned his own way in life, and it was a mark of pride that he didn’t take anything that wasn’t his.

But the meat smelled so good. He stood over the grill, tearing apart the hot steaks even while they burned his fingers, his lips and his tongue. Boiling hot blood and grease stung his skin as the fluids coated his face, but the pain was nothing compared to the pleasure.

Dave had moaned with more intensity feasting on his stolen meal than he ever had during an orgasm. He’d had sex a lot, and still he would have been hard pressed to decide which was more pleasurable. The near-painful burn that came just before ejaculation was similar to the heat on his sensitive face, and the pleasure of sexual release was just as intoxicating as the flavor of the meat washing his tongue.

Mesmerized by the taste and aroma, he’d eaten all ten of the steaks on the grill, gorging until he was packed full. The group hunting for him was just coming around the other side of the lake, but they didn’t spot him.

They were talking about him, wondering where he was, and who he was. He should have been too far away to hear them, but he did.

He was just leaving when he noticed the bottle of beer by one of the lawn chairs. Glancing around at the group, he’d thought, Might as well.

Then he’d grabbed the bottle and tipped it back to drain it in a few gulps.

Dave was careful to run quietly as he left, and he dashed from house to house, always looking back to check on the progress of the people.

The hot, uneasy feeling had abated once he got away from the group, and he started to think about that more than his guilt. What was happening to him? It was more than a case of his senses being stronger. He felt the group getting closer. How could it be possible?

What if it is a werebear? The damning question returned, and then he recalled a story he’d heard on the radio about an FBI agent in San Antonio who had been attacked by a bear. So, if one of the men was the FBI agent, then the rest had to be more cursed victims of the werebear.

And if that were the case, what could he do to stop the curse from spreading?

He found no answers even after he returned home. Dave parked the truck in the backyard and got out, already pulling off his gun harness before he’d reached the back door of the trailer.

He walked through the rear hallway into his bedroom, and he hung the harness in his gun safe in the corner of the room. He went to the bed and sat down on the side, his glazed eyes roving around the messy room.

It was definitely the home of a bachelor. Dirty clothes were strewn on the floor. Scattered among them were issues of hunting magazines, stapled articles printed from the Internet at the public library, and porno magazines, mostly softcore.

Though the title of one magazine, Big Tits, Bigger Guns, suggested a fetish, it was actually a lark. He’d bought it sight unseen because of the black plastic covering everything but the model’s head.

He’d been chagrined to discover that “guns” referred to the model’s bulging arms, and her bodybuilding physique wasn’t what he usually considered attractive.

Still, it was good for the occasional spank, when nothing else was working for him.

His attention drifted up from the floor to a poster on his wall, a custom photo that he’d found on the Internet. The poster was his prized possession, the sole piece of artwork hung on the cheap wood-paneling in the bedroom. The poster was in a plastic case with a black metal frame, showing his reverence for the image.

He didn’t know what the Latin name for the animal was, but the press had dubbed the hybrid a liger. A pairing of lion and tiger breeds, the huge male beast in the picture had a short mane, and a thick golden body that rippled with muscle.

The rippling effect was enhanced by the liger’s faint gold stripes. Even in a still photo, the animal’s stripe pattern gave it the illusion of motion.

Six months before, Dave had been at the public library, using their Internet access to look up a web site about giant cats. He’d stumbled across a gallery of ligers, and he’d fallen in love with them at first sight.

Many times, he’d gone to the public library intending to research animal tracks or look up new gun reviews, and instead, he’d spent most of his allotted time staring at the gallery of liger photos.

The photo print had been his first online purchase. Having the image enlarged and printed as a 60 inch by 100 inch poster was the most expensive thing he’d bought to decorate his trailer, but to him it was worth it.

Some nights he’d dreamt of chasing the animal through a verdant jungle, but he was never able to catch it.

He relaxed as he stared at the poster, his shoulders slumping while the adrenaline and endorphins let go of his body. He wanted to think more on the encounter by the lake, or to ponder on the nature of the tracks he’d seen all along the shoreline.

But he could only think how nice it was to finally have a full stomach, and how very comfortable the blanket felt under his hands.

Dave pulled off his boots, and then he flopped back on the bed. He was still fumbling with the top button of his jeans when sleep took him.

***

Thursday, 8:40 pm

Jobe set fresh steaks on the grill, glancing at the empty beer bottle on the ground with a thoughtful expression. He found a stick to slip into the top of the bottle to pick it up.

Gavin asked, “You want to dust it for prints?”

Jobe nodded. “Yeah, we’ll do it tomorrow. We can take the bottle to the local cops and see if they’ve got this guy on file.”

He smiled to himself while he crossed the yard and set the bottle down on the top step by the door. “We can safely rule out the orc being the culprit.”

Gavin shrugged. “Orcs might like beer.”

Jobe barked a laugh and pointed to the side of the bottle. “Maybe, but he wouldn’t have little bitty, human-shaped grease-prints, would he?”

“Oh,” Gavin said, grinning with a goofy expression of embarrassment over missing the obvious. “Yes, that might be a clue too.”

Jobe snickered and patted Gavin’s shoulder as he walked back to the ice chest to fetch himself another beer. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t think clearly on an empty stomach, right?”

Gavin nodded, but his expression became troubled. “Actually, I’m having trouble thinking clearly all the time now.”

Jobe twisted off the cap and pocketed it. He tipped back the bottle, swallowed and then asked, “Maybe it’s your brain being overwhelmed by your sharpened senses?”

Gavin shrugged. “Maybe.”

He wasn’t comfortable admitting that the truth was, he couldn’t stop thinking about Stephanie.

“Have you considered meditation?” Jobe asked.

Gavin smirked. “Have you?”

Jobe nodded. “Yep, I do it all the time. I started in my late teens. It didn’t really do much to get rid of the voices in my head, but it did get all of them chanting in time with each other. Now it helps to keep me focused, and when I can’t sleep, I can at least meditate to recharge my brain.”

Gavin laughed with real surprise. “I didn’t know you meditated.”

Jobe shrugged. “You never asked. Then again, I don’t suppose there’s much difference between meditation and staring blankly to an outside observer.”

“Hey,” Rosa called, pointing in the direction of the barbecue grill. “Let’s have less speculation, and more work on those steaks.”

Jobe chuckled, bowing his head to Rosa as he walked back to the grill. “Yes, mistress. Please, don’t beat me, mistress.”

“I might.” Rosa snickered, and then her smile became impish. “I should stop. I’ve never had a servant before, and this kind of power could become too intoxicating.”

***

Thursday, 8:49 pm

Lucy’s stomach growled, and she grabbed the remote to shut off the TV. Tossing the remote aside on the couch, she padded into the kitchen, her hand rubbing her stomach. She opened the refrigerator, her gaze flicking from one package of beef to another before she tugged out a tray of stew meat.

She peeled back the plastic as she walked to the sink, and she set the styrofoam tray down in the sink before she grabbed one of the cubes and popped it into her mouth.

Claws clacked on the tile behind her, and she turned to smile at Max. The dog’s muzzle pulled up in a smile, and he licked his chops.

Lucy took out a chunk of meat and held it up. “Do you still know how to ask right?”

Max stared at her for a few seconds before he sat up, bringing his front paws together to look like he was begging. Lucy smacked at him, and Max brayed three barks that sounded like he said, “I love you!”

“Good boy,” Lucy said. She tossed the meat at Max, who snapped his head up to catch the cube as it passed over his snout.

She alternated between taking pieces for herself and for Max. Pixie was a finicky eater, and she wouldn’t touch cheaper cuts of meat.

But Lucy liked a good cheap piece of meat, something with plenty of gristle and sinew. It required more effort to chew, which helped to burn off her aggressions.

That night at least, some of her “aggressions” were just old-fashioned horniness. Lucy had always considered George physically attractive, and he’d been one of the few men she’d ever met who could put up with her quirks.

But no matter how much she loved him, there had always been something about his presence that unnerved her.

She didn’t mean to be so hostile, but once he was next to her for more than a few hours, his presence became infuriating. She spoiled for fights, looking for any reason to pick at him and send him away to the couch again.

When he’d asked for a divorce, she wasn’t surprised, nor was she hurt. Nine months had passed since he moved out and rented a house on the other side of town. The process of divorce dragged on, and the official date of their separation was only four months prior. But the marriage had been over for long before that.

Once he’d left, she missed him, and she sometimes wondered why she couldn’t be civil to him.

But she knew the reason why. Because he was a human, and she wasn’t.

No matter how much she loved him, there was always the risk that he would decide that she was a monster and expose her to the rest of the town.

She pushed him away to eliminate the risk of exposure.

Her memory returned to earlier in the day, when she’d looked around at him climbing out of his truck. He was bigger. She’d thought that she was just imagining it at first, and that somehow, not seeing him for a few months had made her mental image of him blurry.

But she noticed how his flannel shirt was taut around his chest. The shoulder seams were almost vertical, where they had always lain at a relaxed fifteen degree angle before. His sleeves strained to contain his biceps, and while he’d always been a big man, Lucy didn’t remember him looking quite so buff.

By itself, it wouldn’t have meant anything. But then there was his scent. In all her life, Lucy had never known someone whose scent had shifted to become something completely different.

She’d noticed minor changes, as when people got sick. She often warned people that they were getting a cold, or catching the flu, because she smelled the infection building. Most of her family members could smell illnesses, and Lucy’s mother had often said that the family had a nose for diagnosis.

But George’s scent hadn’t just had something new added to it. He didn’t smell the same at all, and in fact, he didn’t smell human anymore.

Which made no sense. In Lucy’s understanding of the world, there were humans, sorta-humans, and not humans. She divided these groups by scent, and no one had ever crossed from one group to the other.

Ever.

Period.

But George had.

His new scent was intoxicating, and against her better judgment, she’d moved in closer. She’d told herself that she just wanted to be sure of her suspicions.

It sounded honest enough, but with many hours to think back, Lucy could admit how much she’d wanted to get closer to him. She almost lost control of herself and put her arms around him, but she’d kept herself under control by thinking, Haven’t you done enough to mess with his head already?

But now, just thinking about his scent made the muscles in her legs tighten.

Sighing, Lucy shook her head. Like there was any way she could go back to living with George. She’d pushed him away, and she’d made sure to pour extra gas on the bridge before she’d lit it up.

The facts still could not ease her sense of curiosity. Something had changed about her ex-husband since she’d last seen him, and she doubted it was anything as mundane as a new cologne.

Blind Rage - Chapter 13, 5.0 out of 5 based on 1 rating

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... I write dark fiction in a variety of genres. My blog contains my rants and rambles, and some short fiction that can only be found here. I can be pretty fucking offensive, so viewer discretion is advised.

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This entry was posted on Saturday, July 4th, 2009 at 1:18 pm and is filed under Blind Rage, Dark Fantasy, Werekin, my writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.