Slings and Arrows I

Slings and Arrows

Chapter 1

He paced the kitchen, his dress shoes clattering across the original linoleum of his midcentury home. Scott was usually ridiculously pleased with his black and white floor and shiny red counter tops, but tonight he couldn’t stop circling. His Japanese Chin stared at Scott with bugged out eyes and fled from the kitchen. He dashed around the corner, his nails skidding across the smooth hardwood floors of the hallway. Oreo was a social creature, flying for the safety of the bed was unusual unless a thunderstorm was brewing.

Scott had heard of thunder snow, but he’d never seen it. He sniffed the air; no it was going to be clear. What?! Sniffing the air to detect the weather. It had been a bad day at work, but he wasn’t crazy; he didn’t sniff the air or hold his finger to the wind or consult oracles with magic rocks to determine future weather; he turned on the Weather Channel like all other sensible people.

He circled the kitchen again. He caught the metal edge of the counter with his hand, trying to stop his frantic pacing. This wasn’t him; he didn’t pace. He cocked his head and looked out the kitchen window. It was already dark, not black like in the wilderness but dark for his neighborhood. His neighbor’s security light washed into his yard and through the dining room windows. Farther away he could see the streetlights and the glow of the lamps in the house behind him. Scott flicked his eyes to this own ceiling; he hadn’t turned on the lights. Why hadn’t he noticed his own kitchen seemed dark and murky? But it wasn’t; Scott could clearly see the keypad on the microwave and the insignia on the refrigerator.

Scott opened his kitchen door and stepped out onto the back porch. The sky was dark. He never could see many stars here, too much light pollution, and the moon was covered by thick clouds. The wind blew, shaking the branches on the fragile pear tree that the last owner had thought was a good idea. Just the edge of the moon peaked out from a cloud. It was either full or almost full from the shape of it. Violet, that insane woman from the office, would probably insist there was some special meaning associated with a full moon on Valentine’s Day. She actually managed stock portfolios depending on the owner’s astrologic sign. She was bat shit crazy, but she did have a following. There were more crazy people out there than Scott wanted to contemplate.

And he was entering those crazy ranks. He was standing on his back porch in the middle of February without a jacket, staring at a half hidden moon. Definitely crazy. He stomped back into the house, rubbing his arms briskly against the cold. He was crazy all right, standing out in the freezing cold and looking at the moon. Scott yanked his attention back to his dinner. Chopped carrots and a handful of peas were waiting for him on the cutting board. Peas he snorted; green food was for prey.

Scott jerked open the refrigerator and ransacked its contents: salad dressing, milk out of date, lettuce, a half used can of tomatoes. He wanted steak or hamburger or chicken breasts. Nothing! Nothing! He slammed the refrigerator shut, shaking the drawers and bins. Grabbing his keys, he plunged out the door still without a jacket or a hat.

His car roared to life. He’d always driven a used economy box, but this year for his twenty-fifth birthday he’d splurged. He’d bought a new car, a German import with far more horsepower than he truly needed and a decadent taste for premium gasoline. It was beautiful in its midnight blue, and it was truly a delight to smell the rich leather of the seats and feel the solidness of the steel around him. No more plastic boxes where the knobs fell off the radio every hundred miles.

Scott blinked and reflexively shielded his eyes from the oncoming headlights. The lights flickered off and then back on again. Damn! He was driving without his lights on. He could see the bushes on the side of the road hiding the electrical boxes and the lone dog walker bundled against the cold, an equally bundled beagle in a pink coat forged ahead and looked mortified at his jacket. He flicked on his lights; he always drove with his lights on at night.

His eyes spotted the golden arches ahead. He zoomed into the deserted drive-thru and ordered a double quarter pounder no cheese, no ketchup, plain as they could make it. Scott handed his crumpled bills to the exhausted teenager behind the window and snatched the bag. He tore open the box and discarded the bun. He’d swallowed half of one burger before the teen managed to hand the change back. Scott wiped the grease from his hands and took the change, surprised at the teenager’s shocked expression. Scott stared down into the burger box in front of him. The lid was torn off and crushed. Half of one burger had been devoured, and Scott could barely restrain himself from grabbing the second part.

“Thanks,” Scott managed to mutter, pulling the car forward into a vacant space. Where was the bun? He liked bun with his burgers. Scott ripped a piece of meat off and swallowed it. He didn’t eat hamburger often; he never ate hamburger from fast food joints, the scourge of the American diet. He worked where the canteen served bean sprouts and tofu.

The rest of the burger was gone. Scott didn’t remember eating the remaining patty, but he must have. It wasn’t in the car, even though the odor of meat still permeated the vehicle. Scott crumpled the trash and ran to the nearest bin. His breath was coming fast as he secured his seatbelt. He’d been tempted to go inside and order another burger, but he’d spotted the teen from the drive-thru looking and pointing.

The road was mostly deserted. Scott had driven away from the McDonald’s in aimless panic. He’d turned away from his home and toward the country with fields full of broken and harvested cornstalks and deer lurking around every corner. Venison--Scott’s mouth watered. He’d never liked venison. Some distant relative, second cousin twice removed or something, had given him venison sausage. Scott had left them in the freezer until mercifully a power failure had allowed him to dispose of all the detritus tucked behind the ice maker.

Where in the hell was he going? The road was narrow with no edge lines and only a halfhearted attempt at a center line. He rumbled over a covered bridge and turned onto a road that was more gravel than pavement. He’d been here once, last summer. It was an old army base, abandoned long ago and donated to the state’s Department of Natural Resources. In the summer in the bright sun, it had been pretty. He’d pedaled around the deserted and potholed roads, watching butterflies flit across the knee high grass of once strictly mown fields.

He pulled his car into the lot that had once been reserved for business with the base commander. An empty flag pole stood out front, ringed by a circle of white rocks. The building was still in good shape; part of it had been restored and was used as a ranger’s station and learning center if Scott remembered right. They had brochures with overly simplified maps that were useless on the trails and a diorama depicting the base in its glory days of World War II when it teamed with soldiers heading to Europe.

Scott sat in his car, frozen. Why had he driven out here? He didn’t have sudden hankerings for a nighttime, freezing jog around deserted army camps. He should do the sensible thing and turn the car around and head back home, but he couldn’t seem to do the sensible thing. His body was thrumming, his heart hammering in his chest, his ears straining for distant noises.

He heard it, the music of a howl in a distant valley. He heard it again, this time louder, rising to a fullness of several voices. He reached for his keys; it was only a few coyotes. They were becoming far more prevalent now, having adapted to suburban living. They were only coyotes, no need to be trembling. The howl reverberated again, louder and nearer. Scott stiffened, almost leaping from his seat. He pushed the door open and scrambled out; lifting his head to the sky, he answered in a deep bay.

The clouds had scattered; the moon was full. He was standing under a full moon, and he’d just howled. He wasn’t drunk; he knew he’d had nothing but bottled water. He was sure the water hadn’t been contaminated. Scott howled again his voice rising in a rich baritone.

No! He gripped the top of his car. No! He wasn’t crazy. He didn’t believe the magazines at the checkout stand of the grocery, woman gives birth to alien, man with three heads, vampire found in closet. No! He must have food poisoning, or he must have taken some medication. He hadn’t been sick; he wasn’t taking pills. His body jerked as an answering howl crossed the valley. He couldn’t stop himself. His feet pushed ahead, down the broken road. He jogged by the old barracks building and only a roof and two walls of what was labeled a gymnasium. He crossed a field, patches of snow, mud, and half frozen water soaking his lower legs and shoes. Good shoes, size seven and one half, impossible to find, he thought stupidly as he plunged ahead. Another howl ripped the night sky. His legs moved faster, scrambling over a fallen log and down a muddy embankment.

He struggled up the far side, his breath ripping through his chest. He didn’t do adventure running or whatever they called that insane sport that involved racing up and down mountains on rocky, poorly cut trails where the participants encountered poisonous plants and dangerous wildlife. He scraped his hand on something. He could see the black points sharply outlined in the silver of the moon as he jerked his hand back with a sharp yip.

He’d yip. He spewed every curse he knew or ever heard as he drew the injured flesh to his mouth. Scott whimpered as his tongue and lips probed the pierced flesh. 

A fresh howl spread across the valley. With one last lick, Scott pushed his legs forward. He brushed through the trees until he came to a large open field. Scott followed the trampled path. Maybe it was a deer trail; maybe it was trampled by the group of people he could see at the far end. Excited yips rose in his throat; he couldn’t stop them. He bounded across the grass oblivious to the mud and splatter. He plunged into the center of the group and froze as all eyes turned on him.

There were a dozen perhaps, all men, and all more sensibly dressed, the rational side of Scott’s brain told him, with boots and proper coats. Scott shivered in the cold breeze and under the eyes of all those strangers. A tall man, broad shouldered with a dark mane of hair framing his face and dropping over his collar stepped out of the group. Silently he approached, stopping inches from Scott’s soaked shoes. He growled.

Was that supposed to mean something? This man, standing in a sodden field under a full moon had growled. Scott was sensible. He didn’t believe in urban legends and ridiculous fairy tales.

“May I help you?” Scott croaked. It wouldn’t have been a normal or sensible response if he’d met this guy on the street. The man was too close; he was staring too hard. On the street Scott would have crossed over or fled into the nearest store. Under the bright lights of an all night pharmacy, he would have been safe.

The growl was deeper this time, rumbling from the depth of the man’s chest. The man gripped Scott’s shoulder, pinning him in place, not that Scott could make his legs move. They had become disconnected from the circuits of his brain. All he could do was stand frozen under the glare of this man’s inspection. Scott tried to hold the man’s eye, but they were as dark as the hair: intense, predatory, and feral. Scott’s eyes dropped to the trampled grass.

A large hand with calloused fingers stroked the side of Scott’s face. The hand played through Scott’s short brown hair. Scott should tell him to stop. He was a stranger. He shouldn’t be touching him like this. A finger traced around Scott’s lip and with a push dove inside, scraping Scott’s teeth and touching the roof of his mouth. Scott tried to move away, but the grip on his shoulder tightened to a painful vice. He thought of biting, but that meant real blood and probably pain. Scott was small; he’d never been a fighter, His only fight in school had ended with a bloody nose and a call to his parents. He couldn’t fight all these people. There was no safe haven of bright lights, financial reports, and the beauty of the computer screen.

As a boy, it hadn’t been the tick of the stocks across the screen, but the wonderful world of monsters and fabulous heroes who could wield a half dozen weapons at once and gain lives by finding hidden potions. Here he had no escape. He’d come up here on his own. He stood trapped and frozen with fear, but also with something else. The man, much too close, his touch much too intimate, smelled of wood and outdoors and something Scott couldn’t describe. He wanted to bury himself against him, submit to whatever this stranger wanted.

The man’s finger left his mouth and traced down his neck. Scott tipped his head back, exposing his throat. He whimpered as the finger rested on his hammering pulse.

“Good.”

The single word contained more warmth and pleasure than Scott had ever imagined. Scott smiled. He knew his eyes were desperate and pleading, and he didn’t know why. He didn’t go in for being manhandled by strangers in some crazy ritual in a freezing field. Scott shivered, his teeth chattering.

“You’re like ice. Idiot pup.”

The man’s hands disappeared only to appear again with a thick sweater he’d shed from under his coat. He pulled Scott’s limp arms overhead and dropped the sweater down over Scott’s head and shoulders. It was big, hanging to his knees with his hands lost somewhere in the folds of the sleeves, but it was warm and smelled of the man. Scott drew the scent into his lungs, not understanding the need.

“Pup, you have to dress until you shift. The human form doesn’t handle the outdoors in winter.”

“Shift?” Scott’s tongue felt thick over the word. He couldn’t think; he could barely speak. Weren’t these people some strange nature lovers on a full moon hike or at worse people who got their jollies pretending to practice harmless forms of witchcraft? Violet claimed to be a pagan and had inadvertently sent Scott an email about a Winter Solstice celebration. He’d trashed it without reading it, too weird for him. He fell in the celestial teapot circles anyway. All god things were impossible to disprove but this wasn’t the same as proof. It was just as logical to believe a celestial teapot revolved around Mars and demanded the lowly humans’ adoration as to believe in one or many gods.

“You have shifted?” The man’s voice broke through the fog of Scott’s brain.

Shifted? He could drive a stick shift. “I don’t understand.” It was a whine. Scott longed to rub against the man; he wanted the reassurance of the stranger’s touch.

“You don’t know.” The man threw his head back, and a howl rose from his throat, eerie and beautiful all at once. A chorus of short yips and half howls broke around them, and the people dispersed, underbrush cracking as they scrambled away.

“What’s happening?” Scott managed to ask, forcing his tongue to form words that suddenly felt unfamiliar.

“How old are you? You’ve never shifted? You were never told?”

“Twenty-five.” He could answer that question. It had been his birthday last week, and he felt old and alone. Being able to rent a car without a huge hassle didn’t seem like a worthwhile milestone; it only seemed that he was getting older. The other he didn’t understand. The variable didn’t compute; he didn’t have enough information.

“When?”

When what? When was his birthday? “Last week.”

“You’re twenty-five. You must shift on the first full moon after maturity. You cannot wait any longer.”

“Shift?” Nothing made sense. Full moon. What was this man babbling about? Where had everyone else gone?

“You’re a shifter.”

“A what?”

“A werewolf to be exact and by midnight you will have shifted.”

“You’re kidding me?” This had to be an elaborate joke. Why were they picking on him? He’d heard of crazy things for bachelor parties, but they usually involved strippers, not compelling strangers insisting he was a mythical beast.

“I am not.”

“Where are the others?” Scott’s brain couldn’t entertain this hocus-pocus. It was impossible to physically change forms; he’d taken enough biology to know that muscles and bones couldn’t remodel from form to form. He’d keep the questions simple. Find out information and escape.

“They’ve gone to secure the perimeter. The first shift will be difficult and dangerous.”

Scott nodded his head. What else could he do? How could he discuss irrational myths and legends as facts?

“Come. It will start soon. We need somewhere more protected.”

The man--Scott still didn’t know his name-- grabbed his wrist. They moved fast across trails that the man obviously knew. Scott struggled to catch his breath and keep his footing. There wasn’t extra oxygen to process any other thoughts.

Scott smelled the water before he saw or heard it. A small stream trickled over rocks and splashed into thinly frozen pools. He stumbled along the edges until the man pulled him into an opening.

“Watch your head. It get’s low here.”

Scott ducked. He couldn’t see the roof, but he could feel it brushing the hairs on his head. The tunnel opened into a larger cavern. Scott could no longer feel the walls around him, and he cautiously stood up. A lantern flickered and caught, illuminating the rough, rocky surface.

“I would have brought candles and more blankets if I knew I had a firster. This will have to do. Strip.”

Strip? Scott was cold even with the big man’s sweater, and the man was big, his broad shoulders pressed against the rocks, his head close to the rocky roof. Scott wrapped his arms tightly around himself and stood huddled in a ball.

“Clothes will only get in the way. Now do as I ordered,” the man said in a tone that made Scott’s stomach drop to his feet. The man shrugged out of his coat, and his fingers had started on the buttons of his heavy wool shirt. “I expect to be obeyed. Get your clothes off.” The tone was rough and Scott’s fingers moved automatically to pull the sweater over his head before he willed them to stop.

“It’s winter.”

“And you were running through the woods in your shirt sleeves. Clothes will be in the way, pup. Wolves don’t wear pants and a sweater.”

“There is no such thing as a werewolf.” Scott started to back away. He had to get out of here. His car couldn’t be all that far.

The growl was deep and frightening, and the hand that caught Scott’s arm felt unbreakable. A sharp pain tore through Scott’s spine, and he cried out.

“It’s coming. The first shift is painful. It’s excruciating if you fight it.”

“People don’t shift! They don’t turn into werewolves. There are no half men half horses or men who turn into eagles. It’s impossible.”

“It’s not; it only sounds impossible. I’ve shifted hundreds of times, and you are starting to shift now.”

Scott yelped and jerked, his limbs spasming out of control. Pain shot through his body, and a wrenching howl escaped his clenched lips. He fell to the ground; he must be having a seizure. He’d never had a seizure was all Scott could think as he writhed on the floor, sparks of colors dancing across his retina and then blackness.

*****

Scott’s eyes flicked across the numerals on his alarm clock. It was after ten; he was due at work hours ago. He tried to sit up; pain shot through his body, and he felt as weak as a ninety-year-old bedridden for months.

“Slow. You’re going to hurt like hell.”

“Who are you?” What had happened last night? Had he gone out and picked someone up?

“Forgot already? Monty Wallace. I brought you home last night.”

“What did I do?” Scott asked, lying back against the pillow. He didn’t want to face the world if any of the horrible visions that were flowing through his brain were true. He was careful. He didn’t bring strange men home.

“Turned into a wolf and ran for several hours. I’m sure you feel like a truck ran over you.”

That was the understatement of the year. He’d had rough sex once or twice, and it hadn’t felt like this. Turning into a wolf--no fucking way. But why the images? A great, dark wolf with a silver stripe on his back. He smaller and redder. The scent of game in his nostrils. The icy water of the creek splashing on his feet.

“Sweetheart, you’re a werewolf. No use pretending last night didn’t happen.”

“There are no werewolves,” Scott shouted. “What did you do, drug me or something?”

“No,” the man said, his voice flat and without agitation. 

He wasn’t just the man, Scott thought. He had a name. He’d spent the night here last night. Jesus! He was a stranger. “Why are you in my house? I didn’t invite you.”

“I found the keys in your pocket and the address in your wallet. You were in no condition to drive.”

“I was only in no condition to drive because you did something to me. You aren’t my savior; you’re the perpetrator.” Only it would have sounded so much better if Scott could manage to stand up. He didn’t think he could sit up, let alone stand. His legs were limper than overcooked spaghetti.

“You fought it. It’s damaging to fight it.”

“What did I fight?” What had happened last night? Scott was battered; he could see a livid purple bruise on his wrist and red scratch marks up his arm. “You did this.” Scott pointed at his wrist and pulled himself up by the headboard. Every muscle screamed in voices he didn’t know existed as he forced himself to move.

“Let’s get you in the shower. You might be more clear headed after that.”

“I’m not the one who’s having a problem with a clear head. I don’t believe in mythological beings.”

“You’re the one not remembering last night. Some degree of confusion following a first shift is common, but this smells of denial.” Monty picked Scott up. The man was enormously strong. The bathroom was close, but he carried Scott as if he were a small child. He unceremoniously dumped Scott into the shower and started fiddling with the water. “Strip off. Water and PJ’s don’t mix.”

Scott was in a T-shirt and a pair of draw string PJ bottoms. “I’d like some privacy.” Scott couldn’t have had any last night. This man Monty must have changed him; Scott wouldn’t have gone out in his night clothes, maybe to move the trashcans or chase away the neighbors aggravating cat, but he wouldn’t have driven down the road.

“I saw it all last night. Wolves don’t wear clothes.”

“I’m not a wolf,” Scott said with exhausted anger. He was an ordinary human who ate Corn Flakes for breakfast, drank too much coffee, and watched bad television. He might have had a fascination with computer games as a kid, but he’d never believed any of it was real. Kids were far more intelligent than any of those assholes in the Christian councils would ever believe. Scott knew you didn’t run down the street spraying people with machine gun fire or hunt for treasure in haunted castles.

“Werewolf technically. It’s not the same as Canis lupus. Shower.”

Scott pulled the curtain. His hand rose above this shoulder only with stabbing pain. He leaned against the cool tiles and struggled to drop his pajama bottoms. Everything was spinning. God, he was going to fall.

“Stop being so stubborn.” Monty was leaning into shower and holding Scott up with one powerful arm wrapped around his waist. “Out of these clothes.” Scott was given no choice. Monty dragged the t-shirt over Scott’s head and dropped the draw string bottoms down his slim hips. “Step out.”

The water was hot, heavenly. Scott leaned his face into the spray. Monty’s arm was still around him and doing things to his hormones that Scott was refusing to acknowledge. This man had hurt him; he wasn’t accepting some kind of crazy comfort. The water was shut off, and Scott was engulfed in the largest towel he owned. Monty had lost his shirt somewhere, and his muscles rippled as he dried Scott. No, he wasn’t going there. Scott tried to pull back; still weak and limp he only succeeded in sagging further against that chest with its black curls shiny with water.

“Bed for you today. You’re not fit for anything else.”

Scott was back in bed. He wasn’t absolutely sure how Monty had so effortlessly manhandled Scott into a passive lump staring at the white ceiling and the unmoving ceiling fan. Maybe it was the pain; it hurt to breathe; moving and struggling was out of the question. Monty had found the extra blankets in the closet, and Scott was tucked into a cozy nest. Oreo would usually have joined him; during the few days he’d spent in bed last winter with bronchitis, Oreo had been his constant companion. Today the little dog had taken one look and instead of asking for a boost up onto the bed, he’d taken off yapping. Under the sofa, Scott expected. That was Oreo’s safe place when the evil vacuum came out of the closet.

Scott felt around his bedside table. He must have left both his laptop and his iPad in the briefcase in the kitchen. Monty was in the kitchen. Scott could hear the clatter of dishes and the hiss of something frying. He could smell the fruitiness of the olive oil and the heady fragrance of garlic. He was starving. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Last night, he’d taken food out. He remembered chopping carrots, but he couldn’t remember eating. The drive-thru. He’d been restless. The moon had been full. He remembered seeing the clouds race over it. The howls. Yes, he’d heard howls last night. His throat vibrated as he heard the music in his ears, the voices raised to the moon. Gleaming white teeth, yellow eyes, bushy tails. No! No! This couldn’t be right! He’d had too much to drink; he’d had a bad reaction to food. As a boy, he’d eaten bacon bits and broken out into frightening red spots. He’d heard people could have hallucinations from food. Violet insisted that MSG did weird things to her body, made her bloat and have migraines. They always had to make sure all Chinese take-out was MSG free or listen to a litany of symptoms for hours.

Scott eased the blankets closer to his ears. He was just tired; that was the problem. He’d sleep another few hours, and then he’d get rid of Monty with the smell of the woods and curls of black chest hairs. He’d be fine with more sleep.