Cursed Wolf: Urban Fantasy Shifter Stand-Alone (Creatures of the otherworld Book 1)

by Brogan Thomas

  Rage and hopelessness fill me. My vision goes hazy.

  I feel sick, my mouth is dry, and there’s a lump in my throat that I can’t swallow.

  I close my eyes and simply breathe.

  Shit, listen to me moaning. I need a slap. I need to get a grip on myself. I can handle this calmly. The rage can’t have me. I am human-shaped—forget the height thing, forget the hair and the eyes. I am me: every cloud and all that crap.

  Today I promised myself that I was going to own this shit. It’s a billy bonus that I’m alive and that I’m getting away from this house and the pack. I’m getting out of this shithole, and I’m never coming back.

  I should be dancing with joy, not whining like a baby.

  I open my eyes. Doc R and John are whispering in the corner of the room. The Backpack Hound—whose name I still don’t know, as John has yet to introduce us—is looking around my room, quietly sniffing. I tip my head to the side, curious. What is he doing?

  “John, the only scent of Forrest is from today,” he says quietly. Oh wow, he is a smart one. “If this is her room, why can’t I smell her?”

  As a unit, all three shifters turn and stare at me. Wow, they’re synchronised. An old Take That song plays in my head. I wonder, can they do it again to music? I want to cackle maniacally.

  Well, gentlemen, I want to say, it’s because this hasn’t been my room for fourteen years, obviously.

  CHAPTER SIX

  We are going on a bizarre treasure hunt, like a bunch of scary pirates. Everyone is now fascinated and focused on finding out where I sleep. I’m back in Backpack Hound’s arms, and like a helpful interactive treasure map, I point the way to my room.

  I can hear John’s teeth grind harder and more loudly as we leave the house and go further into the grounds. Come on, I want to say. You don’t have to be Einstein to realise it’s shit. Hello, magical dog collar.

  I am kind of amused in a manic, sick sort of way at how upset they all are when we arrive, crammed into the small, dark garage. The garage is set away from the main house. It’s a modern metal one, which makes it extra cold in winter and extra toasty in summer. It was purchased just for me.

  I think what is causing all the drama is the main feature of the room: the silver cage that sits in the middle of the concrete floor, with the creepy drain in the centre.

  Even in my human form, I can smell my scent in the air. It permeates the building—ahh, home sweet home.

  “Get Vincent,” my brother says quietly. “Get Vincent here now.” One of his guys disappears, and we are left looking silently at the cage. Well, they’re staring; I’ve seen this shit before.

  My Chauffeur Hound—formerly known as Backpack Hound—is standing in the corner with me still in his arms. He’s standing as far away as he can from the cage. He is holding me a little more tightly to his chest and is unconsciously running his fingers through my hair. It feels nice, the hand in my hair. Everything else hurts. Being held hurts. I am bony, and every bone feels like it’s touching every other bone and somehow grinding together. It isn’t a pleasant feeling, but I try my best to ignore it.

  My brother is standing like a statue. I never thought I’d say that someone is radiating fury, but John is. He’s pissed. Boy, is he pissed.

  Oh, oh…My eyes widen.

  Wait a minute…I blink. Yes, John’s hands are on fire. Blue flames dance across his skin. Oh crap, John is radiating not just emotionally...my brother is on fire like, literally. Wow. The warm garage is even getting hotter. The lack of air makes me yawn.

  Wary I peer up at the hellhound holding me. Shit, I hope he isn’t suddenly going to burst into flames.

  I tense in the hellhound’s arms as Vincent is shoved unceremoniously into the garage five minutes later. The guy who went to fetch him wipes his hands on his fatigues with blatant disgust and steps back outside, blocking the exit. Seeing Vincent here in the place where he regularly used to hurt me...I can’t stop the trickle of fear.

  I don’t want to be in here with Vincent. I don’t want to be here at all.

  I screw my eyes shut and count silently down from ten.

  Be brave. I’m pretty much shitting myself.

  Be brave. There’s not a thing I can do about any of this.

  Be brave. I’m along for the ride.

  The worst is behind me and I can do this, I can control myself. The worst is behind me, and my world has changed. They see me again. I’m a girl again.

  Don’t look back; keep moving forward. Surely Vincent can’t hurt me while the hellhounds are here? That bone-deep fear I have lived with forever slowly changes into something a little more manageable.

  Be brave. I can do this. I open my eyes.

  No one is speaking.

  The overhead strip-light buzzes in the silence, and the heat from John’s magic makes the sheet metal pop and clang. The thick dust-filled cobwebs hanging from the roof trusses sway. The minutes tick away.

  John eyes the cage. Vincent nervously watches John. It’s the first time I have seen Vincent nervous. A bead of sweat runs down the side of his face.

  Well, this is awkward.

  Doc R steps forward and inspects the cage. He’s too big to enter the actual enclosure, and he’s careful not to graze the silver bars. Crouching, he pays particular attention to the stained floor. The magical camera he used in my examination is recording. It bobs about in the air, following his movements.

  I peek back at John as he struggles for control over his fire magic. His body shakes with the effort, and his eyes are closed. The blue flames weirdly drip from his hands onto the concrete at his feet—the flames hiss and spark. I’ve never seen my brother struggle with his fire magic before. Not that I know John anymore, we’re strangers, but his lack of control is frightening.

  The doctor turns from his inspection and switches his full attention to Vincent. I think Doc R understands that John isn’t quite ready to deal with him, so he takes control of the situation.

  “Why the cage?” he asks conversationally. Vincent shrugs.

  My Chauffeur Hound tenses the muscles in his arms, and they bulge. He lets out a growl. It vibrates around me. The hair at the back of my neck stands up. It’s a bloody scary growl. Before I can clamp my lips against the sound, a small whine escapes. With a jerk, he immediately stops growling. He gently pats my head as if to say, “There, there,” and starts the hair thing again.

  “Why?” Doc R asks again, his tone polite.

  Vincent huffs, shrugs again, and then he surprisingly answers. “It was feral. John dumped us with a fucking feral wolf.” He shakes his head. “No, you can’t even call that thing a wolf—it’s just a dirty dog. My father, my sister, were killed because of it, and he decided to dump it here. For us to look after, to keep it safe? Fuck that. You think I was gonna let it stay in the house?” Vincent huffs out a laugh, sniffs, and wipes a hand across his sweaty face. He turns his full attention to John, demonstrating how stupid he is or revealing to everyone that he has a death wish. “Be glad that it’s alive. Thank me.” He points to the flaming floor in front of John’s feet. “Get on your fucking knees and thank me!” Vincent’s voice echoes around the garage. His voice drops ominously. “’Cause not a day has gone past that I don’t want to put my hands around its throat and strangle the life out of it.” Vincent swings around and points at me, his dark eyes furious. “That fucking bitch killed my pack.”

  Well, that escalated quickly.

  I sniff. As if we all didn’t know who Vincent was talking about—no need to point. I try to disappear into Chauffeur Hound’s bulk. For those few moments, while Vincent’s hate-filled attention is on me, the hellhound turns me slightly away so Vincent can’t see me, and more importantly, so I can’t see him. I have never been more grateful. I pat Chauffeur Hound’s chest, and when he glances down, I attempt a small wobbly smile. The big hellhound frowns.

  The silence in the garage is deafening.

  Prompted by the hellhound’s frown, it slowly registers,
what Vincent is insinuating. I mentally replay the conversation. The dawning horror of what he said starts to sink in. Vincent thinks I killed my mum? Does he think I’m the reason Grace died? What the fuck. Is that the reason why Vincent and Jason hate me? The reason for everything? I rub my chest. I open my mouth to explain, to shout at him that it was his precious father Dave who was ultimately responsible for their deaths. My pack is dead because Dave fucked up.

  It was not me. It bloody wasn’t me.

  I swear on my own life I didn’t do anything wrong. I followed the rules.

  But the words don’t come.

  Instead, a raw, soulful whine leaves my lips.

  Frustration and fear swirl around in my chest, cramping my tummy and tightening my throat so I can’t take a full breath. Oh God, my brother doesn’t believe him, does he? Is that why he left me without a backward glance? Is that why he was angry?

  A horrible thought bounces around in my head. What happens if I’m wrong? What if I made everything up, and everything that happened was my fault? Perhaps my version of events didn’t happen the way I remembered?

  Doc R ignores Vincent's outburst and after a few minutes, calmly asks, “Has she always been in this cage? In this garage?” He looks about in disgust, toeing the cage with his boot. “Where are the claw marks?” Vincent looks blankly back at the doctor. Vincent is breathing harder, flexing his fingers. “Have you seen a feral shifter, Vincent? I have. It is such a sad and frightening thing to see. The rage…” Doc R shakes his head and brings his arm to his mouth to demonstrate his next words, snapping his teeth. “A feral would be quite happy to chew its leg off or rip its mate to pieces to escape confinement. A feral would make short work of this cage. It would smash itself against the bars, even though they are silver, without care—and do you know what?” He points at the floor. “Because this cage isn't bolted down, it would take not even a minute for a feral to get out.”

  Doc R steps into Vincent’s personal space. He leans forward, his nose almost brushing Vincent’s. In a quiet tone that sends a shiver down my spine, he asks, “Why did you cage her? A nine-year-old child? A female shifter in need of care. You said she was feral? Where is the proof?” Pointing at the cage angrily, he raises his voice, losing his calm. “Where are the claw marks? How long did you cage her? When did you put a frightened little girl unable to shift out of her wolf form. In. A. Cage!”

  Vincent quickly backs away from the angry doctor.

  The corner of his lip and eye twitch sporadically. “About ten years.” He rubs his hand across his mouth. “I had it in that cage for about ten years. Until Harry came home from school, the kid…the kid, he urm, he got upset—”

  “Ten years?” Doc R repeats incredulously, throwing up his arms into the air. “What is wrong with you?” The doctor turns away from Vincent, and he looks imploringly at my brother. “John, are you listening to this?” Doc R rubs the back of his bald head with frustration. John remains unresponsive.

  I let out a sigh that’s more exhaustion than frustration, much to my chagrin. Do I have to be here?

  “Look, it came back,” Vincent says with a snarl. “My pack didn’t! I knew it was at fault. Grace died; my two-year-old little sister died. My dad died, and his mate died. You talk about female shifters—what about Grace! Why the fuck didn’t the real killer, the real reason my pack died, get punished?” Vincent puffs out his chest while I try to make myself smaller. “I punished the dog, something that you fucks didn’t have the balls to do. So don’t start this shit.” He thumps his chest. “I am not ashamed. I did what I had to do.”

  “I sent Forrest home so that she could be with the pack,” says John. Finally, he starts to address the elephant in the room. I listen intently, my body tense with fear. Is this where he agrees that Vincent is right? Will John ask Chauffeur Hound to put me back into the cage? I peek up at the hellhound through my lashes, trying to disguise my growing horror. Will he obey?

  God, I don’t want to be here!

  “I had no idea you’d do something as evil as this. I knew your father was rotten. I didn’t realise that the rot went so deep and into his sons. My mother was adamant that you could be trusted; she was blind.” I notice that the flame in his hand is now entirely in John’s control. It dances across his palm, changing colours among red, orange, yellow, and blue. It’s mesmerising. “I returned a traumatised child to a nest of vipers, and I didn’t even visit. Except for the odd phone, call I left you to it.” The flame continues its dance. “I was too busy with my vengeance, hunting down the perpetrators, to even sit down and tell you the whole story of what happened. The truth about your father and what he did.” The flame jumps to his other hand. “At the time, I thought it would be better that you didn’t know. That it was healthier for the pack to not dwell on things you couldn’t change. I also didn’t want the pack name tainted, my mother’s memory tarnished.” As John continues, Vincent flings his arms into the air with frustration. His head is shaking vehemently in denial. “Forrest was a child—where in that stupid fucking head of yours did you imagine a nine-year-old girl could be responsible? Is that your bullshit fucking excuse?” The tightness in my chest loosens, and I take a full breath. “I was wrong in not giving you the full story. I made a massive error in judgment. I’m going to make it right. Your pack and the whole of shifter society is going to know the truth by the end of the day. I shouldn't have kept it a secret for so long.”

  Apart from the flame in his hands, John hasn’t moved a muscle; his eyes remain closed. I have a feeling that if John looked at Vincent right now, he would probably burn him to a crisp.

  John opens his eyes. “Have you seen her, Vincent, have you had a chance to see what you have done? Look in her eyes and tell me you see a monster. Then do the same while looking in the mirror. You, your pack...you are so fucking done.”

  Vincent looks away, unable to meet John’s gaze. He’s still shaking his head in denial, his hands clenched into fists. I don’t think whatever John tells him will be enough. His hatred for me is too deeply ingrained.

  John turns his head and examines me. “I find out about all this, and what we have discovered so far is just the tip of the iceberg, isn’t it, Forrest? The tip of what you had to suffer.” His head drops to his chest, and he runs his hand across the back of his neck.

  Wow, was that an apology? I’m left more confused than vindicated.

  Vincent looks away with a snarl. His whole body jerks when his eyes catch the half-full bag in the far corner, near the hose pipe on the wall. He surreptitiously tries to block the bag with his body. A small sound escapes me. No one else is watching.

  John turns to leave the garage, his head lowered. As he passes us, I cringe away as he squeezes Chauffeur Hound’s shoulder. The hound grunts an acknowledgement.

  Vincent dabs at his forehead. His knees sag in relief.

  “John,” Chauffeur Hound says, intervening in John’s exit. “What is in that sack in the corner?” The smart hound hasn’t missed Vincent’s movement at all.

  “What sack…what the fuck…” John turns. He clips Vincent’s shoulder on the way past, pushing him intentionally against the silver cage. Vincent lets out a hiss of pain and the smell of burnt skin wafts into the air.

  John stands in front of the bag; he kicks it so he can read the label. I look away, burying my head against the hound’s shoulder. I have no idea why I feel embarrassed and ashamed, but I do, and my chest hurts again.

  “‘Working Dog Mix.’” John reads the label out loud. “Dog food? What the hell is this…” It takes just a second for everything in his head to click. “You fed my sister fucking dry dog food!”

  All hell breaks loose.

  * * *

  John, urm, burnt the garage down. Full-on magical meltdown —he completely lost his shit. You would have thought he’d been offered a handful of dog food for dinner by his reaction.

  On a positive note, at least Doc R now knows about my diet. Mmmm, dog food, crunchy and nutritious
.

  We all managed to scarper out before he went boom. Nobody was hurt, except for maybe John’s pride at his loss of control.

  I wasn’t sad to see the garage burn.

  If I could, I would have asked for Chauffeur Hound to break out the celebratory marshmallows so I could toast them on the flames. Maybe do a happy dance with the joy of never having to see that particular cage again. Never be forced to sleep underneath that roof. But my hound carries me into the house, mumbling something about silver particles.

  Huh, silver and marshmallows might not be that tasty after all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The atmosphere in this lovely sitting room is seriously uncomfortable; the cheery yellow room with delicate furniture is full of silent, angry shifters. With the energy coming off each of them, you could boil a kettle. No one is sitting down apart from me, and it’s unnerving. It’s as if I’m still in my wolf form, forever looking up at the angry people towering over me.

  I’m all trussed up in a chair in this cosy room, waiting for the show-and-tell part of the evening to start. My Nanny Hound—formerly known as Chauffeur Hound—has tucked me into the chair with a soft fluffy throw and about ten squishy cushions. At least I feel the most physically comfortable I’ve been since I shifted. My tummy is full for the first time in what feels like forever. I hum. I’d have been happy to eat a scabby rat—any form of protein would have been perfectly fine to me. I ate chicken noodle soup, it was served in a bowl, and it was delicious. My imaginary food dinners...yeah, total bullshit.

  I have plans, big aspirations for when all this crap is over and I’m free. I’m going to hunt myself some real chocolate cake, a whole cake to myself, as soon as possible.

  John hasn’t explained anything about why I’m sitting here. I’m presuming that he wants me here for some meeting or big Scooby-Doo reveal. Doc R wanted me to go straight to the shifter private hospital, but John overruled him. I don’t like John very much at the moment. Even if I could speak and ask to leave, I have a feeling I’d still be ignored. My opinion doesn’t matter. It’s better to fight the battles that you can win and sit out the ones that you can’t.