Fed to the Wolves, Part 1: Bad Moon Rising: A Southern Werewolf/Shifter Romance (Cattail Creek)

by Delilah Fawkes

  Keep a lookout for new smoking hot stories, coming soon from Delilah Fawkes! To keep up with her new releases, sign up for her newsletter here, and receive a free e-book from her catalog as a thank you gift for being one of her fabulous readers!

  Fed to the Wolves: Bad Moon Rising

  By Delilah Fawkes

  What they asked of me was impossible. Worse than impossible, it was insane!

  How could I willingly let them use my body—let them ravage me—and still be the girl my Mama and Daddy raised? How could I let them, grown men, put their hands on me--put their mouths on me, their stubble rasping over my most intimate places--as they tasted my flesh… as they feasted on me. How could I submit to such an arcane ritual, so wanton and base, so filthy, and still look myself in the eye? How could I go on after such a thing and ever feel normal? Like my old, fresh-faced self?

  How could I still be little Trixie Gordon after letting them take me? Use me?

  Would I still be me? Or would I be something new… something dark…?

  Hell, who’s to say I would even survive the encounter. After all, they are more than men, and all five of them are as big and strong as they come, muscled like modern-day gladiators, even before The Change. Every fiber of my being senses danger when they are near. I can practically taste it in the air, like ozone before a twister comes crashing down.

  They are more than men, alright, and that’s something I can’t forget.

  The Boucher Boys are monsters.

  ***

  Three Weeks Earlier…

  I shrieked as the phone rang, the plate I’d been holding shattering on the kitchen tile as I flinched.

  “Shit!”

  I glanced from the phone to the shards on the floor, surrounding my bare feet, dish soap dripping from my hands onto my freshly painted toenails. The phone rang again, the old-school brrrrriiiiiiing briiiiiiing making me grit my teeth. That sound always did put me on edge, even before I got Sensitive, like I did.

  Now, standing in the middle of my late grandmother’s kitchen, that old grating shrill was almost too much.

  “Shi-yit,” I muttered again, and hopped over the broken china on one leg.

  My foot met a tiny sliver just as I grabbed the powder-blue receiver off the wall.

  “Shhhh-“ I bit my tongue, and tried to stop the swear word, tumbling from the lips. “Shoot-a-mile!”

  Damn.

  A low laugh came through the phone, and I winced, my cheeks burning. Why did I have to correct myself with Grandma’s old standby? Whenever she’d stubbed a toe or cut herself cooking, she’d let loose a litany of almost-curse-words, of which “damnation!” and “shoot-a-mile!” were her clear favorites. I used to laugh, a child at her knee, soaking everything up, imagining someone getting out their rifle to make the longest trick-shot ever whenever their temper got the best of them.

  “Sorry, I, uh…” I looked down to see a crimson droplet blooming on the tip of my big toe. “Sorry.” I shook my head, trying to focus. “Gordon Residence. May I ask who’s calling?”

  How do you answer the phone in a dead woman’s house? Especially when you’re just there to get her things in order and hadn’t lived in her Podunk town in years?

  “Well, I suppose that depends on who I have the pleasure of speaking with,” said a deep male voice.

  I raised an eyebrow at that, leaning down to pick the shard out of my toe. I suppressed a hiss of pain as I jerked it out and watched the blood trickle down.

  “Listen, Whoever-You-Are,” I said. “I’m Ms. Gordon’s granddaughter, and I don’t have a lot of time for games or chit-chat, if you don’t mind.”

  Another chuckle met my ear, and I frowned, swiping at my foot with a dishrag.

  “Ah, yes. The granddaughter returns. I should have suspected as much from that sweet, young voice.”

  Something about this stranger’s tone sent a shiver up my spine. His voice was dark, almost raspy, but something about it was as smooth as honey, at the same time.

  “Who is this?”

  “Manners, Miss Gordon, manners!”

  The man’s voice was pleasant. Friendly. Almost too familiar, especially talking to a stranger, who was trying not to cut herself open navigating through the shrapnel toward the dustpan under the sink.

  Who did this creep think he was, anyway?

  “We mustn’t forget the niceties, no? Especially in such trying times as these…”

  The man had a hint of an accent—different from the regular deep Southern drawl Grandma had all her life. It was something I remembered from my childhood—something hard to place. French, maybe? But not quite French. It was smooth and sultry, raspy with just a little playful lilt here and there. Cajun, perhaps?

  It had been twenty years since I walked down these streets and spoke with the townsfolk here. A faded memory came to me, of a run-down little boy with a crooked smile, leaning against an old Cyprus tree, his eyes like coals. He seemed to be saying something to me, but his lips weren’t moving… I shook my head, and the image of him faded away, like a half-remembered dream.

  “I’m gonna ask one more time, and if I don’t get an answer, I’m hanging up.”

  My voice was firm, even though something about this call already had me feeling off-kilter. I scraped pieces of plate into the dustpan, the phone tucked between my ear and my shoulder, stretchy cord tethering me to the wall.

  “Who is calling here, and what do you want?”

  “Now, now. No need to get testy, gal,” he said, the smile still in his voice. “I was an acquaintance of your grandmother. At least, I just came to her for help with a little, well… a problem of mine.”

  I sighed and stood, ready to hang up the line. What the hell kind of problem could my grandma have helped him with? She was a librarian for forty years before her death—not a psychiatrist.

  “My name is Quentin. Quentin Boucher…”

  I paused, his name freezing me in my tracks.

  “B-Boucher?”

  “Ah, so your grandmother mentioned me to you?”

  I dropped the dust pan, the broken plate for the moment, forgotten, working my way quickly toward the dining room table where piles of old letters rose up above old books and unpaid bills, all of it in danger of toppling over.

  “Q-Quentin Boucher?”

  I knew I was stuttering, but I didn’t care. The phone cord pulled tight just as I leaned over the mess, my eyes scanning the letter on top—the one I’d been reading this afternoon. The one that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, and my gut churn with dread.

  The one that mentioned a man named Quentin Boucher…

  “That’s me, Cher. Such a shame for Cattail Creek, to lose a wonderful woman like your grandmother. I’m sorry to have to make your acquaintance during such a trying time...”

  His words sent a shiver down my spine, and I raised a hand to my throat, searching instinctively for the talisman necklace I always wore. I ran a finger down the silver chain, until I felt the outline of the amulet, resting just above my heart.

  His voice was smooth, soothing, but there was a hint of impatience, lying just beneath the surface, that put me on high alert. Maybe it was just a hunch, or maybe it was my Sensitivity trying to tell me how things really were. Either way, I didn’t trust this Quentin guy.

  Not one bit.

  Not even if he did sound like sex on wheels when he called me ‘Cher’ in that deep voice of his. I shook my head at the thought. The last thing I needed was to be di
stracted by a seductive voice, especially now.

  “Yes, I, uh… I suppose so. If you’re calling about the funeral service, I’m afraid you’ve missed it. She was laid to rest two days ago.”

  “No, no. I was there, actually,” Quentin said, his voice hushed. “I didn’t stay long, but it was… Well, Nancy would have loved those beautiful flowers you laid down for her.”

  My back stiffened at that.

  “How would you know what she’d love?”

  “When I came to see her, she always had those big, yellow mums on her desk. Said they reminded her of the sunshine.”

  My heart ached in my chest, and I bit my lip. I could almost picture them there… Looking up at them as a child, each blossom reminded me of a firework, bursting in the sky, or even a lion’s mane. Grandma always slid one of out of the vase when she saw me looking, and let me hold it in my eager little hand.

  A happy flower for a happy girl…

  “Well,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry. “Thank you.”

  I blinked back a tear, thinking of the way that mum had tickled my nose, and the way Grandma smiled down at me, running her soft, dry fingers across my cheek.

  I cleared my throat.

  “But exactly what is this regarding, exactly, Mr. Boucher?”

  “You do get straight to the point, don’t you, Cher?” A low laugh came through the phone, followed by a sigh.

  “I hate to be an imposition, especially now, but I’m afraid I need your help. My brothers and I are in the middle of a rather desperate situation.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oui. Nancy… Mrs. Gordon… She met with me once or twice to discuss our situation, and she promised to do everything she could to remedy the problem, though she said she didn’t have the power to do so, herself. That’s where you come in. She told me she needed to contact you, though I’m not sure if she got around to reaching out before… well, you know.”

  All traces of humor were gone from the man’s voice. Now, he sounded solemn, and even a little afraid. The change in tone made me perk up.

  “Anyhow, now you’re here, I wondered if you might be willing to meet me somewhere so we can discuss the, uh, the problem? It’s rather personal.”

  I glanced back down at the letter, written in my grandmother’s careful cursive. An envelope sat next to it, my address written out, ready to mail.

  Trixie, you won’t believe me until you speak to them yourself, but it’s true. The old stories are true, and I need your Gift, honey, now more than ever. I’m afraid you’re the only one who can help this town. Without you, the killings will keep on. They won’t stop until the streets run red with blood.

  There’s been another this week. A young woman, ripped apart. No one suspects what’s really going on, and how could they? I didn’t even know the curse was real until I met this Quentin Boucher and used the spirit board to verify his story.

  It’s bad, honey. I hate to do this, but I need you here.

  We need a Healer, Trix. One who can get the job done. One who will see things as they really are.

  Please hurry down, now, and help your old Grandma. You must be brave, honey, like I know you can be.

  If we don’t act before the next moon, I just know it will happen again. I know this town will bleed.

  I swallowed hard, my heartbeat racing as I traced the last words with a trembling hand.

  “Why me? You don’t even know me.”

  “I knew your grandmother, though, and to know her was to trust her. Completely,” he said. “She said you had talents… That you were the only one who could give us the help we in such dire need of.”

  A chill moved through me, and I shivered, despite the heat of the evening.

  Sure, I did parlor tricks from time to time because of my Gift. But I usually stuck to séances or ghost investigations. Nothing like this. Never like this… Then again, the edge in his voice, coupled with my Grandmother’s plea, left me with no choice.

  I shook my head and sighed, lightly touching the cool silver of my amulet once more.

  “Where’d you have in mind, Mr. Boucher?”

  ***

  The air hit me all at once as I stepped out of the car, hot and moist, like I’d walked into the cavernous mouth of a sleeping dragon. My light summer dress stuck to me all over, clinging to my curves. I sighed, and tried to pluck the white fabric away from my ample cleavage, but it just dropped right back with a soft slap, outlining my assets in a way I was far from comfortable with.

  I ran a hand through my messy, white-blonde hair. Even though it was a jaw-length cut, my wild waves never would stay in place. I could use a haircut, and a dye-job, for that matter. My punky-platinum with just a hint of dark roots would get out of control if I didn’t start keeping myself up again. I’d gotten used to life in the city, and would have to adjust, now that I was back in Cattail Creek. Even though I didn’t have much money, I could always count on a good salon nearby, but now, it was just the Curl Up & Dye on the sleepy Main strip, and not another town for twenty miles.

  Yep, things were going to be mighty different for ol’ Trix, and not just because I now had a mystery on my hands.

  I looked across the spacious gravel drive, and up the wide lawn, and shook my head. Staying in my hometown again wasn’t the only thing thwarting my expectations.

  This can’t be right… Can it?

  I glanced down at the hastily scrawled address in my hand, then at the hand-painted wooden sign at the end of the winding drive.

  Camp Boucher

  Cabins, Fishing, and Historical Ghost Tours

  18 Loup Rouge Lane, Cattail Creek Bayou

  I shook my head.

  This was obviously the place. But when the mysterious Mr. Boucher asked me to meet him at his family home, I didn’t expect, well, this.

  Instead of meeting in the parlor of some small house like my Grandma’s, I pull up to a sprawling, old Southern mansion that looks like something out of a horror movie, flanked everywhere by creepy old Cyprus trees, creepers growing up the side of the home, spiraling around the crumbling columns all the way to the upper porch, almost like the forest was trying to swallow the house whole.

  Past the main house, I could make out cabins nestled between the trees, each with a dock jutting out over the water, some of them on stilts, overhanging the marshy creek. Even though it was just after noon, the ground was covered in dappled shadow, long vines and branches whispering mournfully in the faint breeze. The water, ever near, was slow moving and brackish, choked with lily pads and the cattails the town was named for.

  A light shone in an upper window, past broken shutters, and somewhere behind the house, a small creature shrieked, making me jump. The sound was abruptly cut off, and I saw a flurry of wings as a predator darted back into the cover of the trees.

  I shivered, a chill creeping up my spine, despite the suffocating heat.

  “Hello, Hon! Come on up, now. Don’t be shy!”

  The screen door of the mansion banged open, and I turned, just in time to see a plump woman with a messy silver bun, rushing toward me, a colorful shawl half-escaping from her shoulders in her hurry. She beamed from ear to ear, her tan face creasing into a thousand smile lines. Green eyes glittered as she reached out a hand to greet me.

  “The boys are all waiting for you, now, sweetie, so let’s move along. Oh, but aren’t you just the most gorgeous thing these old eyes have ever seen! Quentin didn’t mention you was so dang pretty, girl, but that’s just like him, you know… Leave old Rosa in the dark, just like always,” she said, tapering off into a mutter.

  She gripped my arm like we were old friends and steered me toward the house, before I could so much as take a breath.

  “But bless that boy, he does the best he can, doesn’t he? I mean, looking after the whole clan like he does, what with Bastian the way he is, bless that boy to pieces. Especially with all the fussin’ and mussin’ them murders stirred up round here. Poor boys are beside themselves, all! And wouldn’t you
know, that Nancy’s sweet grandchild is here right when they need a hand, praise the Lord above! It’s almost like kismet, and isn’t that just the most wonderful thing? Like the stars align…”

  She smiled up at me as she chatted, leading me on, her soft grip warm and comfortable, even in the sweltering heat. She held the door, and I slipped by her awkwardly, brushing against her small, but round body as I snuck into the house. She smelled like lavender and kitchen spices.

  “I tell you, it’s just like when Candide and I first met, back in the summer of… well, that’s not important, now is it, hon? But still, it is mighty fine to meet you, and get you situated.”

  She didn’t seem to mind whether or not I was keeping up my side of the conversation, so I just smiled and nodded, feeling like Dorothy, swept up in that tornado. What on earth had I gotten myself into?

  “Tea, honey? You must be parched! It’s hotter than you-know-who’s fiery pitchfork, I tell you what…”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, smiling, despite my confusion.

  Rosa was strange, but something about her made me feel right at home, despite everything.

  She turned and shouted good-naturedly at a man in the foyer I hadn’t noticed, sitting in the shadows by what looked like the front desk of a hotel. He was reading the paper, looking dapper in grey slacks and a suit vest, his shirtsleeves rolled up over hairy forearms. Even though he was as old as Rosa, he looked powerful. Strong.

  “Candide, my love! Tea for our guest, if you’d be so kind!”

  His salt-and-pepper mustache twitched, and he gave her a long-suffering look over the wire rims of his reading glasses.

  “I am not deaf. Just old.”

  “Oh!” Rosa laughed and waved a hand at him. “You and your little jokes! Off you go now, sweet man, and don’t even pretend you don’t see what a pretty little creature I’ve brought into our midst. Go on now, with you!”

  Candide grunted as he stood up, and folded his paper with a sigh, before disappearing into the kitchen. I bit back a laugh.