by Aliya DalRae
“Dewey, you idiot.” This was a different voice. Not the “Boss,” but someone else. Someone who wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. Someone less…obsequious than Dewey.
“Enough.” A new man peered through the bars, and Patrick knew without asking that this was the Boss.
If you looked up the definition of “dangerous” in the dictionary, you would have found this guy’s picture next to it. He was on the tall side, with a scruffy beard and beady black eyes that were every bit as mean as Dewey’s. His dark hair had seen a comb in recent days, but it was still on the wild side, and he exuded that “don’t fuck with me” aura you find around the truly evil.
“Can you speak?”
It took a minute for Patrick to realize the man was talking to him. Even then, the question made little sense.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“That answers my question. It seems your throat wound has healed.”
“Throat wound?” Patrick sat up and leaned against a wooden wall, drawing his knees up to protect his modesty. He raised a hand to his neck, but didn’t feel anything to indicate he’d been injured there. He still had a sore throat, but had assumed it was from lack of use.
“Nadia said you were healing up pretty well. Well enough for clothes, anyway. Butch?”
The Boss stepped back as the third man made his way to the stall door. He stuffed a bundle of clothes into the stall, being careful not to touch the bars.
The guy was huge, probably close to six-five, with brown scraggly hair and a full beard and mustache. He had a square head and brown eyes, and with the red plaid shirt he was wearing, looked every bit like a lumber jack. All that was missing was an axe and a big blue ox. Maybe he’d left them outside.
Patrick reached for the clothes, but the lumberjack gave a slight shake of the head and a warning look that had Patrick pulling his hand back. The man nodded and stepped away.
The Boss returned to the door to study Patrick some more. He rubbed at the scruff on his chin with his thumb and forefinger, like he was deciding something, and Patrick felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach.
“Who are you?” Patrick probably shouldn’t have said anything but couldn’t stop himself from asking. “I don’t have any money. If you’re looking for ransom, you’ve picked the wrong guy.” Now that he’d started, he was unable to stop.
“Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. We can forget this ever happened. I just want to go home to…”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
Patrick shut up.
“Just because I asked about your throat didn’t mean you could start in with the begging.”
“I’m sorry,” Patrick said. “I just…”
“I just, I just, I just…” the man whined, as he scrunched his face in exaggerated imitation. His next words were cold and authoritative, the change in attitude itself blood-chilling. “What you’re going to do is shut your mouth and listen. This is your home now. There ain’t no going back. We are your family, and everything you need to know, you’ll learn from one of us. There will be no grumbling or begging or crying around. If I hear of it, I’ll come in here and kill you myself.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Well, you will. Until then, I suggest you rest up, heal up. Thanks to Dewey over there, your life just got a whole lot more interesting. You may want to thank him some day. You may want to kill him.” He looked over his shoulder at his underling and rolled his eyes. “But for now, you’ll do as he says. You’re his, for better or for worse.”
“But…”
“But what, asshole? Did I stutter?”
“No…sir,” Patrick tacked on for good measure. “It’s just, who are you? I got Dewey and Butch out there, but who are you?
“I’m your fucking Alpha,” the man growled. He turned to walk away, but glanced back over his shoulder. “Welcome to the Pack.”
Chapter Five
A nd so it continued.
Patrick was thankful for the clothes, although sweats weren’t usually his thing. They covered his ass, though, and kept the worst of the straw from poking him in unmentionable places, so he wasn’t about to complain.
Nadia visited him every day to see to his wounds and bring him a gallon jug of water, though no one brought him food. Not that he was particularly hungry, but it seemed odd that they would want him hydrated but not fed. She also provided a much needed break from the monotony by way of conversation. Thanks to her, he knew how long he’d been locked up here, though she was always cagey when it came to explaining the “why.”
Nadia wasn’t his only visitor. Dewey came by more often than Patrick liked, usually when he’d been drinking, and with some new person or other in tow. He bragged on and on about how he had finally “made one” and that this was going to be the best “change” ever.
Then he’d hurl rocks into the stall until Patrick was so pissed he’d lose control. He would lunge at the bars, cursing the man responsible for him being here, and whatever substance they’d coated the bars with to make them burn. Dewey and his Dumbasses would laugh their heads off then, and leave him to simmer.
“He’s not one of us yet,” a blond Dumbass reminded Dewey one night, but Patrick’s tormentor laughed it off.
“He will be, just you watch.”
Butch returned a couple of times to look in on him, though he never said anything. Just stared at Patrick with those all-knowing eyes of his, which was as disquieting as it was comforting.
Once the worst of the wounds healed, which to his thinking was unusually fast, Patrick became edgy. Unable to sit for hours on end, he found himself pacing. And thinking.
He couldn’t help but fear for his wife and daughter. He’d only been there a couple of weeks by Nadia’s tally, but Maggie’s words kept repeating in his mind, an earworm playing over and over. Jessica said you were leaving us.
It had happened a couple of times before, Jessica saying things like that out of the blue, but he and Maggie had laughed it off. She was only four years old. What did she know about pets dying or people disappearing? And yet here they were. The poodle was hit by a car the day after Jessica’s proclamation, and Patrick had left them. Not on purpose—he never would have done so by choice—but he was gone, nevertheless.
What were they thinking? How were they handling his absence? Jessica was too young to rationalize him being gone. She would miss him, well he hoped she would, but she couldn’t possibly understand.
Maggie, on the other hand, would be frantic. He could see her going to the police, calling everyone, friends, hospitals, talking to strangers on the street. He loved his Maggie, but he knew at her heart she wasn’t a strong person. He only hoped that this would be the something that prompted her to find the level of strength she would need to take care of herself and Jessica until he could come back for them.
And he would return. He was still unclear what this group, this Pack, wanted with him, but he knew with everything he was that he would survive it, somehow. He would not be kept from his family. On this, there were no blurred lines.
As the days progressed, Patrick became more and more unsettled. He tried exercising, pushups, jumping jacks and the like, but even when he’d pressed himself to exhaustion, he still felt like he was going to explode out of his skin. It was what Maggie had coined an “Oh my God” feeling. She got them on occasion, these notions like something big was going to happen. He never really understood until now.
On the twenty-third night of his captivity, Patrick heard a commotion outside the barn. He had been particularly agitated all day, that OMG feeling prickling his skin and flipping his stomach into a merciless twist as his senses hovered at yellow alert. The noise on the other side of that door flipped the yellow into full on red.
Patrick jumped when the doors burst open, and a group of men pounded their way to his cell. Dewey led the way, looking like Christmas had come early, and Patrick recognized several of Dewey’s Dumbasses in the group. That last bit didn’t help hi
s anxiety level in the slightest.
“This is it, boy,” Dewey said when he reached the door. “Tonight you’re going to prove it to them all, and I’m going to be a fucking hero!” He threw his hands up in the air like he’d just gone ten rounds with Rocky and come out the victor.
“Back off, you idiots.” Patrick recognized the voice, even though he’d only heard it once before. Butch pushed his way through the drooling flock of morons, a half-smile turning up the corner of his mouth when he landed a particularly aggressive shove on Dewey’s chest, sending the smaller man sprawling.
“Alpha’s gonna hear about this,” Dewey griped as he picked himself up and brushed the dirt from the ass of his jeans.
Butch ignored the sniveling as he unlocked the door to the stall. Patrick tried to stand solid, but it was damn near impossible to keep his hands from shaking. The door swung open and Butch motioned for Patrick to exit.
For the first time in twenty-three days, Patrick was given leave to walk out of this blasted ten-by-twelve, and it terrified him. In here, he knew what to expect. Out there? All bets were off.
“Come on,” Butch said, but he wasn’t unkind. “It’ll all be over soon.”
Patrick swallowed, and looked down, giving his feet their marching orders. They were being contrary, though, and refused to move no matter how hard he stared at them.
“Let’s go, son.”
Patrick looked up. When his eyes locked with Butch’s something clicked. No matter what happened, he knew this mountain of a man was on his side. He may have every reason to be afraid, or maybe not, but either way, Butch would make sure he came through it.
The first step was slow in coming, and it felt like he was walking through a river of tar, but the next step was easier and the next. Eyes still locked with Butch’s, Patrick made his way out of that makeshift prison for the first time in three weeks.
Butch jerked his chin up, a signal for Patrick to be strong.
Patrick squared his shoulders, took a long steadying breath, and stepped out of the stall, glaring at Dewey as he made his way out of the barn.
Chapter Six
P atrick had no idea this group was so large. There must have been fifty people loitering around in different stages of undress. Some wore sweat pants, like Patrick had on, some were in jeans, and several were standing around without a stitch on at all.
Dewey made a move to grab Patrick by the arm, but Butch stopped him with a single look.
“He’s still mine,” Dewey snarled, but he backed off.
“We’ll see about that,” Butch whispered, although Patrick didn’t think anyone heard it but him.
The Alpha was there, or whatever you wanted to call him. Nadia had told Patrick during one of their talks that the man’s name was Derrick Devaris. He also got the feeling that she didn’t care for the man much, though she wouldn’t come out and say it.
He looked around to see if she would be joining this little party, and wasn’t sure how he felt when he saw her at the edge of the crowd, watching him. Patrick had hoped that whatever torture they had in store for him, she would have elected not to be a part of it. He’d come to think of her as an ally of sorts, and so couldn’t help the tiny bit of betrayal he felt at her presence. Obviously, he’d been wrong.
“Let’s go,” the Alpha shouted. “The moon’s almost up, and I want this one to be organized. We’re welcoming a new member into the Pack tonight. No running off on your own.”
There was some muttering and a general sense of malcontent, but Patrick had his own problems to worry about.
The group shuffled along, mostly in silence, until they reached a large clearing. Once there, they formed a circle inside the perimeter, and Butch led Patrick into the middle.
“What’s going on?” Patrick whispered, but Butch’s only response was to squeeze Patrick’s shoulder. If that was supposed to be reassuring, it wasn’t working.
Butch headed back to the circle, his face unreadable when he turned to face front, leaving Patrick on his own.
The Alpha joined Patrick center ring and raised his voice to the crowd. It was all pontification, something about gathering in the light of the full moon, brothers and sisters, yada, yada, yada.
This is it, Patrick thought, the Alpha’s words no more than buzzing in his ears. This is where they beat the living hell out of me and leave me for dead. Or sacrifice me in some sort of satanic ritual. This is the day I die.
When the Alpha finished with his little speech, he moved toward the circle, but didn’t quite join it. All eyes were on him as he stood apart from them, his own eyes closed as he raised his arms to the sky. Tension was thick in the air as everyone stood waiting, ready, for what, Patrick hadn’t a clue. After that pregnant pause, Devaris pulled his shirt over his head and threw it to the ground.
This must have been some sort of sign, because once cotton hit dirt everyone else who still had clothes on got rid of them. Some were slow and methodical, others were stripped down to their nothings in a hot minute, but every one of them ended up naked.
What the hell kind of fucked up sex cult is this? Patrick glanced at Butch, who stood tall and proud in nothing but what God gave him, and the man nodded at him. He wants me to strip too? Fuck that. If they were going to get freaky with him, he wasn’t about to make it easy for them.
Funny thing. Once shit started happening, he sort of wished he had. Stripped, that is.
It was a beautiful night, the full moon rising slowly above the tree line, shining its light through the branches and casting shadows down upon the gathering. A slight breeze swept through the clearing, cooling Patrick’s skin where a sheen of sweat had developed on his forehead. He could feel the anticipation projecting from the people surrounding him, and he shifted his feet, eyes darting from one person to the next as he watched for some sign of the impending attack.
The first moonbeam to break over the treetops and cast itself into the clearing landed on Patrick. When it did, the OMG feeling that had been fighting its way through him all day, literally burst from his body.
A blood curdling scream escaped his throat as his bones cracked and twisted, breaking through his skin as they fought to reform, into what he couldn’t fathom. All he knew was the pain.
What he’d felt after the attack that brought him there was nothing compared to the agony he experienced now. The moon continued its celestial ascent, bathing him in its light as his blood seemed to boil within his veins, his skin melting from his bones. Pain exploded in his head, as though that old time comedian had taken a sledge hammer to it, bursting it like a watermelon over the unsuspecting audience in the front row.
Patrick fell to the ground, writhing in the dirt and leaves as his body betrayed him, torturing him from within, from without. Time stood still as the pain consumed him, wrapping him in its grip and squeezing for all it was worth.
And as quickly as it had begun, the agony abated.
Patrick lay panting, afraid to move, terrified that any motion on his part would trigger the suffering once more.
Someone approached him, or rather something. It was cold and wet, and was nudging his cheek. When he opened his eyes, he tried to jump away, to scramble to his feet and run, but was unable to control his limbs.
Before him was a dog. No, not a dog. This was a goddamned, yellow-eyed wolf, and it was looking rather pleased with itself. It was brown and red, and looked like it could use a meal.
The dog in the alley…
Patrick tried to yell at the creature, to scare it away, but he couldn’t form the words. A low growl settled in the back of his throat, and something was tickling his cheek, creating a distraction he could ill afford. He attempted to reach up to brush whatever it was away, but his hands weren’t working right.
He tried once more to stand, afraid to look away from the animal in front of him, but he couldn’t gain his footing, and fell once more to the ground. Patrick chanced a brief look away from his attacker to find what the problem was, why his limbs were
failing him. What he saw held his attention for far longer than he had intended.
Where his hands should have been, Patrick saw two large paws attached to heavy, silver fur-covered legs. He lifted a paw to his face, and felt a muzzle where his nose should have been. And more fur. There was a shitload of fur.
With the reality of the situation sinking in, Patrick took a moment to glance around the clearing. Before, he had been surrounded by men and women, people. Humans. Now there were only wolves, all shaking out their glorious coats and panting in the moonlight.
I’m a goddamned wolf!
Patrick finally found his feet, though he felt like a newborn colt. He wavered a bit on shaky legs, but managed to catch himself before he could fall again.
The other wolves were watching him, some with interest, others outright hostility, but Patrick could only marvel at what was happening. It was impossible, and yet here he was.
His human mind wanted to reason it out, to understand a how or a why to all of this; however, an inner instinct was calling to him.
Lifting his nose to the sky, Patrick let out a plaintive howl. As the others raised their voices, joining him in a chorus of mournful wolf song, he realized that what they had told him was true. This was his family now. He could never go home. He would cry about it later—probably a lot—but right now he needed to run. He needed to hunt, and he needed to kill.
And the prey he sought before any other was the son of a bitch who had done this to him.
Chapter Seven
P atrick lunged for Dewey, eager to sink his brand new fangs into the throat of the asshole who had ruined his life. He was in midair when something solid slammed into his side and knocked him to the ground, stealing his breath. He struggled to stand, growling in frustration as his target moved further away.
The feel of sharp canines pressed to his throat encouraged him to rethink his position. The wolf restraining him was huge, one of the largest in the clearing. It’s coat was black with silver streaks running all through it, and by the feel of it, its fangs were the size of small daggers.