by Tim Waggoner
“I turned off the TV. It’s okay to come out.”
Sam sat there for several more moments before finally rising to his feet. He walked to the door, unlocked it, and Dean opened it.
“Sorry,” Dean said. “I guess a werewolf movie wasn’t a good choice, what with Bobby going off to hunt one.”
Sam nodded.
Dean turned away and headed back to the chair he’d been sitting in. Sam followed and sat cross-legged on the bed close to his brother. Dean made no move to turn the TV on again, and Sam was grateful. The boys sat in silence for a time before Dean began talking.
“You know how Dad says that one of the greatest weapons monsters and ghosts and stuff has is fear?”
Sam was unsure where Dean was going with this, but he nodded.
“Those things are dangerous, and you have to respect that, but if you let yourself be scared by them, you’ll hesitate when you see one, and then it’ll get you before you can defend yourself. That’s why it’s important to learn to control your fear—so it doesn’t control you.”
Their father had told them this numerous times. It didn’t make complete sense to Sam. Didn’t people have the option of not confronting monsters? Didn’t fear prevent them from putting themselves in situations where really bad things could happen to them? Not everyone was a hunter, after all, or wanted to be a hunter. Sam had never brought up these questions with their dad, and he wasn’t going to bring them up now. He wasn’t sure Dean would understand, and he didn’t want to disappoint his big brother more than he already had today.
Dean continued. “Werewolves are like any other monster. They’re a threat, but if you understand it, then you’ll be ready to face that threat. And you can beat it.”
Sam nodded, although he wasn’t sure he believed it.
“Good. Let’s dig into the snacks Bobby brought, and we’ll find something to watch on TV—something we both like. Sound good?”
Sam forced a smile. “Yeah.”
But no matter what they ended up watching, Sam knew he’d still be thinking about the werewolf from Night of the Blood Moon, and the way the woman screamed and screamed.
NINE
Present Day
The Winchesters thanked Melody for her time, apologized to Mr. “Thrash” for interrupting his conversation with the reporter, and then headed next door to The Whistle Stop. It was small, but the layout was familiar: bar, countertop, stools, TV hanging on a wall with a sports channel playing, and a scattering of patrons who looked as if they might’ve come in for a quick one at lunch and lost track of the time—or how much they’d been drinking. The brothers had chosen a table near the kitchen because no one was seated nearby, and they could talk without being overheard. They ordered three beers, took a table in the back, and waited. It didn’t take long.
Garth entered the bar and immediately wrinkled his nose in disgust. Then he headed straight for Dean and Sam, sat down at the table, and took a drink.
“Man, everything tastes amazing when you’re a werewolf!” He wrinkled his nose again. “The bad thing is that everything smells a hundred times stronger, and there are some people in here who not only need to shower more often, they should consider seeing a digestive specialist.”
Dean envied Garth’s enhanced senses, but not the price he had to pay for them. Always fighting to control violent, aggressive impulses… He knew what that was like from the time he’d carried the Mark of Cain. He never wanted to return to living like that. Then again, Garth had always possessed a certain goofy optimism. Maybe that counterbalanced the animal within him.
“Let’s get this out of the way first,” Dean said.
Garth jumped in before Dean could finish. “I had nothing to do with Clay Fuller’s death. It’s still strictly animal hearts for this boy.” He held up a hand with his first three fingers pointed upward. “Lycanthrope’s honor.”
“You know we had to ask,” Dean said.
“Sure. No hard feelings.”
“It’s good to see you,” Sam said.
“Same here,” Garth said. “Damn, I missed you guys!” He got up from his seat and, with a big grin on his face, went in for a hug. Dean wasn’t big on physical displays of affection— especially when it was dude to dude—but Garth was a hugger, and the best thing to do was get it over with as fast as possible. Besides, Garth was like a particularly persistent fungus: he grew on you.
“How’s Bess?” Sam asked.
“She’s great. She’s still in Grantsburg with the rest of the pack, holding down the fort.”
“The two of you have any puppies yet?” Dean asked. He was surprised to see Garth blush.
“Not yet. Maybe one day. Purebloods don’t produce children as often as humans do. That’s why there aren’t as many of us. Well… that’s one reason.”
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Hunters had been responsible for the decrease in the Pureblood population. Dean had mixed feelings about this. He didn’t want any harm to come to Garth or Bess—or to the other members of their peaceful pack, which he thought of as vegan-wolves. But he and Sam had never encountered any other packs like Garth’s, and they had encountered plenty of Purebloods who were just as dangerous as any other kind of monster. More so, since they possessed their full intelligence when they transformed.
The longer Dean was a hunter, the more complicated and confusing the job became. Sometimes he longed for the days when all he had to worry about was protecting people and trying not to get killed.
“So you’re here for the same reason we are,” Dean said.
Garth nodded and took another drink of beer. “Yeah. I’m still retired from hunting overall, but after the last time we talked, I realized that I’m in a unique position: I’m a hunter and a lycanthrope. So I decided to use my abilities—natural and supernatural—to help others of my kind. I search for strange occurrences which might be lycanthrope-related, and when I find one I check it out. If I encounter a Pureblood, I tell him or her about my pack and how we live, and I offer them a place with us— if they’re willing to live by our rules.”
“And if they’re not?” Sam asked.
“It’s time to bring out the silver,” Garth said, his tone grim.
Dean frowned. “I thought werewolves couldn’t handle silver, not without it hurting like hell.”
“I wear industrial-strength rubber gloves to handle silver bullets. I don’t need them to hold my gun or a blade—as long as the handle isn’t silver. Having my flesh so close to silver hurts, but it’s not too bad.”
“What do you do if you encounter any regular werewolves?” Sam asked.
“I make them the same offer. They lose their intelligence when they transform, but my pack chains them up and locks them in cages before they change. Keeps them out of trouble.”
“How do you manage to convince them they’re werewolves?” Dean asked. “They have no memory of changing.”
“Once I track them down, I chain them up and take video of them transforming. The next morning, I show it to them when they’re human again, and then I transform to prove I’m legit. Sometimes they accept my offer, sometimes they don’t.”
Dean didn’t have to ask what happened in the latter case. It was silver bullet time.
“‘Are we human?’” Garth said. “‘Are we animal? We are both, and we must make peace between the two if we are to truly be one.’” He spoke as if he were intoning a piece of great wisdom that had been passed down through generations.
“What is that?” Dean asked. “It sounds like something you’d find inside a werewolf fortune cookie.”
“Is it from a book that werewolves hold sacred?” Sam asked, clearly intrigued. “An ancient text that the Maw of Fenris uses?”
“Nothing like that,” Garth said. “Lycanthropes didn’t write much down over the centuries. They’re more about actions than words, you know? So I decided to write a book of my own.” He grinned. “Which means I only half-lied to Melody. I am writing, just not about weird mu
rders.”
Dean exchanged a quick look with Sam.
“So you’re writing a… what?” Sam asked. “A book of werewolf wisdom?”
“Something like that,” Garth said. “I call it The Way of the Fang. Catchy title, right?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Dean said.
“I won’t be able to publish it, of course. Got to protect the pack’s secrets. But when I’m finished, future generations of lycanthropes will be able to pass it around and read it. Who knows? Maybe it’ll convince some of them to live peacefully, like my pack.”
At first it had seemed to Dean that Garth was writing some kind of self-help book for werewolves. But now it sounded more like he was composing a werewolf bible. Dean had a hard time imagining Garth as some kind of prophet, but Sam and he had encountered stranger things during their careers.
Garth had a way of reinventing himself periodically. So his becoming a werewolf who hunted other werewolves, as well as author of The Way of the Fang, seemed only natural to Dean. The next step in his personal evolution, what Dean had come to think of as the Garthening.
“So you’re doing werewolf rehab now,” Dean said. “That’s cool… I guess.”
“It’s more than that,” Garth said. “I save people who rogue lycanthropes might prey on, and by taking out the bad ones on my own, I prevent hunters from doing it. Less chance anyone will get bitten and turned like I did. Don’t get me wrong; I love being a lycanthrope, but I know this gig isn’t for everyone.”
“And by keeping werewolves off hunters’ radars,” Sam said, “you’re more likely to protect your pack because fewer hunters will be looking for werewolves in the first place.”
Garth nodded. “That’s the idea.”
Dean was impressed. Garth might be a little weird—okay, maybe more than a little—but his natural optimism had helped him adjust to what would’ve been a lousy situation for any other hunter. Hell, more than a few hunters would’ve put a silver bullet through their own skulls rather than live life as a monster, Dean included. But Garth had always possessed a go-with-the-flow attitude, and it seemed to have served him well in this case.
“Do you think we’re dealing with rogue werewolves here?” Sam asked.
“Sure sounds like it. Hard to tell without a body to examine, though. I’d have known after one good sniff, but cremation obviously destroyed any scent of Fuller’s killers. Along with the body itself, of course.”
A thought occurred to Dean. “Could you pick up a scent trail at the location where Fuller died?”
“If I can find it. I tried to set up an interview with the sheriff, but he wouldn’t talk to me. Said he didn’t want to have anything to do with, and I quote, ‘A muck-raking hack writer.’ Maybe you guys can get him to tell us where the murder scene is.”
“I doubt it,” Dean said. “He’s not exactly the talkative type.”
Dean realized that despite no one saying anything about it, Garth was going to be joining them on this hunt. Or maybe they were going to be joining him. Good. Garth had proved himself on more than one occasion, and his special abilities would come in handy. I just hope he doesn’t have fleas, Dean thought.
“We need to talk to Amos Boyd,” Sam said. “He can tell us where the murder took place. He might even be willing to take us there.”
Which meant they had to keep their monkey suits on a little longer. Fantastic. Without realizing it, Dean tugged at his shirt collar.
“You guys going to finish those?” Garth nodded to their beers. Dean’s was two-thirds empty, and Sam’s was only half empty.
Dean exchanged a look with Sam, and then said, “Not if we’re going back to work.”
Garth finished their beers, one after the other, then smacked his lips. When he noticed the brothers looking at him, he said, “I can drink as much as I want without it affecting me.” He patted his flat stomach. “Lycanthrope metabolism makes me immune to poisons, alcohol included. Let’s go.”
Garth started toward the door without waiting to see if they’d follow. He was more assertive than he had been before becoming a werewolf. More confident too. He almost made being a werewolf seem appealing. Except for the part about alcohol. What was the point of drinking if you couldn’t feel its effects? You might as well be drinking water all the time. Dean shuddered at the thought, and then he and Sam followed their friend.
* * *
Where are they going?
Melody stood in The Whistle Stop’s small kitchen, keeping the door cracked so she could watch the two FBI agents and the writer.
She’d become suspicious of the three men early on during the agents’ questioning of her. They made a point to avoid looking at each other, and during the few times they interacted, she couldn’t escape the feeling that they already knew one another. If pressed, she wouldn’t have been able to explain why, but even an editor-slash-reporter for a small-town newspaper knew the importance of following up on a hunch. So when the writer left, she waited for a few seconds before peeking outside to see where he was going. She was not surprised to see him turn into The Whistle Stop. Maybe he just wanted a drink, but her intuition told her it was more than that. So once he’d gone inside, she locked up her office and hurried down the alley between the two buildings. She entered the bar through the back door and hid by the restrooms until she could catch the bartender’s attention. He owed her a favor. He snuck her into the kitchen, and she watched the three men through the crack in the door.
She felt more than a little foolish, but she couldn’t deny that playing spy was fun.
She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but from the way they interacted she quickly became certain they knew each other. The two agents didn’t act stiff and professional now. They were more relaxed and casual, and the cute one—Who was she kidding? They were both cute—tugged at his collar now and again, as if he wasn’t used to wearing a suit. And if the three men knew each other, why had they pretended not to? Especially since they were all interested in Clay Fuller’s death. It didn’t make sense, and she hated that.
When the three men left the bar—as a group—she hurried out of the kitchen and saw them going down the sidewalk, talking as they went.
She had a decision to make, and she had to make it fast. Should she follow them on foot or should she assume that wherever they were going, they’d end up driving there? Then it hit her: Amos Boyd. The agents had wanted to know where he lived. That was where they were going. It had to be. She darted out of the bar and ran toward her four-by-four.
Time to do some tailing. God, she loved her job!
TEN
Morgan sat in the front passenger seat of the SUV, next to her mother. Joshua was strapped into his car seat in the back, sleeping. Morgan envied her brother’s ability to fall asleep anywhere. It would be great to unplug and escape reality whenever you wanted.
Sylvia had one hand on the wheel of the vehicle, and she held her phone with the other. She was upset and driving too fast, but Morgan wasn’t going to say anything. She didn’t want to become the focus of her mother’s anger—any more than she already was, that is.
“Yes, I’m sure it was one of them.” Pause. “Because I could smell it on them! Just because there haven’t been any around here since we were kids doesn’t mean anything. They’re here now!”
Sylvia listened for several moments, brow furrowed and lips tight. Finally, she said, “I understand.” Then she ended the call and dropped the phone. She didn’t slow down. If anything, she sped up a little more. She kept her gaze fixed on the road ahead as she spoke.
“Be thankful I didn’t tell your father that I caught you talking with one of them. You were close to the boy long enough to get his stink all over you, so if you don’t want your father detecting it later, you’d better take a long, extremely thorough shower when we get home. I’ll take your clothes out back and burn them.”
At first Morgan thought she hadn’t heard right. “Burn my clothes?”
“I’d have to use too mu
ch bleach to get the carrion-eater’s stink out, and that would end up ruining them. Easier to just burn them.”
“Mom, aren’t you being a little too…” She wanted to say dramatic, but she knew that would only anger her mother, and she might end up getting cuffed on the face for mouthing off. The claw wounds would heal eventually, sure, but better not to get hit in the first place.
“Cautious?” she finished.
Sylvia shot her a sideways look and then surprised her by laughing.
“Jakkals aren’t a threat, dear. They aren’t as strong and fast as we are, and since they’re carrion-eaters, they don’t compete with us for food. There’s nothing they can do to harm a strong pack like ours.”
After Greg and his mother had left the store, Sylvia had refused to answer Morgan’s questions. Now it seemed Sylvia was willing to talk, and Morgan wanted to take advantage of it.
“What’s wrong with jakkals?” she asked. “If they can’t hurt us, why can’t we just ignore them?”
“Because Bridge Valley is our territory. Your father’s people have lived here for generations. We can’t permit another pack to come to town, no matter what they are. It’s also a practical matter. The more supernatural beings living in one area, the greater the chance that they’ll start attracting unwanted attention.”
“You mean hunters.”
Sylvia nodded. “Do you remember that family of ghouls that moved into the old house on Market Street a few years ago? Remember what happened?”
How could she forget? A hunter had come to town, tracking the ghouls. Dad and her two brothers went out one night, and by the next morning both the hunter and the ghouls were dead. The house had been burnt to the ground along with all the bodies, including the hunter’s.
“Jakkals are worse than ghouls,” Sylvia said. “As loathsome as ghouls are, they at least serve an important function. They’re like the garbage collectors of the monster world. But jakkals are a perversion of the natural—” She paused, smiled a little. “Or should I say unnatural order? Ghouls feed on death, but jakkals worship it. They carry it within them, like a disease. They’re disgusting, and the world would be a better place if their entire species was rendered extinct.”