Werewolf Defender

by Marisa Chenery

  The following morning Calan had gotten up and patrolled the fields and orchard while the workers went about their duties. Jerrica’s mom had promised to get him if Jerrica awakened while he was gone, but she hadn’t.

  It was now early evening. Calan sat on the bed next to Jerrica and stroked the fur on top of her head. “You have to wake up, Jerrica. I miss you. Your family misses you. It’s time to get up. You’ve slept enough.”

  As if Jerrica had heard him, her eyes blinked open and Calan stared into her green wolf’s eyes. She got up onto her belly, then stood on all four paws on the bed. She jumped off, then stumbled a bit.

  “Take it easy. You’ve been asleep for two days.”

  Jerrica looked at him. “I saw the spirits. They told me it’d take that long for my body to adjust to the change. How do I shift?”

  Calan smiled and called for Jerrica’s parents, who came running into the room. “I’m glad you met them. Think of yourself as a human. That will bring on the change.”

  With a bright flash of light, Jerrica took on her human form. She looked at herself. “I did it.” She lifted her arm where she’d been bitten by the zombie. There wasn’t a mark on her skin. “I’m all here…and no scar.”

  “That’s because you’re immortal. You’re just like me.”

  Jerrica’s parents hugged her at the same time, telling her they were happy to see her awake. Once they let her go, she threw herself into Calan’s arms and gave him a hard, quick kiss.

  “Well, my mate, you have a lot to teach me about being a werewolf.”

  He smiled. “We have all the time in the world. Literally.”

  Calan held Jerrica close. His lonely life was now over. With his mate at his side, he’d be able to face a future that didn’t just involve killing zombies and being the fabled Werewolf Defender. It now included love.

  Also available from Finch Books:

  The Nightmare Crew: Beginnings

  J.S. Frankel

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Night in the City

  Night time, New York City, the Bronx

  Paul Wiseman scavenged around the abandoned building for two things, clothes and food. This being a New York winter—the middle of January—it was friggin’ cold. He wore only a pair of cutoff jeans a size too small and a threadbare sweater over an equally threadbare T-shirt. The sneakers that covered his feet, soles worn and laces broken, weren’t enough to keep out the chill of winter. Additionally, the wind whistled its way through the holes in the building and made him shiver.

  Cold, miserable and hungry, he kept up his search for anything to keep the chill out. Movements—four legs…but maybe two?—made him stop and listen. Anything on four legs didn’t bother him. Anything on two did. Aware of the potential for trouble should the two-legged variety find him, he kept as quiet as possible. If not the cops, then he had to watch out for gang members. Neither group was on his to-meet list.

  The cement was cracked and uneven, and it caused him to trip as he awkwardly stumbled around in the darkness. He cursed as he fell over a crate and landed hard. A second later, he shut his mouth, fearful someone had heard him. Sitting up, he examined his knee. Blood seeped out of a gash and he wiped it away.

  Another scratching noise made him freeze up and hold his breath. A second later, the intruder scampered out of the shadows and bolted for the door. It was a rat.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, he got to his feet. Damn, that was close! Continuing his search, he spotted a bundle in the far corner. After getting to his feet and limping over, he hurriedly pulled the bundle open and…bingo! He found a hoodie and a pair of pants.

  Yes, luck was on his side for a change. He hadn’t had much lately. At the age of seventeen-plus, he’d gone through a succession of foster homes from an early age onward, had miserable experiences with all of them, and finally ended up in an orphanage. There, at least he could get a high-school education, but even so, a high-school education didn’t get a person very far these days.

  This was his second time taking flight from his home-not-really-a-home. St. Joseph’s, one of the orphanages operating in New York City, had taken him in at the age of ten. Located in the Bronx, it had served the community for many years.

  It served as a place to stay, but Paul knew his time was limited. Initially, the head of the orphanage said he could remain…until the age of sixteen. Sixteen came and went and the orphanage, which relied on donations, got a sudden influx of cash from a few decent millionaires, and the people in charge changed the policy to eighteen.

  After eighteen, though, he’d age out and be on the streets. Eight months shy of that not-so-magic mark and a one-way ticket out, he’d decided that he might as well get used to the homeless life.

  The first time he’d got caught was at the age of fifteen, figuring they’d boot him out soon enough. He’d made the classic mistake of staying in a coffee shop at all hours of the day and someone eventually called the cops. In turn, they called the orphanage.

  Brother Max, the director of the orphanage, a huge man in his forties with a large gut and a kindly—although at times world-weary—attitude, brought him back personally and scolded him in the administrative office.

  Seated in a rickety hardwood chair, Paul glanced around. It was a dreary room with gray walls that housed a small desk, a leaky sink, a couple of file cabinets and a few chairs. It felt like a jail cell, not a whole lot different than his room.

  “What’s the deal here?” asked Max with an aggrieved tone in his voice. “We’re trying our best for you. I admit this isn’t an ideal place, but it’s a whole lot better than being on the streets. You’ve seen the people out there. You know what it’s like.”

  Having lived almost eight years behind these austere walls, Paul also knew what life was like there. It was a place where only the strong ruled and the kids didn’t care. They knew what was going to happen to them after they turned the not-so-magic age. “If you call getting your face smashed in every week fun, cool,” he said and couldn’t keep the bitterness from showing. “I’d call it something else.”

  Max clasped his hands and tapped his forefingers together. It was his way of figuring out an answer. Paul just hoped that mention of a deity wouldn’t be involved. If there was a God, then He’d made Himself absent, for reasons unknown.

  In the long run, it didn’t matter. What was done was done, and he’d deal. He’d dealt with a lot worse. He’d dealt with being ignored by his foster parents or beaten by them. He’d dealt with the other kids picking on him because he studied. He’d dealt with having no friends.

  Most of all, he’d dealt with all of this crap because he had a dream of being someone and making it in this cruel and uncaring place called Earth…

  Falling silent, he wondered for the umpteenth time why his parents had given him up. He didn’t recall his mother at all but had a picture of his father someone had given to him when he was around five. He couldn’t remember who’d given it, but it was special—a memory of home—and he always carried it with him.

  It was like looking in a mirror. Both on the short and slender side of five-seven, they had the same mop of brown hair, brown eyes and a birthmark the size of a dime on the left cheek. Same looks, same hair… Paul shut the memories down, indistinct though they were. For all he knew, his parents were somewhere probably living the life of royalty, and he was here.

  A gust of bitterly cold wind interrupted his trip down abandonment lane. He’d been on his own for almost a week. Social Services would probably find him sooner or later, but he was counting on the latter and not the former.

  This time it would be different. He’d checked out all city maps, found the more desolate areas and memorized the places he thought were the safest. In addition, he planned on moving around as much as the inclement weather would let him. “It’s a big city,” he muttered. “Lots of people… They won’t find me.”

  At first, it had been cool to come and go as he pleased and enjoy a measure of f
reedom. He’d spent the daylight hours ducking in and out of stores, sneaking into and sleeping in low-rent movie theaters and reading books in stores. From the way he acted, quiet and cool, keeping his head down and bothering no one, it had seemed he was invisible and he’d liked it that way—up to a point.

  Deep down, though, he was lonely and hungered to be part of something, but practicality cut through the euphoria of being independent. Even if the authorities didn’t find him, he had to come up with something soon. There was no way in the world he’d steal. He’d seen other bums and streetwise kids do it.

  A fight he’d seen over a bottle of wine between two homeless people had sealed the deal. He’d ducked into an alley to take a leak and had seen a homeless man try to take a bottle of wine away from another homeless dude who’d been asleep. It proved to be a mistake, as the second guy had leapt up and clobbered the would-be thief. He’d then spotted Paul. “You want some?” he’d yelled, while whipping out a knife. “I’ll cut you good!”

  The threat gave him all the impetus he needed. Paul had taken off as fast as his feet could carry him. Catching his breath in a bookstore ten blocks away, he’d known that he was outsized and outmanned by the bigger, more experienced crowd. The streets could be most frightening, as well as unforgiving. For now, he figured if he couldn’t steal, he’d have to come up with something else.

  Since he wasn’t any physical threat, he tried another tack—acting. Standing on various streets corners during the day, he put on his most doleful look, sat with a moldy baseball cap in front of him that he’d found in a trash can, and begged. “Spare some change, sir? Spare some change, ma’am?” he asked the passersby.

  Those were the words he always used, accompanied by a soulful, lost look. Considering he looked more than a little bereft with a skinny hangdog face, a pair of limpid brown eyes and a rather cute smile, the people he hit on usually offered a few kind comments and dropped some coins or even some bills into his palm.

  He thanked them, too—always politely—but he never stayed in one spot too long. The streets were dangerous, but alleyways were worse. Lots of big men, mean men—women, too—often got their marks in those places. Usually they just stole money or, at times, the victims’ clothes. However, sometimes they killed their victims in order to leave no witnesses. Paul didn’t feel like becoming another statistic.

  Speaking of statistics, something he’d seen on television at the orphanage about ten days before he’d fled made him think New York was going through another crazy spell. Madness usually gripped the city come summertime—the heat always made people a little nuts—but this was the dead of winter. The reporters had talked of a giant bat flying overhead, something like a six-foot rodent dropping out of the sky and whacking out the criminals.

  No proof, though. It wasn’t as if anyone had photographic evidence. The entertainment and online channels had talked about a new sort of avenger who’d come to fight crime. “It’s like something out of a comic book!” one reporter had exclaimed.

  Comic books were comic books. This was reality. If the people were talking about it, the crooks weren’t. Being duly concerned about the public’s welfare, the statisticians claimed that crime had dropped four percent in only a few days. That may not have been much, but at least some people could walk late at night and not get toasted.

  “It’s all ratings,” one kid had said at the time. A group of kids had clustered around the television and had watched the reports with everyone speculating on what was going on. “They just gotta get their ratings up and give people a story.”

  “How do you know?” Paul had asked.

  The kid had turned and fixed with him with a look designed to stop any future conversation. “Like, would anyone really look that way? Get a clue, dude.”

  Most of the other kids had laughed. A giant bat causing terror, sure thing, and let me tell you about the alligators in the sewer…

  Another blast of cold air chilled him to the marrow and brought him back to his task. He lugged his stash over to a relatively warm spot. The hoodie turned out to be old and stained, but it didn’t smell too bad, and it was just his size, too. He hurriedly slipped it on and turned his attention to the pants.

  Oh man, they smelled rank! Tossing them aside and continuing his search, he found a pair of boots and some socks in a corner and put them on. They fit well enough, and a feeling of warmth spread through his body. “Yeah, this’ll do,” he murmured, grateful to whoever had thrown these clothes away.

  Now, all he had to do was to get something to eat and his evening would be complete. He quietly crept around the room, found nothing, and resigned himself to going hungry for the second night in a row. Dumpster diving meant going outside into an alleyway and no… That was a definite no.

  “If this keeps up, I’ll be a skeleton before long,” he said aloud.

  “You’re gonna be dead in about two minutes,” responded someone in a deep, grating voice.

  When Paul pivoted, he saw that three large men stood in a row not ten feet away. A fourth man appeared out of the darkness and stood near the exit, blocking off all possibility of escape. Frightened and looking around wildly, Paul saw only one way out—and good luck getting passed the gang members.

  “Crap,” he whispered.

  “Yeah, that sort of sums up what’s left of your life,” said one man who stood larger than the rest. With a face pockmarked by the scars of adolescent acne as well as battle scars he’d probably received in an untold number of fights, he added, “Got anything to say?”

  Paul started to shake once the men came closer. From the way they dressed—long, black overcoats, black boots and black shirts—he knew they were Bangers. They were a group of punks who’d made their presence known a few months before with a series of violent acts against the homeless and the unlucky.

  On the rare occasions when they deigned to meet the press, they always wore masks to disguise their faces as they espoused their raison d’être. “We’re here to clear the streets and keep New York safe. We’re street sweepers.”

  Street Sweeping—they called it their motto. Some of the more clued-out citizens thought of them as guardian angels, but in reality they were merely punks who enjoyed killing homeless people.

  As for the police? Hey, this was New York, and what went on in New York stayed there. They often claimed that they were in the process of making arrests. However, thus far they’d only hauled in two of the street-sweeping scum. Either they had more important things to do or else they were falling down on the job.

  Concerning their weapons of choice, the Bangers very rarely used guns. Walking mountains didn’t need guns, although they did carry an assortment of metal pipes, knives and chains. Now, the rustle of metal grating against metal resounded throughout the building and it sent another chill down his spine.

  “Guys,” he said, summoning up his courage, “I was just looking to keep warm, you know? It’s cold outside, and—”

  “And we’re going to send you to a warmer place,” interrupted the leader as a savage grin split his ugly face.

  Looking more closely at the man, Paul noticed that he actually had his name stenciled on his coat—Louis. Now what kind of moron would advertise his name for the law to see? Oh wait, the law wasn’t here and no one cared.

  “Are you ready, kid?” Louis asked. He carried a metal pipe and smacked it against his palm. The sound of metal hitting flesh echoed across the room. From the way he held it, it looked as though he knew how to use it. “You deserve to be rotting in hell along with the other scum,” he continued, swinging the pipe faster.

  “We put a lot of ‘em there,” added Banger number two, who carried a length of heavy chain. He didn’t have his name stenciled on his coat, but it didn’t make him any less threatening. “Get ready, punk. If you want to pray, do it now.”

  Allowing a final prayer also set the Bangers apart from other thugs. From what the newspapers had said, the Bangers always allowed their victims one last prayer before
they ripped them apart. They then wrote the prayer in blood on the ground so all could see.

  Quivering now, a feeling of hopelessness along with loose bowels struck, and Paul clenched up downstairs, desperately trying to hold everything in. He only hoped that his end would be quick. Bending to one knee, he made his voice sound as quiet and humble as possible. “Guys, I didn’t do anything to you. I just wanted a place to—”

  His stopped speaking when he saw their implacable expressions. They weren’t going to listen to him anymore than the wind would. He stayed down, but spotted a crowbar out of the corner of his eye. Oh yeah… Say hello to my little friend!

  When the leader asked him again if he wanted to pray, Paul seized the crowbar and in a shocking burst of desperation, smashed the big man on the kneecap. Louis fell to the ground and howled, “You freakin’ hit me!”

  As the other two men stood by, shocked that a victim would actually hit back, Paul got to his feet, set his stance, took batting practice and knocked out Number Two. The other two men ran at him, but he menaced them back until he reached the door.

  “Come and get some,” he challenged.

  Bad idea, as the other men came at him. Stunned, he dropped the crowbar and tore out of the door, the howls of the men following him into the night.

  “You’re dead!” they screamed. “You’re freakin’ dead!”

  No, he wasn’t—not yet. The cold air revived him, and he ran out of the building and down the alleyway. Strength wasn’t his forte, but he could run, and fear and desperation fueled his flight. A metal fence at the end of the alley separated him from the safety of the street. Salvation lay ten feet away, straight up and over.