Werewolf Journals 01 - Wild in the City

by Camille Anthony

  Kevin let out a shaky breath. Fear rolled off his skin in dense oily clouds of musk. His mouth opened and shut, opened again. I held up a hand, stalling whatever he planned to say.

  “You don’t have the time, remember? That brings us back to our starting point. What the hell is eating you?”

  “I think we’ve found one of those ‘otherworldly’ creatures you just mentioned.”

  I Set My Young Cousin Straight

  The wind swept through my hair as I sped toward Daily City and home along the 101. Cutting in front of a slow moving truck, I zipped between two maroon P. T. Cruisers and roared into the diamond lane. Throttling down on the Harley, I let her rip, reveling in the freedom and joy of having a fast, powerful cycle beneath me. The only thrill that came close was the feel of a big woman trapped between my thighs.

  Handling the bike and maneuvering on autopilot, I let my mind dwell on the recent conversation I’d had with Kevin.

  He might have tried to hide his true feelings, but it’s hard for a human to do that around Wulves. Luckily for his self-esteem, I have had far more years schooling my expressions and do a far better job keeping my beliefs to myself. Working with humans has made me appreciate the wisdom my father drilled into me. It is rude, not to mention unnecessarily cruel, to let an inferior associate learn how socially unacceptable they are. The longer I dealt with species-phobic people like Kevin Morrison and his ilk, the more I saw the wisdom in Dad’s teaching.

  The miles melted away under my wheels as I flew down the road, the yellow dashes on the black macadam blending into one blurred line. The ride helped me put the meeting into perspective, helped me control my short-tempered edginess. The wind scoured away the unpleasant memories, leaving me calm and relaxed by the time I locked my bike in the garage next to my other baby--the special edition Lexus.

  I was so not ready for the sight that met my eyes when I walked into my den. Jaw dropping in disbelief, I came to a screeching halt.

  Someone had trashed my apartment.

  I stalked through the place, performing a lightning-quick but thorough reconnaissance.

  A bomb had hit and the fallout was everywhere. Clothes--multi-colored drifts of abandoned cotton, flannel and tweed--festooned the plump cushions of the two armchairs and couch. They reeked of stale body odor and the rancid stink of dried food drippings.

  Half-crumpled bags of spicy barbeque potato chips listed drunkenly atop the end tables, spilling their stale, meager contents onto the already soiled surfaces. Next to the bags, remnants of days-old Chinese food sat congealing in their battered cartons, alongside a weird assortment of half-eaten hotdogs, fuzzy French fries and barbequed ribs. The nose-wrinkling aromas burned my sensitive nostrils, raising my blood pressure and making my hackles rise.

  A complete circuit of the seven-room duplex brought me back to the living room. Except for my bedroom suite and office--both locked, off-limits to all but me--no room had escaped devastation.

  “That’s it! This is the last fucking straw,” I growled, anger drawing my lips tight against my teeth. “I’m through putting up with that puppy’s disrespectful distemper. I’m gonna chew his ass a new hole!”

  I marched down the hall, slammed open my cousin’s bedroom door and stormed over to his bedside to glare down at his sleeping form.

  He appeared to be having pleasant dreams. The randy little puppy had one hand curled around his distended cock, which stood out from his concave belly like a massive battering ram. Not feeling particularly impressed, seeing I had him by a good two inches both ways, I gave his woody a stinging flick with my thumb and middle finger. “Get up and bring it down, Spot!” Catching him by the scruff of the neck and the tender lobe of his right ear, I hauled his scrawny ass up off the mattress.

  He woke up yelping.

  In his distress, he’d reverted to fur-speak. Amid pleading yowls, yips and whimpers of pain, I headed back toward the living room, his captive earlobe in tow, his caterwauling sounding like music to my ears. I smiled, enjoying the hell out of being the cause of his painful cries.

  “We’ve reached the end of your line, little cousin,” I warned, “and my tolerance ends here.”

  Dragging his scrawny ass around the place, I forced him to acknowledge all the evidences of his slobbishness. My angry voice, rumbling like thunder, indicated the nearness of my change.

  “Despite repeated warnings, you’ve never done your share caring for this place. You refuse to vacuum or help with the laundry. You dump your clothes wherever you take them off and--” I paused, sniffing cautiously at a white cardboard tub, “--this Peking duck is so old, it’s turned into San Francisco Sewer Sausage.”

  The pup whined, spouting some silly nonsense about being too tired after work. I twisted his ear hard and he abandoned that excuse.

  “That shit won’t wash with me, Spot.” My eyes narrowed down to slits, I shook him by the scruff of the neck. “Aunt Sophie would have bit your tail off before she let you foul her home like this. Even if she hadn’t, I will. As of right now, your loafing days are numbered!”

  Over the years, the Elders have sent me some sorry-assed pups, but I swear by the Moon, Fortrayn is the worst! Of course, all the other youngsters exhibited differing foibles--laziness and slobbishness, greedy intemperance--the usual, normal kid stuff. I always let them all slide a month or so, then cracked the whip and nudged them into shape before shooing them out of my nest.

  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy helping the Elders out by taking in the occasional savage cub, housebreaking it and teaching it survival tactics for the city. Working with the pups keeps me connected to the Pack, to home and helps me provide a valuable service to my father, the Pack Alpha.

  San Francisco is a big, bustling city--tight-packed and crammed with teeming masses of people--constantly infringing on the edges of one’s perception. Cities this frenetic tend to overwhelm our kind. They get the better of us quickly and dangerously.

  I guess you could say I had a finger on the pulse of the city that others lack. Not only did I know the ropes, I could braid them into macramé hangers to hold my plants. Moreover, being the acknowledged heir to the leader of the pack, who better to dump our misfits on? I mean, who better to train and guide our budding youth?

  I understood their fantasies, having had the same ones, once upon a time. Dreams of living large and loud were part of the reason I left home. My father’s inability to let me make my own mating choice was the other.

  Father never understood why I didn’t want to settle for the pureblooded bitch he had picked out for me. So her genes were pure--that wasn’t sufficient reason for me to give up my autonomy. Just because Linnea had been an energetic fuck-partner throughout our randy adolescence hadn’t meant I’d wanted to live or mate with her on a permanent basis. Besides, we were too different. She’d held to the old ways of separation and seclusion from mankind. Back then, I’d leaned toward the liberal view that we could peacefully co-exist with humans. I liked mingling with humans and even called some my friends. Outlooks and opinions that different was a recipe for a lot of stress in a wulf’s den. I didn’t need or want the hassle.

  Father tried to press my obedience and grew angry when I refused to bow to his choice. As Pack Prime and Alpha of our pack, it was his right to consider my refusal a challenge. To avoid a dominance fight I left home, choosing to let my father live. As a parting shot, I told Dad if he wanted Linnea bred so badly, he’d have to breed her himself.

  Years later, recalling the look on Dad’s face still made me chuckle. We’d both known the fur would have flown if he’d ever tried to bring another female into the family den. My mother was no feeble bitch, but the Pack Prima, well capable of keeping order in her own den. Mom would have chewed his balls off.

  My trip down memory lane proved advantageous for Fortrayn, ‘cause my anger lessened with the tension-cracking release of laughter. Abandoning my musings over my long-ago past, I went back to contemplating his numerous faults.

  In a
ll my years of training youngsters, I’d never come across a pup like Fortrayn. Worse than his cleanliness-challenged behavior, was his disinclination to help with the monthly meal. Damn it…it just didn’t seem normal to do nothing, to leave the planning, shopping and procuring all to me.

  Granted, planning is rightfully my department, being both the elder and the Alpha; however, everything else should have been a joint venture.

  Humph! Only ‘joint venture’ that little slob understood was the one he monthly gnawed at the sole expense of my time and effort. Well, no more. Fortrayn needed major attitude adjusting and I was fed-up enough to get the ball rolling.

  “You’ll bring your tail home no later than eleven to clean up and help plan tonight’s hunt.” I issued the stern command while tossing him across the room hard enough his sorry rump bounced on the cluttered couch. “And do not even think about going to bed until my den is totally cleansed of this entire mess.”

  “Eleven? Ah, come on, Hunter. Lighten up, why don’t you? Tonight’s the Reidmar photography showing and I promised to stay late and lock up the gallery after serving the refreshments. The party won’t let up before eleven-thirty. If I call off now, Rosa will have my head!”

  Faster than thought, I flashed across the room, my hand around his throat, cutting off his whining complaint. “You listen to me, scud-brain,” I snapped, one-handedly shaking him by the neck. “I am Alpha in this den. If I tell you to piss on your boss, she’d better be stained yellow the next time I see her!”

  Cuffing the youngling upside the head, I growled my last warning. “You’d better decide which you want to save…your job or your life, because I am two seconds away from accepting the dominance challenge you keep throwing at me, and that fight will be to the death. Do you challenge?”

  “No, Sir!” The boy gulped, cautiously slinking down to the floor.

  “Do you really want me to come to your job and collect you?”

  Carefully tilting his head up to gaze over my shoulder, exposing his throat, Fortrayn whimpered and shook his head no.

  I crouched low, leaned over him and pushed my fanged muzzle in his face. The idiot had enough sense to hold still, hardly daring to breathe.

  “That’s right, you sick-minded puppy,” I rumbled against his quivering flesh. “Breathe hard, make one wrong move…and I will rip out your guts, stuff them down your throat and ship your sorry, wet-behind-the-ears ass back to the farm in a box with no holes.”

  In reprimand, I nipped his chin hard enough to draw blood. He yipped like a baby cub, abandoning human speech in his fear and pain. For that childish display, I shifted to mid-change--our enormously strong, fighting form of human/wulf capable of standing on hind legs--and buffeted him good, landing blow after punishing blow on his pale skin. When I finally let him up, the heavy, acrid scent of his fear rose up, permeating the air between us, another embarrassing failure for him.

  “Uncle Hunter…Alpha,” he stammered, hanging his head. “I am sorry. I mean you no disrespect, but I…really have t-to go to work.”

  Trembling before my half-changed form, he chanced a glance upward. When his pale brown eyes dared to meet mine, I growled low and menacingly, narrowing my eyes in irritation. When my head lowered in warning, he dropped to one knee, quickly adding, “That is, if I have your permission?”

  ‘Uncle’ is a term of respect among our family and his use of the term, along with his lowered body posture, went a long way toward placating my anger. I nodded once in acceptance of his apology.

  “We still have a problem.” I gestured around the room, indicating the clutter and debris. “I expect you to clean up this.” My words thundered in a bass roar, my voice difficult to control in half-change.

  “I will, Sir!” the pup ardently promised, bending over the piles of clothes, filth and trash littering my living space. Straightening up with his arms full, he said, “I will tell Rosa I have to be home…uh…due to a…uh…family emergency. I’ll come right home and be ready when you need me at eleven, then I will clean up the rest of this junk.”

  “See that you do.”

  I carelessly tossed his clutter out of my way, throwing dirty clothes at him until I had cleared off enough space for me to sit down on the couch. “Heed what I say, puppy. You have enjoyed your last meal at my expense and effort. My new work ethic for you is simple: You don’t work--you don’t eat.”

  “I understand, Sir.” His muffled voice came from under the mountain of clothes.

  “Get out of my sight!”

  “Yes, Sir!”

  He dribbled a trail of clothes behind him as he scurried out of the room, leaving the door ajar behind his fleeing figure.

  I Decide to Take a Stroll Downtown

  What is the younger generation coming to? Shaking my head, I picked up the remote and settled back on the couch to surf through the TV channels. I had hours to fill before Moonrise, when I could safely change and indulge my hunting nature in the wilds of the nighttime city streets. It’s easy for someone to mistake a wulf for a dog in the dark.

  I needed distraction. Not in the mood for Matriarch TV, I flipped past Star Trek. I’d only had to watch a couple of episodes to realize Uhura, not Kirk, held the Alpha position in that outfit.

  As usual, HBO had revolving reruns scheduled. It wasn’t until I’d subscribed for the year that I found out HBO only runs new movies during their promotional drives and the first three days of the month to keep us suckers hooked. Like all new subscribers, I actually believed they showed new movies nightly. Yeah, yeah, they saw me coming. So bite me, okay?

  Anyway, the first of the month had passed and TV Land had nothing to offer. After one brooding glance around my quiet, dirty duplex, I decided to go out for a pre-dinner walk.

  Tossing aside the remote, I ducked into my room, tossed off my work clothes and tugged on tight, button-fly black jeans before stepping into a pair of comfortable leather sandals. Buford was ready to play and I had a hard time tucking him down my left leg. I fastened the jeans, squeezing my cock behind the straining buttons, stashed some cash in my wrist pouch. Once I pulled on my favorite black leather biker jacket, I was ready to head into the city.

  The evening was beautiful, the chill October air invigorating. The weather rode the fine line between balmy harvest nights and blustery autumn days, clear and crisp with just a touch of brisk breeze to energize me.

  Goddess above, but the coming night sang to me! The blending of the setting sun’s magenta glow with that of the bright cold radiance of the rising harvest moon reminded me why this time of evening is called twilight--two lights. The beauty was almost overwhelming. I wanted to throw back my head and howl my joy to the pristine sky. Not even the constant thrum of human misery and noise could dampen my rising spirits.

  Wandering the streets, I meandered in a haphazard pattern, no particular destination in mind, soaking up the impressions of the city. About a mile and some past my neighborhood, I came upon the lower economic district. Three blocks away, inside a broken-down housing duplex that should have been condemned years ago, the sound of furious fucking carried on the thin air of the waning day. I paused, ears pricked as I caught the guttural curses falling from a man’s lips.

  Rape?

  My hackles rose, the protector in me coming alert. I sprang into action, covering two blocks before the woman’s wild, tortured--well, hell!--ecstatic cries reached me. This close, I could smell their commingled odor. This couple had been together long enough that they had taken on each other’s scent.

  This fevered coupling constituted no rape. Rather, it celebrated the violence of passion given and received between two lovers. My tension gave way to wry amusement. Smiling in sympathy with the man, I closed my eyes and leaned against a low brick wall, deliberately listening in.

  I could almost visualize the male over his bitch, claiming her in a rage of possessiveness and masculine power--the only power poverty allowed him. Straining my ears, I heard the rhythmic pounding of his hips slamming agains
t her pelvis. I somehow doubted he gave the physical state of their home a thought as he took his mate: roaring aloud his claim to the female, the reigning monarch of his castle marked off his territory.

  Their loud, uninhibited fucking reminded me of home. It brought to mind the joyous, public fucking that mated couples indulged in, often drawing the curious eyes of the young, randy cubs. Drinking in the distant sounds of their climaxes--his low-growled grunts and groans of love, her warbled cries and moans of surrender--my own cock stretched in envious hunger.

  I wondered if the woman appreciated her good fortune. Life could be worse than having a true alpha male as mate--one who takes the time and effort to spread her out and fuck her often--bestowing slices of heaven amidst the hell they resided in.

  As a former officer of the law, I had seen life at its gritty worst. Overhearing this interlude, knowing a male was spending quality time with his mate, was a refreshing change.

  Pushing away from the wall, I continued my stroll. The more I thought about what I had just heard, the greater I felt my own lack. As I slowly left the vicinity, I sighed, battling the melancholy trying to smother my joy.

  Lately, I’d grown resentful of my ever-present loneliness. Because I was heir to the Alpha of Western America Pack and a mature, healthy wulf, everyone was constantly urging me to mate. I would love nothing better than to enter into a committed relationship with a female I could love, cherish and nightly attempt to impregnate. Hell, Buford and I were tired of living in a perpetual state of sexual hunger because human couplings just didn’t satisfy a wulf’s total craving.

  Unfortunately, I had yet to find that illusive creature: a mate--wulf bitch or human-derived Breed designed by our scientists, ordained by manipulation, nature and fate to be a perfect breeder, capable of birthing a wulf’s pups.

  Tonight, I was hornier than usual, due to the case I had just completed. Damned thing had dragged on and on, so it had been a long, dry spell between playtimes for me.