The Scions Of Fenrir (The Wolf's Heart Journals Book 1)

by C. G. Calhoun

  the Scions Of Fenrir

  Book one of the Wolf’s Heart Journals

  By

  C. G. Calhoun

  Acknowledgements

  I want to thank my wife, Kelli, for giving me the confidence and push I needed to finally complete this story and to go one with others. You helped me make this real, baby, thank you. My best friend Chris Munger deserves a ton of thanks for reading so many drafts of different stories over the years and for believing in me. And for being the baddest ass best friend ever. I need to thank my mom for always believing in me and for buying me every book I wanted growing up. I want to thank my dad. He might be gone but I know he would be excited about this.

  Chapter one

  Rollin on a river

  Killing a werewolf is tricky but not all that complicated. Get a high-powered rifle. Use a hollow point round that has been drilled out and had the center filled with silver; don’t try to use a pure silver round, they tumble like a mother fucker and are about as accurate over a long distance as a spit ball. Put that round square into the wolf’s heart. Boom. Dead lycan. Their hearts are huge by the way. Bigger than they should be for an animal that size, even in human form. The heart of a lycan is the one organ that does not change during the shift. It’s always big and full of power. That’s why even in human form they’re tough bastards. They’re stronger and faster than normal humans. Their senses are sharper too. Killing a wolf is not a complicated affair. Now, harvesting their hearts that is a bit more of an undertaking. You try to do it before they shift. Like I said even in human form they are tough bastards. But a shifted wolf is a murder machine made of nightmares. Taking on a lycan fully wolfed out and in a full-on blood rage is pure lunacy. The newly turned ones are all rage and strength. They shrug off damage like it’s a light rain. The older ones are smart. Their cunning is a mix of animal tempered with the intelligence of a human. The really old ones have so much control that they can shift parts of their bodies. Imagine looking into the face of a human as a werewolf claw rips your fucking guts out. Nightmare machines.

  Let’s back up a bit. Let’s gloss over your questions about why anyone would be crazy enough to hunt these creatures in general and get to the point about what sort of a madman would complicate the issue by harvesting their hearts. From the outside that probably seems both crazy and creepy as hell. Both are fair points. Ripping the heart from the chest of a monster that can seem so human at times does seem needlessly grisly and psychotic. But there are a couple great reasons.

  First of all, you have to understand that the magic that powers the change comes from that heart. Like I said even while human their hearts are huge. The change starts there. The heart is the repository for all that power. As such it is like a big, wet bloody magic battery. If you take out a wolf’s heart, dry it, powder it and use a little hoodoo you can turn it into something amazing. If a person ingests even a small amount of that powder they gain a measure of the wolf’s power. They get stronger and faster. Their senses bloom. And they can heal as well as a lycan. Even old injuries heal. For a short time, anyway. Imagine being paralyzed. Now imagine snorting a fat rail of heart powder and jumping out of that chair. Not just strong enough to walk but strong enough to walk into the octagon and beat the ever-loving fuck out of all takers. However, the effects don’t last forever. The powder wears off and you go back to that chair; but imagine how much a person would pay for that.

  So, money is one reason to engage in such a lunatic endeavor. But really money isn’t enough for me. I like the money, sure. But I have a better reason. Imagine that your body is wracked with pain every second of everyday. You can move, slowly, with the help of a cane but every step, every swing of your arm is pure agony. Pain like that erases so much of who you are. It scourers your mind. Your personality is slowly replaced with rage. You hate everyone and everything. You envy every able-bodied person even as you hate their very existence. And you lose so much of your intelligence. Your mind is taxed to breaking just dealing with the pain. It makes thinking hard. It’s like your neurons are firing through soup. In short, it’s no life at all. But a couple rails of wolf heart a day can make all that go away. It can not only give you back what you lost but it can make you better. Not just better. It can make you damn near invulnerable. Instead of wrestling your pants on and losing you can wrestle a bear and win. So, taking on supernaturally perfect engines of destruction seems a small price to pay to drag yourself out of hell.

  All that is a long partial explanation of how I found myself on a shitty pontoon on the Mississippi River just north of the booming metropolis of Burlington Iowa at midnight with my left hand holding in my guts and my right hand holding my 1911 to the head of Frank Atkins while his brother’s blood pooled at my feet. Perhaps I should back up a little.

  Burlington Iowa sits unceremoniously on the Mississippi river about 90 miles south of the Quad cities. It’s a dingy little burg that has defiantly seen better days. Several miles upriver of Burlington the Mississippi is more a collection of channels than it is one mighty river. Lots of people fish these mucky waters for Flathead catfish. Big 30 to 60-pound fish that fight like hell and taste great battered in corn bread and deep fried. It also seems to carry some serious dangers. People tend to go missing in that area. Their boats will be found days later broken up on the river bank or sunk to the bottom. It seems that these lost souls hit some under water obstacle. Perhaps an old pylon. Perhaps submerged logs or and old boat. Who’s to know? The bodies are rarely found. The great Mississippi claims another victim and everyone continues plodding forward with a shrug of their shoulders and a muttered “Life’s tough”

  I keep my eye out for things like that. Places where people turn up missing a lot. Sometimes it’s happenstance. Sometimes it’s purely human monsters (god knows there are plenty of those). But quite often it’s something else. As with so many supernatural issues local law enforcement likes to turn a blind eye. America’s worst kept secret is the supernatural. We try so hard to pretend that nothing goes bump in the night even though almost every home has two dead bolts and a hex bag.

  A smart wolf knows better than to just decimate the local population. Young ones can’t help it. Before they gain control, they are eating machines. Organic wood chippers hungering for mayhem. But that sort of wholesale slaughter brings down the wrath of even the most staunchly blind eyed sheriff. And then comes the black suits and the quiet kill teams. Our government is fantastic at pretending things don’t exist but they are even better at covering them up.

  Anyway, smart wolves pick and choose very carefully. They pick off drifters and outcasts. Occasionally a tourist is dumb enough to travel alone. Quick side note. If you plan on seeing the sights in our great country for the love of god do not do it alone. The church and the government might tell you that everything is fine. That America has been scrubbed of magic and all is well but I can tell you that there is a monster under your bed and most dark shadows hold horrors that your mind cannot comprehend. So, buy a gun. Get some protective hoodoo. Bring a friend and enjoy America.

  Back to the brother’s Atkins. Frank and Henry Atkins are two good ole boys from Oakville Iowa just north of Burlington. They enjoy deer hunting, farming, catfishing and eating people. I’m not sure how they were turned. I didn’t look that far into their pasts and frankly I don’t care. They caught my attention in a small bar in Oakville about a week after I got to the area. All the “missing persons” had last been seen heading down to the river for a bit of night fishing. So, I bought a small boat and started cruising the waterways and fishing myself. Plus, I started hitting up small hick bars on both sides of t
he river.

  Lycans in human form are almost totally indistinguishable from normal humans. They look the same. They talk the same and mostly they act the same. A normal person has almost zero chance of spotting them. They do however exhibit some tells. They are generally mildly arrogant. Even if they are five foot nothing they walk around and act like they can kick everyone’s ass. Which is true. And they smell. It’s subtle. No human nose can detect it. But juiced up on heart powder I can smell it. It’s a faint musky smell. Like when your beagle’s gland pumps out its stink but a thousand times subtler. Luckily for me the powder gives me better senses without making me smell like a German shepherd in heat.

  So, there I am sitting down, drinking a Coors (enhanced senses make this a monumental task) when I catch a whiff of dog ass. In walks Henry and Frank. They look like your classic trailer park burn outs. Wrangler jeans and Kid Rock tee shirts. Whip cord thin with tight farm hand muscle. The smell gives them away but there are other signs. They move like predators. Strong and graceful. They’re to healthy looking. By their dingy clothes they project “Barely getting by” but they almost glow with health. Their skin isn’t the sallow and pale skin of poverty but movie star healthy and free of blemishes and their huge hearts beat louder than anyone else’s. They look like people but to my eyes they may as well have “Wolf” Tattooed on their foreheads.

  Two wolves mean double pay day. It’s hard not to head outside wait in the shadows and just clip them as they leave. Ambush is my preferred method. But gun shots are loud and I really do not want to be caught forearm deep in their chests by the police. Explaining to law enforcement that these two native sons are werewolves doesn’t work. It’s far easier to keep up the illusion of normality by yelling “He’s got a gun.” And putting two in my chest. Granted, that wouldn’t actually kill me, but then I would have to explain my still being alive on top of explaining a parking lot autopsy. So, I wait a few minutes. Finish my piss warm Coors and leave the bar. What follows is a long boring week of following the brothers Atkins as they work the farm. Hit the river on their shitty pontoon and run down giant Iowa whitetails in wolf form. I’m not sure if that last one is technically poaching.

  So, a week later I find myself on the mighty Mississippi at midnight. My boat taking on water from an “unfortunate accident” as ole Frank and Henry come gliding up to my rescue. Luckily for me those two are regular as clocks. Same path up and down the river every night at about the same time.

  “Looks like you’re in a bit of trouble.” Frank says as their pontoon coasts up to my sinking John boat.

  I run my hand through my hair and give my best embarrassed grin. “Ya, I think I hit a log”

  “Well come on over friend we’ll give you a ride to shore.” Oh how very kind of you I think.

  I jump onto their boat as Henry pilots us out into the middle of the river. I can almost hear them salivating as the small talk commences. “Nope I’m not from around here”. “Yep I heard the fishing was good around these parts.” “Not sure when I’m heading back.” “I’m an independent contractor so I can take as long as I want.” “Nope not married.” On and on It goes. I paint the picture of a single man who lives alone. (Which is mostly true). An introverted loner who is known for coming and going as I please. (Hmm, that’s also true.) No real family to speak of and no one to miss me. (Fuck, I might need to reevaluate my life.)

  As I paint the picture of the perfect victim I slowly move to the back of the boat. Henry has his eyes forward watching the water. Frank sidles up next to his brother looking forward. The arrogant bastards both turn their backs to me. No fear of the cheeseburger sitting behind them. I feel the tension start creeping into me. I try to tamp it down. If my adrenaline spikes they’ll smell it. This is the critical time. They’re still human. If they wolf out shit will go sideways real fucking quick. I took a snoot of powder just before they showed up so my body is juiced. Normally two wolves wouldn’t get my heart rate up. Not to brag but I have killed a shit load of them. On open ground, with room to move, my speed and experience would make short work of them. But a pontoon isn’t open ground. In such a tight space my spinning style of dodging and fighting is pretty much hosed. So I keep my heart rate down and wait for my moment.

  Frank turns his head to his brother and smiles a decidedly wolfish grin. That’s my cue. I can feel it. They are engrossed in the anticipation of what’s to come. I see Henry slowly start throttling down. This is my moment. They are seconds from turning on me. Their blood is running hot. The dog smell thickens. The change is imminent.

  Silently I stand. My left hand slides a machete from the well-oiled sheath on my back hidden by my hoodie. My right pulls my old 1911 from a paddle holster at the small of my back. I flick my thumb across the sharpened front site. Just as quickly I run the cut along the runes of power and transformation etched along the barrel. The gun drinks in the blood from my thumb and I feel power run through it. The old pistol’s silver plating makes it look ornamental but once powered up it packs a very special punch. Not bad for a weapon that has been in pretty steady use since 1944. The machete has lines of inlaid silver along the blade in arcane runes of strength. It’s a two for one deal. The silver shorts out their healing and the runes give the blade strength and a bit of concealment from their senses.

  As I stand my plan is a quick quiet cut to Frank’s neck followed quickly by a bullet or three to the back of Henry’s head. Then a bit of butcher work. Two wolf hearts in a bag. Pilot the boat to where my car is. Douse it in gas, set it adrift and then touch off the gas with a tracer round. Beat feet back to Michigan and collect the money for the hearts. Simple as can be.

  But ole Frank was a bit cagier than I figured. I’m not sure exactly how I fucked up. Maybe he heard me pull the blade and gun. Maybe he smelled the gun powder or the tiny drop of blood. Maybe my timing was just off. Whatever it was he turned toward me as I started my strike. I heard “fuck” escape my lips as the blade sliced through the air and my eyes registered his now hirsute hand flash up to grab it. This could have easily been the end of me. But I had a couple things in my favor. First off, my blade was made to fuck up his kind and it was backed up by my enhanced strength. So instead of catching it the blade cut through lengthening fingers. His quickly hardening bones did defect the strike enough that it didn’t proceed to his neck but instead angled up and into his head. It sliced off a nice chunk from the top of his skull. Not enough to kill him but enough to hurt like a bitch and show me a good patch of grey matter.

  My other advantage was all the time I spent in mind searing pain. If you want to survive living in agony every day you have to do something with that pain. Your mind uses a lot of its power to wall all that sensation off to one side. It blocks it away as much as it can. Absent the pain you find that your brain has basically developed a second processor and you need to do something with it. In my case all that extra power coupled with my heightened agility has led to me being truly ambidextrous. While everything was going to shit with Frank on my left side my right side made a quick adjustment in aim, my hand wasn’t high enough for a head shot, and I squeezed off a round through the shitty pontoon seat into Henry’s lower back. It wasn’t enough to kill him but with a round from that gun in him his shifting would be slowed and he would be in a world of pain.

  With Henry on the back burner I turned all my attention back to Frank. He was still up. But shit was not going well for him. His eyes were bugged out staring at his severed hand. And he seemed a bit dazed from the piece of brain my blade had sliced off. However, I knew that neither would last. The silver etching slowed down his healing but unless it was stuck in his body the effect would pass and I would quickly be facing a pissed off and fully limbed death machine. So, I swung the 1911 up and put it right against his forehead. One trigger pull and the Frank problem was over.

  Like I said earlier werewolves are tough, fast and dangerous. Frank was down but in the time, it had taken me to put the gun to his head, the fucker had buried hand numbe
r two right into my guts. I felt the pain bloom like an explosion. I wanted to fall over and grab my perforated stomach but Henry still needed finished off. Henry had fallen out of his seat when I put the slug in his back. He was sprawled out on the deck of the pontoon, his legs twitching (I must have spun him), swearing up a storm while the change crept over him, with what must have felt to him like agonizing slowness.

  I pulled Frank’s now limp claw out of my guts. Weirdly his hand had begun to shift back to human and all the fur had fallen out. I hadn’t seen that before but I had other things on my mind so I let it go. The pain blurred my vision for a second but soon enough my wound was closed and I moved over to Henry. I put the 1911 to his head. He was cursing at me and life in general. I truly have no idea what he was saying. And I had given up fucks for lent anyway so I popped off two shots and ended the Henry problem.

  I was a mess. I was covered in my blood, Frank’s cold, gummy blood and bits of Henry’s skull. Not my cleanest kill to be sure. I felt like shit. Healing like that takes energy. I was hungry as fuck and I ached all over. The ache was just my old nerve damage slowly creeping through the waning heart powder. Healing like that uses up the magic pretty fast. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the extra vial of powder I keep on me. I poured some into my hand and took a snoot full. As soon as the magic hit my blood the world righted itself. I felt strength flood back into my body. I was still hungry as hell but it no longer felt like I’d been hit by a train. With the cobwebs cleared it was time to get to work. I pulled out the hunting knife from my belt and Tin manned both of them.

  By dawn I was standing at the dock near my car watching Frank and Henry’s flaming pontoon slowly sink beneath the surface of the river. “Via con dios, you murderous fucks” I said to no one as I headed to my Land Rover. I could already hear the scraping of tiny paws on the glass and the happy snorts of my pug Lily. And before you curse me as an animal abusing bastard for leaving her in there let me set you straight. The back of the Rover is set up for my little girl’s care. I installed a small battery powered air conditioner with its own power source in the back. As well as automatic food and water dispensers and more pillows that a sheik’s tent. Only the best for my little girl.