The Last Werewolf (The Weres of Europe)

by Denys, Jennifer; Laine, Susan

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2012 Jennifer Denys and Susan Laine

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-153-4

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: Lauren Fisher

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATIONS

  Jennifer Denys:

  For my co-author, Susan. It has been a privilege and honor working with you on this book. I have learned so much about myself as a writer thanks to you, as well as enjoyed having the opportunity to get to know you much better than we would have otherwise. I am so glad we decided to go ahead when we said, “Are we really going to do this....?”

  And for our wonderful friends, Tatum Throne and Angela Wray, who have also been through this eventful journey with us. Thank you for your support and encouragement. We couldn't have done it without you.

  Susan Laine:

  I dedicate this story to old friends and fellow authors who have become new friends.

  To Jennifer without whom this story could not exist. Thank you. This project of ours has been such a fun ride and a wonderful learning experience, one I wouldn't change for the world.

  To Tatum Throne who has shown me that a friendship of kindred spirits surpasses even great distances.

  To Angela Wray who has given me a rare and precious glimpse into the life of a fascinating woman.

  And to my Finnish best friends, Saara and Erna, who continuously support and care for me—even though I have been a no-show for so long that anyone else would have written me off as a hopeless recluse long ago.

  THE LAST WEREWOLF

  Jennifer Denys and Susan Laine

  Copyright © 2012

  Chapter One

  “I’m the last werewolf.”

  That thought kept going through Summer Harrison’s head as she traveled south to her father’s home in London—her late father’s home.

  Just a few short hours ago she’d received a phone call from the hospice her father, Robert, had gone into for a respite from his struggle against cancer, to say that he had died in the night. Even knowing that he was going to die at some stage, her heart had still been torn into pieces. It had been just her dad and herself for such a long time. He was her entire family, and she utterly adored him. Living so far from home—well, her dad’s house, but she still called it home since it was where she grew up, and as such the place of many happy memories—she had cherished each and every visit these last few years.

  Raising her head Summer had noticed the phone was lying on the floor where she dropped it when her knees gave out and she slumped to the floor in a heap, her body shaking with the intensity of her anguish. She had a violent urge to kick the phone against the wall, as if by doing so she would get revenge on it for imparting such awful news.

  “Dammit, Dad, we could have had more time together if you hadn’t smoked.”

  Her anger at the habit that cost him his life then gave way to guilt that she lived so far away. But that was because of her job. Summer worked in a university in the north of England as a sports coach and had debated long and hard about taking the job in the first place, but it had been a wonderful opportunity. You encouraged me to take up the post, even though it meant being so far apart.

  Shaking her head to clear these bizarre, conflicting emotions of anger and guilt, Summer sat up and wiped her face as she thought back to the times she had been able to visit her father. They loved to talk about current affairs, although he had a tendency to wind her up by taking the opposing view even though his beliefs were the same as hers on most things.

  On one trip they had argued about the re-introduction of the death penalty. Since he had raised her by himself, many of her principles and views came from him, so she knew full well he didn’t really want the death penalty brought back. Nonetheless, those loving talks—as they weren’t real arguments in any sense of the word—just proved that they were of like minds, ideals, and sensibilities. Robert had been not only Summer’s dad, but her idol in many ways.

  After composing herself, as much as someone as grief-stricken as she was could do, she had gone into her kitchen and, with trembling hands, made herself a cup of tea.

  “Thank God for tea in times like this.”

  Curling her hands around the cup in an attempt to warm them, Summer sat at her kitchen table for some time as grief lessened and the welcome relief of numbness took over.

  Finally she wandered back to the hall and picked up the discarded phone to discuss time off from work with her employers. She felt dazed as she spoke to her supervisor, hardly able to take in his kind words of condolence. Thankfully, it was near the end of term, so she was granted several weeks’ leave.

  Shaking her head she then replaced the phone in its proper place. Her mind was so foggy she wasn’t sure she could concentrate on work at the moment anyway. She desperately tried to think what she needed to do and frowned when she wandered into her spare room which doubled as a dumping ground for everything from clothes to books to anything that she didn’t have time to put away properly.

  “Where the hell did I put the suitcase?” She looked in the obvious place and it wasn’t there. “Dammit I don’t need this.” Rubbing her hands over her face, she tried to concentrate and remembered she had put it under her bed.

  A few hours later she was on her way to her father’s home to sort out his funeral, although she figured there would be precious few attending. Summer scrunched her face as she deliberately avoided seats where other people were sitting, wanting to find a secluded spot. Amazingly the train was fairly quiet, and she found a seat where the nearest person was several places away.

  With her father’s death she was the last werewolf. There was no one left of her family. And she was destined to be the last of her line, even the last one in the whole world for all she knew, because she’d never get involved with a man just to have children, and that made her feel so lonely. At least, she wouldn’t get intimate with anyone for more than one night. She liked sex too much to give it up entirely.

  She giggled—a noise that sounded alien in her raw emotional state—thinking that her dad would never have allowed her to marry anyway. He had always disapproved of any male friends she had. She shook her head. She was never quite sure if it was because he was being a typical dad, and no man was going to be good enough for his only daughter, or if he was worried that she was going to give her husband a death bite instead of a love bite.

  Barking out a louder laugh she turned her head away from the person further down the train who glanced in her direction, not in the mood to make eye contact, though he was rather cute. She admitted to herself that the reason she wasn’t going to settle down with any man was because there was no way she could marry them and then on the wedding night as she draped herself against him sensuously drawl, “Oh, by the way, darling, I should warn you that there is every chance I could rip your throat out in the middle of the night.”

  Summer had this recurring dream of laughingly straddling a lover, maybe her husband, as they tumbled onto their bed. Naturally she would be on top, pushing him back as he tried to gain ascendancy, her firm athletic thighs holding his hips tightly, using her excellent upper body strength, b
orne from her werewolf genes as much as her profession, to hold his arms down as she eased herself down onto his hard, throbbing cock.

  He would chuckle at her determination and give up, relaxing back to let her accustom herself to his size before she started to ride him, slow at first, rocking gently backward and forward as her juices moistened her channel, getting faster as their bodies became slick with sweat. His hands would caress her quivering body, stroking her flank and then reaching up to pluck her hard, pointed nipples. Her hands, meanwhile, would caress the magnificent pecs of his hairless chest and his wonderful firm six-pack. Her chosen would be as fit as she, of course.

  As they moved in time-honored fashion, the moans, whimpers, and cries of their mutual passion would echo around the room as their orgasm grew inexorably to its climax.

  It was a wonderful vision—and then it turned into an inevitable nightmare when she leaned forward in the throes of passion, her claws emerging as she gripped his shoulders, holding him tightly, fiercely, as she pumped him rapidly up and down, desperate to reach the final hurdle, and fur suddenly began to sprout all over her body, her fangs dropping as her face tightened.

  When she smiled down at him all she could see was a look of absolute horror on his face as his body tensed in deathly fear, his arms desperately trying to push her away, and in that moment her passion—and her fantasy—died a quick death.

  She snorted to herself and shuffled in her seat, unable to settle down and get comfortable. Actually if any man ever attempted to say, “You’re looking rather hairy tonight, dear,” she really would do him mortal injury. Not one to worry about having a big butt, she was rather conscious of her fur covering. Women who complained about having to shave their legs had nothing to worry about.

  Slouching back against her seat, she tried to drum up a smile at her own joke, but her throat was still clogged with unshed tears. Swallowing several times to clear her airway, she turned to look out of the window of the train taking her from her home in York not really seeing the verdant landscape with its new spring leaves and the yellow of the rapeseed as she pondered how her mother had coped with being married to a werewolf.

  A shiver of sadness went through her that she would never know. She reached for her sweatshirt and put it on, pulling the ends of the sleeves over her cold hands and wrapping her arms around her body.

  Her mother, Emma, had died in a car accident when Summer was four, and her father was so distraught that he had never talked about his wife. Summer had never even seen a photo of her, but guessed she must take after her mother as she towered over her little, plump dad by at least six inches. And, bless his dark locks, her fair hair with red tones was clearly not from his side of the family.

  She pulled her ponytail from behind her back to stare at her own hair. “Nope, nothing like Dad’s.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you want something?”

  Summer started and stared at the train attendant trundling the refreshment trolley down the aisle.

  “Er. No. Just talking to myself.” The man gave her a patronizing look and continued on his way.

  Frowning at the interruption to her thoughts, Summer tried to conjure up any long-forgotten memories of her mother, hoping by doing so that she could push away the grief that was threatening to overwhelm her, but it was really difficult. She could only dredge up about half a dozen snap-shot recollections, like her mother arriving back from visiting a friend one evening and Summer eagerly looking out of the window for her, hoping she would be home in time to tuck her into bed.

  She looked over at a little girl who had recently got on and remembered with a smile that her mother had been wearing a very similar fluffy yellow cardigan over her shoulders, and in her child’s mind she had been awestruck thinking how grown up that had looked and how she envisaged wearing her own top just like that when she was an adult. But it was so strange as she couldn’t picture her mother’s face at all.

  Summer also had no memory of how she had felt when her mother had died, but there had been instances in later life when she really needed a mum, like the first time a boy had dumped her. Her dad had shown no interest in any other women. But sometimes a girl just needed a woman to talk to, and a father just didn’t cut it. And so, with no mother-figure in her life, Summer had cried into her lonely pillow, hugging it tightly to her body.

  Taking in a deep, calming, but wobbly, breath, she then wondered how Emma had reacted when she had found out she was married to a werewolf, and the chuckles that followed that thought nearly changed to abrupt sobs. Summer’s emotions were alternating back and forth so suddenly. Leaning her elbows on the pull-down tray, she hid her face between her fists, as if by holding herself this way she could avoid showing anything.

  But her introspections wouldn’t abate. There was no way her sweet, quiet, well-read, adorable dad would have turned into anything that would frighten his new bride. If anything he would have shifted into a cuddly baa-lamb, and then Summer laughed hilariously out loud. The phrase ‘a wolf in sheep’s clothing’ would have been entirely appropriate to describe her father.

  Her giggles abated when she got odd looks from the other people in her train carriage who had boarded at the last stop and taken the nearby seats, and she turned her face away, huddling in the corner away from prying eyes, tears falling down her face as the anguish at her loss finally overtook her.

  ****

  It had taken some days, some very stressful, tense days, to start to get things sorted out. Thank goodness the funeral home was used to dealing with people whose emotional state was all awry. She found herself forgetting simple things like flowers for the service, until the undertaker had gently prompted her, and the funeral went smoothly in the end, if very quiet, with just herself and a few of her father’s friends in attendance, although she had nearly giggled during the service.

  One of his requests for the ceremony had been for the classical tune 'Air on a G String’. She had laughed, but not because the music seemed inappropriate for a cremation. Indeed it was a standard request at the crematorium apparently.

  No, when she had read that request she had laughed uproariously because all his life her dad had been a smoker and this had been the theme music for a well-known cigar advertisement some years ago.

  “Just for you, Dad,” she silently mouthed.

  But there seemed to be a hundred and one things to do to sort out his life. There was contacting all the services to cancel his accounts. Gas, electricity, water, TV, council tax, et cetera, but also the library, bank, dentist, newsagent, and the Friday club he attended were a few of the myriad agencies that needed communicating with. It was all overwhelming, but in some ways this helped her begin to come to terms with his death. At least that’s what she tried to convince herself, sometimes unsuccessfully.

  Actually it did help her pull together her fractured thoughts, having so many things to think about, but it was the night times which were the worst, when she had nothing to stop the despair that she would never see him again, never talk to him again, that engulfed her.

  Thankfully her father had paid off the mortgage on his home, so Summer didn’t have to contend with the worry about selling the property. At least not at this stage, which was good because this had been her childhood home. Wandering aimlessly, she had found herself drawn into certain rooms, remembering the fun times that had happened there. Like the one time she’d been using the beds as trampolines with a neighbor’s child, aged six, and her dad’s anger when he had found them—but only because he hadn’t been invited. And he had then proceeded to demonstrate to both girls how it was really done. Summer had laughed so hard that day she’d thought her lungs would burst.

  As Summer had drifted into the kitchen in her ambles through the house, she ran a hand over the aging cooker recalling the secret birthday cake he had decided to bake for her 18th birthday and giggled at the memory. They had both been sitting in the lounge when she had suddenly been aware of something.

  “Um, Dad,” she had sa
id, sniffing the air, her animal olfactory senses being keener than most humans. “Is there something burning?”

  He had cursed and jumped out of his chair like his pants were on fire, having forgotten all about the cake, and it was burnt to a cinder.

  Unfortunately all this introspection led to her bursting into tears, and rushing out of the kitchen. She tried to tell herself she’d always have those memories, but another part of her knew she’d never be able to laugh over these things with him ever again, and she felt very depressed, particularly as there was no one else she could share them with.

  Now she was trying to find some final documentation for the bank and was searching in what she called his document box, a big brown wooden box he kept under his bed. He had told her as a child quite forcibly never to open it because he kept important documents in there, but now she had to. She had felt guilty opening it, but was glad she had nonetheless because the first thing she had found was his Will which had helped with her dealings with the bank.

  The final record she was now after was her mother’s death certificate which the bank needed because some of her father’s affairs had, apparently, been linked to her mum’s, a joint insurance policy or something. Summer gritted her teeth in irritation that he had left her to sort all this out, and then felt remorse for doing so.

  As she searched she sorted the items into several piles, old bills that could be binned, documents she needed to keep, and memorabilia she wasn’t prepared to get rid of yet, like his certificate for twenty-five years of service at the engineering firm he had worked at. He had been so proud of it.

  In some ways having all these things to deal with helped keep back the grief, but finding things like a card she had made him for Father’s Day when she was seven were heart-wrenching. It was made out of a cut-out egg crate painted yellow and stuck to a card to represent daffodils. It was tough on her fragile emotions to see this visible proof of the past she and her dad had had together. Summer had gone through one box of tissues and two toilet rolls yesterday before she had decided she couldn’t do it anymore and had to put the box aside.