Wolf's Blood

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Remembering the pain

Devon’s wolf held still in the brush, holding his bounty in his clamped jaws scanning the area until finding the truck and searching vigilantly for signs of others until satisfied there were no stragglers. The wolf stood up on hind legs revealing its white form and began to transform into a man. He put on the shirt of one of the hunters wiping as much blood from his hands as possible then slid on a loose pair of jeans and found the keys to the Ford truck. He quickly checked the multitude of keys. Finally finding the right keys he opened the driver’s door and slide onto the seat. Sticking the key into the ignition and a flick of the wrist made the engine cough, sputter, and then purr like a kitten.

Devon’s stolen truck was almost on the main road now as the dense trees began to thin out and the light began to break through onto a gravel road. Devon could faintly smell the asphalt from the highway in the distance. An overwhelming stench of decay, urine and a strong musky odor that Devon or the lycanthropes could sense had him changing course and locking onto the familiar stench. In the distance Devon could see a dilapidated house, the source of the smell. He pulled over on the side of the road and got out of the truck.

He finally found the Seller’s house one source of the many distracting aromas. His head full of memories, deep in thought. In the back of his mind He couldn’t shake the fact his friend Stefan had been slain! He remembered the pain and the pleasure he felt the first time the change came over him and how scared and awkward he felt. But along came the strange lycanthrope Stefan to save him and show him the way.

Devon remembered Stefan had smelt his unique odor of rage and fear, bleeding, and had run toward Devon. He had the raw power inside of him but was yet unable to harness and control it. He remembered cowering in the corner, half man, half beast, howling like a wounded dog, crying out in pain. Stefan heard the howls and came to his aid. Stefan sloshed around; his feet died red from the blood. Stefan looked upon a mound of dead Scythians; twenty nomadic warriors, their body parts strewn about like an incomplete jigsaw puzzle with hopelessly lost pieces, a crimson tide of liquid crept out like streams until it disappeared into the ground. The dead Scythians’ body stirred almost looking alive as Devon slowly crept out of the macabre hill. Reluctantly, he had slowly crept from the shadows that were covering his grotesque form and into the light.

He had a hairless wolf body with human ears and hands. Hunched, white fur covered, his back in a diamond formation, and his muzzle barely covered in sparse spots with short white hairs. The compassionate lycanthrope kneeled down in the blood stained dirt and held out his hand and the skittish Devon accepted. He received Stefan’s guidance. His body now adjusted to the strain of the change.

He stopped at the Seller’s porch now to feel the breeze on his exposed face before continuing into the house, his memories continuing.

Stefan and Devon’s hands locked in a protective embrace. His body had been so deformed, a diamond of white fur on his back still quivering, he cocked his huge half-formed head back. Devon then sheepishly laid his head down on Stefan’s out stretched palm. He showed him how to control and manipulate the change. He showed him how to suppress rage and to think like a man through the fog of powerful emotion and instinct.

For six full seasons he stayed to teach Devon until a panicky and unsure puny human turned into a confident and brave lycanthrope. He felt a sense of loyalty to Stefan, like a father figure. So in the year our Lord 1846, when peculiar winds finally hit Europe, Devon’s stomping ground, he began to feel a sudden sorrow and incredible pain prompting him to travel to the Americas.

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