6 - Wild Dog Problem

Just fucking wonderful.

I stare down at the crumpled body with vague distaste tugging at my features. He gazes absently up at me, his lips parted, his plea gone silent. Claw marks have ripped their way along his skin.

The Othala tearing into his chest speaks of strength and unity, of home and ownership. In other words, it seems as though there's not one werewolf pack laying its claim on these streets, but two, and they're having a disagreement over land.

The symbol, in short, dull, werewolf terms, means see what happens when you trespass on our land.

It's barbaric. At least mine had some genuine reason behind it— even if it was done in blind rage.

Si vis pacem, para bellum. If you want peace, prepare for war.

That's loads more poetic and symbolic, turning the morals of the Ferreus Clan against them. Werewolves really have no class.

With a sniff of disgust, I turn my back on the man and retreat to my car, checking for witnesses all the way.

As I walk, I hear vague noises of distress and a distant siren screeching. More distant still, however, is the morbid symphony of a pack of howling wolves. Their melody sweeps through the swaying pine trees, carrying long and low across the valley and bouncing off the mountains blotting the horizon.

A shiver slides down my back as my nerves shred into razor-edged streaks of lightning in my veins. Back with my family, a noise like that would signify a looming fight. A bad one, too, because it means the wolves are already rallying.

For the first time since running and leaving all I have ever known behind, a desperate part of me longs to have my family at my back, ready and eager to deal with the threat. It rises like a flame in me— the urge for numbers.

At once, I'm stamping on those flames until nothing but smouldering ashes remain.

I don't need them. I'll never need them again.

Yes, two werewolf packs are worse than one. And yes, Ferreus hunters rely on one another to keep any wolves sneaking up on us and catching us off-guard. And yes, I am entirely on my own.

But I want this. I want my solitude, and I want to find some semblance of peace here, and if that means tackling this feud and burning all the wolves to the ground to achieve it, that is what I will do.

It would be easier to run. To get in my stolen car and drive until I find a new place without werewolves and so far away that my family give me up as a lost cause. And yet, even as those thoughts surface, even as I get into my car and grasp the wheel, I can't quite bring myself to leave.

It's in my nature, after all, to fight werewolves. It's all I've ever known.

So much for leaving the killing behind me.

Perhaps, I muse absently as I melt against the seat and gaze out at the woods for lurking shadows, this will be my final battle. My last stand.

This freedom of mine has been hard-won, and I will not let a dead body and a few echoing howls drive me away. I'll fight both packs on my own to prove to myself and the Ferreus Clan that I don't need them anymore.

I'll do just fine on my own.

And once the deed is done, once the streets of Crescent Valley are free from the torment of werewolves leaving bodies in alleys and letting their howls break the night sky, I can put aside my silver knives and call this place home.

Two rival werewolf packs are a beacon to this peaceful town— and one I must snuff out as quickly as possible to avoid anyone from my family wandering over to check the place out.

Their eyes will slide right over a quiet town free from threats, and their focus will snag on a werewolf pack to take out.

Unbidden, I find myself thinking of the clothes that were all too easy to steal. It makes sense now. If there are werewolves roaming the streets, they'd need quick access to some form of attire. They must've bullied the townsfolk and sales assistants to look the other way or else risk their wrath.

Which means, I realise with a jolt of discomfort, they looked at me and thought I was just another werewolf.

Disgusting.

All at once, I'm hauled from my thoughts and shoved right back into reality.

There's movement in the woods. I watch, frozen, as a man comes wandering out of the shrubs. Shadows cling to his form as he runs his hands through his blond hair to dislodge a few stray leaves. His features appear pinched with discomfort or strain or unwavering focus as his gaze slides clinically across the street. He wears joggers but no shirt, and the defined muscles of his torso ripple with the echo of strain. His form is bulky with muscle, and he walks with steely purpose. As I watch, he hastily shrugs on a top as he crosses the street heading for the alley and the chaos. He is also, most notably, not wearing any shoes.

As if all those clues don't add up to an already obvious and damning conclusion, he's not alone. Two dark wolves melt from the shadows amongst the trees and trot along on either side of him. One of them clutches a pile of crumpled clothes in its mouth. Werewolves— all of them. They're walking right into a town full of witnesses.

"What the fuck?" I murmur, frowning as they disappear around the corner.

Intrigue gets the better of me. Besides, if I want to be rid of these werewolf packs, I can do a lot worse than see what's going on here.

So I get out of the safety of my car and set about following them. It's something of a speciality of mine — drilled into me from childhood — to sneak. I keep a lengthy distance between myself and the man and his wolves, on the opposite side of the street, so I can dart into the shadows and hide should they glance my way. They walk straight down the main high street, not even attempting to hide from any prying eyes, and head for the alley.

Already, there's a police car parked up with its lights glaring into the night. I conceal myself in an empty lane opposite, where I take up a place behind a dumpster and peer through the little sliver of space behind it into the alley.

After a brief, murmured conversation between the werewolf and the police officer (who is either blissfully ignorant of or determinedly ignoring the two wolves at his feet), they come to some sort of agreement and shake hands. The officer gets in his car and drives off without a backwards glance, leaving only the man and the wolves and me in the otherwise abandoned street.

All is quiet and still.

The man releases a sharp sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right, then, folks. Let's see what we have here," he says, turning in a slow circle as he surveys the alley and the mess. His accent is lilting and he rolls his vowels in a pleasant sort of way. "Poor chap."

I watch, pulling a face of vague disgust, as the man leans close and takes a whiff of the brick wall stained with sticky blood. It seems as though werewolves are more animal than man, after all.

"Oh, it's Duskland, alright," he mutters, stepping back with a grimace and a dramatic little shiver. "Bastards. Can you smell that? It's like... silver, almost. If they're using silver on our people, I'm telling Rowan they want a scrap. It's barbaric."

One of the wolves huffs, shaking out its fur and dropping the pile of clothes to the one bit of ground free from blood. The other trots further into the alley, following its nose and a blood trail.

Whoops. The silver could be me he's picking up. Or my knife. A hint of something foreign and dangerous— not necessarily barbaric, though. Silver is one of the few weapons I have against these creatures. It's in their nature to be wary of it, to notice the scent that doesn't belong— or, in my case, the lack of any scent at all except the vague hint of silver.

The werewolf crouches down beside the dead body, reaching to close his eyelids. He tips his own head back towards the sky and mutters something illegible. A prayer, perhaps, or a promise.

The closest wolf yips and flicks its ears, staring at the man with an imploring glint to its golden eyes.

The man stares back and shrugs helplessly. "What d'you want me to do about it, Beau? They're the ones breaching clear lines in the sand."

The wolf grumbles, shakes once more, and starts to shift.

It's a startling sight, as it always is. The wolf's bones snap and contort and the fur recedes until there is a man knelt naked and shuddering on the ground. He stretches, snatches up his clothes, and starts to dress.

"You're an idiot, Lachlan," he says, rolling his eyes even as he smiles disarmingly. "Duskland doesn't go near silver— not after the mess Elsie had with hunters." His voice is light, cheerful and breezy— as though there isn't a dead body at his feet.

"What, so now we've got hunters on our backs, too? That's great news."

I narrow my eyes, trying to discern the likelihood of survival if I rush at them and catch them off-guard. The knife at my ankle feels weighty and assuring.

"It's not hunters," the second man says with a sigh, tugging his hands through his auburn hair. "They wouldn't get creative with the Othala; they'd kill and clear it up and leave nothing behind. You try explaining to all the tourists not to wear silver jewellery without pulling the wolf card."

To my defence, I have no interest in cleaning up the mess of a werewolf.

"It's the third one this week, Beau," the first says heavily. "Rowan's gonna go mad."

"I know," the second — Beau — admits, some shred of humility weaving its way into his voice as he stares down at the splayed body.

"We can't just roll over and let them take our territory."

Right as I roll my eyes, wondering at the strange nuances of werewolves and their odd customs and rules over land, Beau laughs.

He says, "Stop being dramatic and use your brain. If they're focused on taking our land, it leaves theirs unprotected. It's up to Rowan how we handle this— let him do his job. Come on," he continues lightly, giving Lachlan, I think, a gentle shove. "Shall you tell him or shall I?"

Lachlan raises his brows at Beau with a lightly taunting smile. "I'll tell him. You can clean this up."

"You absolute monster. Morgan, love, remind me to never let him win in training ever again. It goes to his head."

The wolf comes trotting back into view with a snort, nipping playfully at Beau's hand.

With a heavy sigh, Beau lifts the dead body into his arms with hardly any effort. He's not quite as bulky as Lachlan, but then again, werewolves are strong creatures in whatever form.

With one final glance around, the werewolves head back towards the forest, mumbling as they go about plans for dinner and whether Ryan would've wanted to be buried by the trees or closer to the edge of the hill so he can still look out over their land.

I stay exactly where I am, just in case, and let my rushing thoughts try and comprehend what has just happened.

If anything, I find I'm more confused than before.

Duskland. That must be the name of their rival werewolf pack.

By the sounds of it, they're heading back to their den— and it would be foolish of me to follow unprepared. I'll need time to scout the place out, to check numbers and territory lines and plan a course of action that won't end with me being bitten and mauled to death. That wouldn't be a great end to my escape plan.

Only when I'm certain the coast is clear, when eager raindrops slide down my face and tap against the cobbles, I emerge from my hiding spot and head back towards my car. Even with the healthy wage Laura gave me for the hours I spent helping her out, today, I don't want to spend it all on a motel room when I've got some perfectly good, only-partially-falling-apart seats in my car. If the choice is between a bed and a meal, I've got to choose the latter and make do as best I can until something more permanent falls into my lap.

I've parked somewhere empty and quiet, free from prying eyes and cameras and nestled at the back of a warehouse bordering the woods. It's not ideal, with werewolves roaming about so freely, but it'll do.

I get in the back, lock the doors, and settle down for the night. I need a plan to take out two werewolf packs on my own, and I need it quickly.

That is, of course, if they don't kill each other first and do my job for me.