“And you don’t want to be stronger? Faster? Better reflexes? Better night vision? That’s what I offer, even in human form. And besides, I hate the Germans.”
“Let me guess. They’re experimenting on werewolves.”
Her lips twisted into something half smile, half grimace. “That and keeping us as pets.”
There was a rumour Hitler was obsessed with wolves. “Only German werewolves, no doubt.”
She laughed, a sharp, harsh sound with little humour in it, then turned to face him. “You will do what it takes to hurt them. So will I. I will show you… and then you can decide.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then we’ll send you back to your squadron.” This time it was a smile, almost a nice one. “As much as I want to keep you, we won’t remove an asset.”
“Then send me back now. I don’t need to see what you want to show me, I don’t need your recruiting…”
Gunfire. Ahead of him.
The woman swore in what he thought was actually Italian. Then… she became a wolf. It was a melting, a blurring. It wasn’t something he enjoyed watching or something he ever wanted to see again. But she became a wolf. And set off towards the sound of the shots, not waiting for him, not looking to see if he followed.
He thrust a hand into his pocket, where it rested on his gun then set off after her, or more accurately after the sound. No way he could keep up with a wolf, were or otherwise, or even a dog that size. He knew that, but still he ran. Her alarm… was the rest of her pack in trouble?
The rest of her pack… He sped up, pulling the gun from his pocket but not clicking the safety off just yet. Just six shots in the Enfield; he had to make them count. The revolver had never been issued for pitched battles.
Which this was, by the sounds, and he slowed his approach, ducking behind a tree. He saw the fight now… the darting forms of the wolves and a half-dozen German soldiers. Make that five — one man went down, his throat ripped out. Jester took aim and fired, feeling the kick of the gun in his hand. He had never fired a sidearm in anger, only on the range. It was an odd feeling as his target staggered, a kill somehow more intimate than anything in the air. If, that was, he had actually killed him. He wasn’t sure, but at least the man was out of the fight.
He readied another shot. No matter what the woman might have intended for him, he definitely hated the Germans more. They weren’t trying to kill the wolves… no, definitely not, two of them had now thrown a net over one member of the pack, who snarled and then subsided, as if some enchantment on it had stilled it.
Jester fired again. Missed. The bullet slammed into an innocent tree, sending chips of wood flying. One of the Germans turned, sending a round flying past Jester who fired again. Nailed him this time.
Three bullets left. Have to make them count. He ducked behind the tree; there were more Germans than bullets, but they were trying to retreat with their catch rather than take out the rest of the pack. More Germans than bullets, yes, but there were also the wolves, with their teeth and claws — their natural weapons. They had to get close, though. One of them was hit. Yelping, it fell to the ground. A frown formed on his lips — didn’t you need to use silver bullets?
He shot the Germans holding the netted wolf. First one, then the other. One went down. The other didn’t, but he dropped the net, turned, made himself vulnerable.
Then a burning pain struck Jester in the chest. It was suddenly no longer possible to merely stay on his feet. The last bullet flew, but he wasn’t sure if it hit anything, and then the world tunnelled down to a narrow place, and then to darkness.
He woke up flat on his back on the forest floor, looking up at a canopy of trees. Feeling fine. Not feeling as if he had been shot. No, no feeling of that. “What…?”
“You were dying. We had no choice.”
He actually did snarl. That was how it came out. They had had a choice. They could have let him die as a man, not live with all of this energy flowing through his veins. He could smell them. He could smell, too, the dead. He hoped only German dead. “Your…”
“She lived. They sought to take her alive.” It was the woman, kneeling next to him. “You should stay.”
“My squadron still needs me.” He found it in himself to move, to roll to a kneeling position, to face her. “It’s my duty.”
Could he, though? Or would he turn into a wolf in the cockpit. Would he lose control… Would he? But he felt more in control than he ever had; felt the beating of his own heart. Smelled her, wanted her, desired her and knew it was returned. “Tomorrow.”
She smiled. “Tomorrow.”
The Wild Hunt
James A. Moore
The snow was coming down in frenzy; not drifting lazily to the ground, but hammering the earth and everything it touched. Cars were merely shapes under the thick blanket of frozen white and while the houses hadn’t disappeared yet, it seemed a real possibility.
Mark Loman was just fine with that. He hadn’t wanted to go into work today anyway, and now all he had to do with his time was watch a few movies and put up with his wife and kids. Lou and Ellen were good kids; they were easy to deal with. Donna, his wife, was another story entirely. Ever since she’d gone back to work, she’d become a shrew of epic scale.
He looked to where she sat with her little laptop, chain-smoking her damned cigarettes and managed not to sneer. When they’d married she would have been best described as ‘handsome’. With a thin build and her auburn hair, her easy going smile and her sense of humor, she was always fun to be around, but she’d never quite made it to beautiful. Now, after almost twenty years of tanning herself whenever she got a chance and eating enough food to keep a sparrow underweight, she was all bones and leathery skin. She looked more like one of the stuffed hunting trophies in his den than like the woman he’d fallen in love with.
She looked up at him and smiled, and her face was closer to what he liked to see than to the pinched, hard expression he had grown used to of late. She was back to handsome, at least and that was a step in the right direction.
Did he love her anymore? He really didn’t know, but he was certainly comfortable with her and just too damned lazy to change. He looked away after throwing her a quick smile of his own in return and looked at the two kids on the floor, watching the Wizard of Oz. Lou and Ellen were good, sweet kids. He was proud of them despite their occasional shortcomings — Lou liked to go out and party too much and Ellen was happiest when she was being a drama queen like her mother — and he loved them with all of his heart.
If he didn’t, he’d probably have left Donna instead of just finding some action on the side.
The wind picked up outside just as flying monkeys were attacking the scarecrow in the movie, and both of the kids jumped a little as the hard breeze slammed into the house with enough force to shake the windows. Mark smiled and stood. “Gonna make some popcorn, guys. Who wants some?”
Lou and Ellen were both crying “I do!” around the same time the front door exploded inward.
The house was built to withstand the sort of weather going on outside and Mark stared hard at the fractured wood sliding across the hardwood floor and running down the short foyer leading into the living room without any real idea of what the hell had just happened. His kids didn’t know either but they let out ear shattering screams just the same. Donna let out a squeal of her own and judging by the ache in his throat that hadn’t been there a second ago, he must have let out a good one, too. He didn’t remember screaming but that didn’t mean it didn’t happen.
The cold from outside moved into the room with all the subtly of a sledgehammer and brought with it a feral stench. Not foul, exactly, but musky and wild. Mark turned and headed down the hallway toward his den, where he kept his firearms. He saw something in the open threshold, a dark, furry shape, and decided the best thing he could do was be armed when whatever was out there came inside.