“Guess I’m spending the night here,” he squeaked out with a sniffle, laying his head against his knees. Then his eyes glowed yellow and he let out an angry shriek, pounding his fist against the steel so hard, it dented. With another growled scream, he stood and shoved both fists into the door, bending it with a groan before it exploded open.
I backed away as he looked down at his hands, which were a little fuzzier than normal. This must have been the start of his half-turn, though he still could pass as human—for now. The fear in his eyes told me he knew what was happening, but that was quickly replaced with a vengeful grimace.
He took off toward the door of the main building, and I trailed him, curious. Tirelessly, he sprinted through a gated suburb before approaching a group of three larger teenage boys, each wearing red and white letterman jackets.
“Who let the fag out,” the larger of the three sang out, making five woofing sounds. Adam didn’t slow his pace, rather tackled the boy to the ground. Someone as small as him shouldn’t have been able to have such an impact, but his leg muscles propelled him with enough force to do the impossible. Adam sent his right fist into the kid’s face again and again as the others tried to pull him off. With one final slam of Adam’s fist, the boy lay unconscious, but the enraged half-turn wasn’t finished. He allowed himself to be dragged off before grabbing another by his throat. The bully’s friend tried pulling Adam off, hitting the half-turn repeatedly with his own fists, but it had no effect.
“I’m calling the cops,” he shouted, pulling out his phone. Adam snatched it away and shattered it against the ground before sending one last fist into the kid’s jaw. All three lay sprawled out along the sidewalk, and Adam walked away, still balling his fists as if daring anyone to challenge him. The teenage boys were still breathing, thankfully, but the larger kid was the worst off.
“Hell yeah,” I said, following Adam closely. The only other time I saw him take charge like this was the night he turned. He continued for several blocks until he passed the entrance of a cemetery. The boy stopped and looked back at the gates.
Finally, his shoulders slumped and he turned, making his way inside. His pace slowed to the point where he was barely walking anymore, as though he was trying to stop himself. Eventually, he froze in front of a large headstone. There was a line of scripture etched in it along with the name Stephen Campbell.
“I guess this was something else you didn’t tell me,” he whispered, kneeling next to the grave. “Our house is empty. Maya told me she doesn’t want me around. Alyssa’s away at school. Now I’m turning into a freak. You left me alone, Dad. I don’t have anyone left in my corner.”
With that, he climbed to his feet and started toward the road.
I’d always assumed both of his parents were alive and cared about him, and he was just this spoiled brat. He never talked to me about this stuff. I watched him slowly disappear, his defeated expression all too familiar.
I looked back at the grave, and a chill washed over me as I remembered my mother in happier times. He had a dad, and I had a mom. They were the only ones who loved us, but we both lost that. I understood what he felt then, because I felt it more times than I ever wanted to. All those moments Adam and I had shared together, and I could have made them better, but I hadn’t. I had been indifferent to him, just like everyone had been in his early life. I didn’t know him.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, pulling at the fur on my head.
Cody
I watched helplessly as red-eyed crows surrounded the werewolves, cackling and mocking. Roscoe and his mate clutched one another, their ears pressed against their heads. The murder turned to mist before reappearing as four young naked women with white hair.
“Aren’t they precious, sisters?” one of them asked, brushing her blood-red nails against Roscoe’s face. “So frightened, but you shouldn’t be. You’re safe with us.”
The werewolves’ eyes turned white as their fearful expressions went hollow. All four witches ran their hands over the enthralled beasts, writhing with lust as they each took turns gripping their cocks, forcing them to arousal.
“The pack is waiting. Let’s prepare the feast,” they all said in unison, two of the witches wrapping frayed collars of rope around their necks before leading them through the woods.
I followed at a distance as they made their way to three moss-covered cabins, a bonfire in the center. Several werewolves were tied to crosses, their eyes just as white and cloudy as Roscoe’s. It was like their souls were gone, because they weren’t even struggling out of the restraints. More young women emerged from the cabins, encircling the fire as they chanted. Roscoe and his mate stood still as a bluish mist pulled from their chests, joining the mist collected from the others over the fire.
The coven reached into the flames in unison with their bare hands, skin charring before healing almost instantly. They seemed to derive pleasure from the experience, each one trembling. The fire went from orange to elder blue, and they breathed in deep, the rising flames arching into their lungs.
So this was how they’d taken the vironoct, just as Mosavi said.
A few of the witches took their places in front of a different bound werewolf. They knelt until their crimson lips wrapped around throbbing erections. The witches ritualistically sucked and stroked until the beasts howled in release, shooting their seed into hungry mouths, only for it to be spat into opaque jars at the base of the crosses. Without giving the werewolves reprieve, they’d begin again.
Two witches led Roscoe and the other to their own wooden crosses, and night suddenly turned to morning. The werewolves were no longer bound, each one sitting on dead leaves, staring into nothing like empty husks.
Roscoe, however, seemed almost coherent. The witches were gone, and after another few moments, Roscoe’s eyes darkened to their usual reddish orange. He looked around, obviously confused at first, but quickly jumped to his feet, makingnonsensical grunts and whines while pulling at the others, trying to get them to move.
They remained rigid and unresponsive, and Roscoe turned to his mate, his ears drooping as if he finally realized the futility. He pressed his forehead against the other werewolf’s forehead and cried out, trembling against the emotionless creature. Using both hands, he reached down toward his mate’s ankles, sliding off the colorful bands he wore. They looked like Roscoe’s beaded anklets.
After removing the hand-made jewelry, he wiped his face and slowly padded away, once again leaving another family behind.
Chapter 32
Roscoe’s Purpose
Cody
The beat of bass thumped through the poorly lit alley, and a door opened and slammed shut. The sound was followed by a heavy crash into plastic bags as someone fell into them, scattering bottles and cans while sending screaming rats scurrying into the streets.
Though I knew everything was a vision of the past, the realism was startling. I might not have been able to interact with most of the people and objects, but sights, smells, and sounds were vivid. Especially the smells. There was one smell in particular attached to a snoring lump I knew well.
