Angel

I stay near the house for several days, not really sure what I’m doing. I walk through the fields and keep walking until I reach town; I notice Marcus’ shop but don’t bother going in, I don’t need anything else and I don’t feel like talking. I walk slowly through the main part of town, not noticing when people stare, or cross to the other side of the street, pulling their children away like I have an incurable disease. When a car swerves to miss me as I cross the street, its tires squealing, I barely flinch; not caring whether I get hit or not, knowing it wouldn’t kill me even if it was going a hundred miles an hour. As I reach the edge of town, on the third (or maybe fourth) day of Fang being gone, a realization hits me: why don’t I just follow him, tell him how I feel and help him with his job. I am so confidant in my realization that I turn around and immediately start running back through town and to the north. I run so fast that the scenery passes in a blur and I feel if I run any faster that I will be torn apart, with my skeleton continuing to run and my flesh and skin lying in a pile on the ground.

I’m not sure how many days I continue to run, but I never seem to tire. I can run forever. The only limit on my body is fuel; I finish all the emergency rations stored in my coat pockets on the fourth or fifth day, though I ate maybe two or three times. I stop to pull some of the rations in my pack out to replace them, and a wave of fatigue hits me. I reel, watching the land and sky spin as I topple to the ground. My head doesn’t even hit the ground before I descend into blackness.

I open my eyes and see the moon, nearly full, with small strewn out clouds giving it tiger stripes. I sit up slowly and notice that I am in a small clearing in a forest barely big enough for me to lay down in; there is close to a foot of snow on the ground, and probably more outside of the forest so it is definitely colder here than in Utah. I stand up quickly, feeling none of my earlier fatigue, and start walking again. The sky is beginning to lighten on my right so I am sure that I am heading in the right direction, and I begin to pick up the beginnings of an old scent trail heading in the same direction, though I am unsure of whether it is Fang’s. I pick up my pace, eager to confirm the scent, and am traveling along at a steady pace when I notice movement to my left. I stop, taking a deep breath, and analyze the scent, frowning at its unfamiliarity. I tense, ready to draw my weapons if needed, and then stop, chagrined, when a doe and her faun step out from the brush and cross my path. They are close enough for me to touch, and I marvel at the fact that they aren’t terrified of me. I continue to follow the scent, soon realizing that the stronger it gets, the less it smells like Fang. There is a slight undertone of his scent but over it, and overpowering it almost completely, is a scent not unlike that of a wet dog that rolled in something dead. I wrinkle my nose at the smell, which makes me feel as though I need to sneeze, but continue to follow it, as Fang seems to have done.

As I follow the scent, I notice that in certain spots it smells almost human, as if it were a huge, smelly dog and a human travelling together, with one scent overlaying the other in certain areas. I puzzle over this, for given the size of the beast, as indicated by the strength of the smell; it is much too large to be any sort of pet or companion to a human. It is also much too large to be a wild animal; both a wolf and a coyote would be much smaller, so it must be something supernatural. My conviction grows as I notice the occasional campsite. The odors there are of both the dog and the human, but the only food odors are of cooked meat, and an animal of that size would prefer raw meat. I continue to follow the scent of the beast and the human even after Fang’s scent veers away from it. A slight breeze picks up and begins to blow towards me from slightly to the left; I perk up when I notice the dog scent, much fresher, mixed in among the other forest scents. I head towards the smell and stop at the edge of a large clearing as a wave of the scent washes over me. I can see movement on the far side.

Wolf

I ran for a full day and night not even bothering to worry about food or rest, or any other necessities. Until the evening of the second day when I collapsed in a clearing, panting for breath and passed out; I was so exhausted that I didn’t even care that I pissed myself.

When I woke up it was evening again and I was still in wolf form, my particular breed of werewolf feels the effects of the moon for a full five days before and after the moon’s waxing is at its peak (there are other breeds of werewolf, some are the typical mythical werewolf, half man, half wolf beasts that only change during the full moon; and some are shape shifters, able to change whenever they want; and then there’s my breed, not able to control the transformations except for during the full moon). I had two days to get across the border and then I didn’t have to worry about the bitch until the next full moon. If only full moons were less often, my life would be so much easier if they were two and three months apart.

I went in search of a stream, a pond, a puddle, or a trickle; as long as it was water my dry mouth and throat didn’t care. I found a small spring welling up out of the ground, kind of like a water fountain, and drank from it greedily, slightly frustrated that I couldn’t drink faster, but actually glad that I couldn’t, because I didn’t want to puke because my stomach rejected all that ice cold water after I drank it too fast.

After my thirst was slaked I was hungry enough that I could’ve chewed off my own foot. So I went off in search of prey. I found a wild turkey searching through the sparse snow underneath a tall pine for food and pounced, quickly snapping its neck and killing it instantly, I then took it back to my clearing and, changing back into my human form, skinned and dressed it (I don’t much care for the skin and it’s easier), and set it on a spit over a fire to roast rotisserie style. It was hard to wait, but as soon as the meat looked like it was going to fall off the bone, I pulled it off the fire and devoured it, not caring whether it burned my mouth, but immensely grateful that it was winter, which helped to cool it off. When I was done and nothing was left but bones, I stretched out wolf-style and slept off my meal.

I woke up not feeling right, not as if I was sick, but I had an instinctual feeling that it was time for me to leave. I had wasted enough time sleeping off my cowardly flight from the pack meet and that coupled with the bad feeling that was rising from my intestines to the pit of my stomach and telling me that whatever bad thing that was going to happen would happen soon, was making me eager to be on my way. I scuffed out the fire, smothering the embers in snow and covering it all with dirt and more snow, I set out into the light snow that was sifting down, grateful for something that would easily cover my tracks.

I trotted purposefully throughout the rest of the day, and through the night, trying to make up for lost time, heading in as straight a line as possible to speed up my journey to the border as much as I was able.

Angel

“Don’t worry about me, this job should be easy.” Fang is packing a small bag as he speaks, shoving wrapped nonperishable food and what looks like vials of blood into it along with spare clothes and some assorted daggers and knives. “The leader of this pack should be pretty weak, being female, and after she is destroyed, most of the others probably won’t defend her. In fact, they’ll most likely scatter. If you’re still here when I get back, you can help me hunt them down. That will be tiresome, but it’s a good way to get experience.”

I look at him quizzically, “what do you mean, if I’m still here?” Am I more likely to die if I am left on my own?

“You don’t have to wait for me here; you are free to leave if that is what you wish. I cannot keep you here against your will.” He is serious the way he says it makes me wonder exactly how many Hunters he has made, and whether any of them have felt the special connection that I feel with him. Is there a connection? I shake the stray thought away, confused again. I am very confused today. I wasn’t confused like this yesterday… was I? No, Fang would have mentioned it yesterday if I was… was I even with Fang yesterday? My chain of thought is interrupted when I realize that Fang is talking to me.

“What?” It’s hard for me to meet his eyes; I am ashamed for having doubts like this, I feel like I should be
less emotional, that I should be brave and just head out into the world.

“I said do you feel like you are ready to leave and go out on your own?” His black eyes seem to have hidden depths like a well, with the water sparkling at the very bottom where a sliver of sunlight just manages to touch it. It makes me want to reach out and grab ahold of his shirt and drag him into the bedroom. But I don’t. I smile, and I nod. Not trusting myself to say anything more, in case I break down and sob uncontrollably.

“Then why don’t you go ahead and pack and you can just leave when I do?” He smiles, “it would save you the trouble of having to lock up the house and I could show you how a proper Hunter packs.”

He leads me upstairs and shows me how to fold and position everything so I have as much room as possible for weapons and food, which he tells me to “only eat when you’re hungry,” and he magically manages to fit an extra pair of boots in there, along with six extra daggers, a gun and some bullets (silver and non-silver), and some sharp little metal stars that he calls shuriken. He then proceeds to show me where all the pockets are in my coat and outfit and fills each one with weapons; spare rations for eating on the move; several maps, one for each major country that hires Hunters for jobs; and a list of all the outfitters that supply Hunters with everything they need. The last thing he does is open up a small drawer and then he takes out a medium sized vial filled with a red viscous liquid. The smell hits me; even with it closed I can smell the amazing scent of it. It makes my mouth water and my stomach feel as though it has been empty for years. He looks at me seriously.

“This should only be used in an emergency, when there is no other living things around that can give you enough blood to satisfy the need. It will happen every month; it is the only thing that a Hunter can depend on to happen regularly. Try your best not to get yourself in a situation where you need blood and don’t have it. Find a willing donor, or go to the blood banks even, but only if you absolutely have to, and then only take the type that they can get the most of, which is usually A or B. and never take blood from a person that looks like they may use any kind of drugs, or is wanting a certain amount of money, never suggest or accept a price, tell them the price they will get. You must take control of the situation. Also, the blood in this vial will only fill one need; you must find another way to fill the other. It will be hard when you are on your own in the wilderness. But in the cities, and even in the towns, there will be plenty of opportunities with those who are willing, and as long as you do not give them your own blood and do not take too much of theirs, they will remain human.” It is the longest I have ever heard him speak, and I wish that it wasn’t about emergency blood and the needs that I will have while we are separated. But I am curious about one thing.

“What would happen if I drank another Hunter’s blood?”

“That must never happen, it can cause a bloodlust and you would be unable to stop drinking blood. You would become like a vampire, but worse; you would drink and drink, becoming bloated with blood until you were either killed or you exploded from the pressure. There haven’t been very many cases, thank goodness. It is mostly done by curious newborns that become too attached to their creators.”

“Oh,” I shoulder my bag, dejected that we won’t be able to share such a deep connection; if we even see each other again. But we do have forever, almost. A Hunter’s life is dangerous.

We don’t say much then, just make our way down to the door and head out into the near evening dusk. Fang waves to me as I stand in front of the locked door of the small two-story house that has held my entire life as a newly created being. I may not remember what my old life was, but, until here recently this life has revolved around the person that I am watching walk away as the sun sets off to his left. He heads north and I am left to wonder what will happen to me.

Wolf

Farra avoided the pack-meet for the rest of the day and all night, even declining an invitation to the hunt that evening. The absence of her presence made it the best pack-meet I’d been to in years. I was actually enjoying myself, something that has never happened before. My former pack members accepted me wholly, or at least as much as they could while still respecting my choice to sever all ties with them. We gorged ourselves on raw meat, bringing down a small herd of ten or so deer, and feasting on them right where we caught them. There wasn’t much left when we were done, besides bones, and we left whatever we couldn’t eat for the scavengers. I can actually accept being wolf when I’m with the rest of my kind; I didn’t leave because of them, just Farra. I always knew, instinctively, that Farra wasn’t meant to be an Alpha. It’s wrong, none of my pack is even supposed to exist; we’re abominations, freaks, if it was even suspected that the pack was out here, they would be destroyed. And Farra, that bitch, would squeal where I was before the Hunter slit her throat.

About halfway through the pack-meet, that is the second day, I had a chill; something bad was going to happen, maybe not now, but soon. I knew suddenly that I had to get back home, pack my shit, and split fast. The only people who didn’t seem upset to see me leave and were disappointed that I had to go so early, I made up some lame-ass mumbled excuse, was Farra (no surprise), and Sven (but I’ve mentioned that he’s not all that bright so I didn’t expect him to even notice me). Before I left I tipped off a good buddy of mine that I had a bad feeling and told him to spread the word to keep an eye out. He promised that he would and wished me luck, telling me to “travel safe.” I told him that I would, and that if I didn’t the Tooth would definitely assure my safety. We both had a good little laugh about that. The guy wouldn’t make a bad leader, if things were different he already would be.

I tried to take my time, but there was a feeling of being hunted that I couldn’t get rid of, no matter how hard I tried, and I ended up streaking through the forest like a pack of baying hounds were on my scent and thirsty for my blood. I’m such a coward.

Angel

“I see that Calliope and Calypso have charmed another with their Siren song.” I start, Marcus’ voice beside my ear, breaking the trancelike state that had come over me. Even with the extra height he gained by losing the glamour, he only comes to just a little above my shoulder. I wonder slightly if he is ever unsettled by the fact that all his female customers are not only strikingly beautiful, but a foot taller than him.

“Is that their names?” I can sense, below the surface of the gleaming metal, a consciousness that is almost sentient, stirring languidly at my voice.

“Yes, that is what they have chosen to be called. In this language anyway. In the language of the forge mages they are Dryghamine and Dryghone.” The words sound faintly German, but there is an underlying power in them that makes the air hum and the runes on the swords flare up when he speaks their names.

“Are they yours, is that why they have never been sold?”It doesn’t seem right that two such beautiful weapons could never have found buyers; and it seems a little odd for Marcus to be displaying his personal weapons with items that are for sale.


“No, I am not worthy of owning such beautiful masterpieces. Besides I am not capable of doing the work they were made for. The swords choose the Hunter, Angel. See if these will sing for you.”

I reach out my hand and, looking at Fang for confirmation, lay my left hand on the flat of Calliope’s blade, and my right on Calypso.

“Dryghamine,” I whisper, “Dryghone.” I close my eyes, breathing slowly, and wait. I hear Fang gasp slightly and open my eyes. The runes on the sword blades flare up brightly, and on the back of each of my hands is a rune etched in fire.

“Incredible.” Marcus whispered, “In all of three hundred years these blades have never found a partner. Seasoned Hunters with several hundred years of work behind them flocked to my store when I first made these and every one of them was turned down, and instead they pick you. There must be something big in store for you, my dear. I sensed when I was making them that there was a great destiny waiting for whoever wielded these.” He grasped the swords by their hilts and handed them to me blades first. “There is one last thing you must do before they are yours. Hold out your hands.” He pressed the tip of each blade into the palms of my hands; Calliope in my left, Calypso in my right. A dark bead of blood welled up around each point and then was drawn up the blade into the trough, sinking into the grooves of each rune, outlining them. “Now they are truly yours. I expect no payment, because destiny isn’t bought.”

He flips the blades around and hands them to me hilts first. I note the fact that they are now encased in
beautiful silver-plated sheathes that are etched in runes to match their blades, and they are hung on a leather harness to wear on my back, and smile slightly at Marcus; he smiles back, noting my amusement at the small magic he performed.

“Here, try these on.” Fang hands me a pile of clothes and steers me towards the dressing rooms.

I come out clothed in black; a skintight black corset-shirt made out of silk and leather, that is actually spell-reinforced armor, over a thin black silk long-sleeved shirt, black leather pants that hug my butt and my legs like a second skin, also spell-reinforced, and knee-length black leather high-heeled boots. I smile at Fang, acknowledging his taste in clothes, and knowing how good I look. He holds another armload of clothes, because I am obviously in need of a new wardrobe. I turn to Marcus, wanting to be complimented. He is holding out a long black leather trench-coat.

"Here, my dear, to complete the look.” He says, holding it open for me.

I slip it on, knowing that it is a perfect fit, and zip it up, admiring the way it hugs my body to the waist and then flares out down to the floor with a split up the back. I turn, showing it off a bit and smile at Fang; he smiles back, but it’s not quite the smile I was expecting; a sweet smile, to be sure, but not quite the sexy, suggestive, damn-you-look-good smile I was hoping he’d give me. I stand next to him while he pays Marcus for the clothes, feeling disappointed; but then I perk up a bit when Marcus speaks, only to stop when I realize that he’s talking to Fang.

“I have a job for you, Fang. The man asked specifically for you; he says that he has a job that’s right up your ally.”

“And what exactly would that be?” Fang shoots back.

“Well, it seems that here recently a pack of rouge werewolves has been discovered in Canada. It isn’t too big, no more than forty members plus the Alpha, but the pack elders want it dealt with.”


“Why is such a small pack such a big deal? I’ve heard of rouge packs with a hundred or so members being left alone.” Fang seems confused as he asks this.


“It seems that the pack’s Alpha caused quite a commotion during a leadership ceremony about thirty years back; said that the rules weren’t fair and then split from the pack as a loner. Her name was Farra.”


“A female.” Fang nods, comprehension dawning on his face. “Of course, I see now. This is up my alley. Where do I meet my employer?” Fang leans forward, placing his hands in the counter as he speaks.


“Why such a big deal over a female pack leader?” I pipe up. The discrimination seems a little sexist to me. “Why can’t female werewolves be leaders?”


Fang looks at me, understanding my confusion. “Not only is it against pack rules for a female to become an Alpha, but it is also unwise because it goes against all the were’ instincts. A female werewolf is smaller than a male, and a leader that needs protection to keep leadership challenges at bay is seen as weak and will be resented by the rest of the pack. Werewolves think differently than the rest of us.”

“Not only that,” Marcus adds, “but it seems that Farra here has only been turning men into wolves for her pack. No other females means no companionship for the men; unless they’re willing to lean towards the same sex. It also means no births and no expansion.”

“Oh,” I nod, even though I don’t fully comprehend what they are saying. “Werewolves can reproduce?” I blurt out suddenly, “I thought they only changed people.”


“Not true. Werewolves are able to reproduce not only with their own kind, but with humans and even Hunters. With a human the child may or may not be a wolf, but a werewolf-Hunter child will be a crossbreed, a hybrid, and a freak.” I can hear a slight hint of malice in Marcus’ voice as he speaks, and Fang has a disgusted sneer on his face; as if the very thought of a Hunter and a werewolf coming together in that way is unspeakable.

I think that their ideas seem a little harsh to me, but I say nothing; they wouldn’t have heard me anyway, they were too caught up in what they were talking about. They debated a bit on how much Fang should charge for the job, given the severity and the fact that he would be going without backup, a fact that I didn’t approve too much of but Fang said I wasn’t ready so I had to stay home; and then Marcus told him where to meet his employer and when and we went home.

Fang left not one hour after we got there.

Wolf

I stepped up to her, eyeing the big wolf that she was keeping her hand on and knowing it was Sven, and unceremoniously dumped the deer carcass at her feet. Feeling the eyes of the entire pack on me, my feet were itching to run but my fingers were itching to fight, a fight I knew I would never be able to walk away from. Though the pack is smaller than average, a mere forty strong instead of the usual minimum hundred, I was still outnumbered in either form; even with the Tooth in my arsenal. I stood my ground, leaning towards neither of the options my brain was hardwired to, and merely let the entire pack look me over, or sniffing me over if they were so inclined. I could feel their minds passing through mine. Theirs' are weaker than the Alpha’s, they could get the gist of my thoughts but they couldn’t broadcast it to the rest of the pack. Some of them were actually passing on sentiments, even encouragement, so I knew I wasn’t entirely hated by them.

The last to approach me was Farra, and her thoughts were for me alone.

You stupid mutt! Did you really think you
could get away with that? I ought to force you back in the pack as punishment for such an insult!

She slapped me hard across the face, curling her fingers to leave four bleeding scratches across my cheek. My lip curled involuntarily, and I felt a growl rising up in my chest as the stinging slowly faded. I could feel the healing start automatically, but a gesture from Farra stopped it in its tracks. This was the worst punishment a werewolf could receive from its Alpha, for them to stop the regenerative healing of an injury they gave, leaving a permanent scar as reminder of the humiliation. I could feel her seething anger, as palpable as the blood running down my face.

She left, taking the oppressing anger with her, and the mood instantly brightened the moment she disappeared into the cave on the edge of the large clearing, Sven in tow. The rest of the pack went on with whatever they were doing before, most of the members who were in human forms changed to enjoy the experience of the pack-meet better. Pack-meets always seem better in wolf form. Wolves take
pleasure in simple things that humans would consider ridiculous. Like tug-of-war, or tag, or ridiculous mock-fights over scraps, or leaves, or nothing. We also hunt together or just run; and we howl, making music that seems much more beautiful when you understand the meaning. I would say that the sex is better too, but I wouldn’t really know. All the ones who’ve done it with Farra won’t talk about it, and even the pack members who are more inclined to lean towards the same sex won’t do it in wolf form. Some certain instinct is just stronger and harder to resist as wolves.

Angel

The store just looks completely out of place in town. There are archaic-looking runes carved on either side of the door, which looks like a solid slab of wood and is iron-bound with a large elaborate carving of a cross that covers the entire door. The cross unnerves me a bit, though I don’t know why. The rest of the building is made of brick, with crumbling mortar and faded green wooden shutters. The two display windows are empty, draped in sheets, and the whole building looks hundreds of years old; but there isn’t a single piece of graffiti on it. I stand there staring at the graffiti covered buildings to either side of the small store until Fang, tugging on my sleeve to get my attention, pulls me to the door.

“Try not to touch the cross,” he says over his shoulder. I look at him confused, “it doesn’t burn us, but it’s very unpleasant, like when your foot goes to sleep.”

An old-fashioned bell jingles as he pushes open the door and holds it open for me. I step through warily, feeling a slightly unpleasant jarring sensation that sends a shiver down my back. I almost step back onto the street but Fang pulls me farther in. To my heightened senses the small shop seems musty, and I can smell what seems to be centuries of human lives that have walked through the building; more than eighty percent of them Hunters. How I know this I haven’t a clue, and my confusion is threatening to break through the walls I instinctively built around it. The moment we enter the building a small mousey human smelling slightly of fear, which he hides very well, comes out from behind a beaded curtain strung across the doorway behind the antique varnished wooden cashier’s counter. He smiles somewhat nervously, licking his lips. The man seems quite unremarkable to me; his brown hair thinning slightly, and wearing a very bland tweed suit, but I can tell that he has some inherent power. I automatically recognize him as the source of the unpleasant jarring in the doorway; which I now realize as a vampire deterrent if the cross should ever fail. He looks at me, and tries to make his smile seem more welcoming.
“You’re new,” he glances up and down my figure in a way that I feel inappropriate. I glare at him and he stiffens, averting his eyes. He is even more nervous now and I can smell the fear coming off him strongly, like too much cologne. “So,” he clears his throat, “what have you decided to call yourself?”

I blink, confused, and stare at him.

“Your name, what’s your name?” he clarifies.

I wrack my brains, something always on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t seem to remember my name. I can feel Fang watching me, and I know that he is concerned. Then the fragment of a phrase comes floating foggily to the front of my mind.

“…goodnight, angel…”

“It’s Angel.” I say, and I can’t help the smallest of smiles from tugging at my lips.

“Interesting choice,” the man smiles approvingly, “and as far as I know you are the first Hunter ever to use it. I am Marcus.” He extends a hand out to me, and I take it gingerly; humans, in my mind, being frail creatures.

He grimaces and I know I’ve squeezed too hard. “Sorry,” I murmur, letting go of his hand.

“Happens all the time.” Marcus rubs his hand slightly, and then he seems to change into an entirely different person as he turns and lays the entire store out with a sweep of his hands. “Welcome. Let me show you around. You’ve obviously come here for more than just talking.” As he moves down the small aisle between the counter and the rest of the room, the change becomes even more dramatic. His skin darkens to a rich cinnamon, and his eyes seem to alternate between clear amber and warm chestnut. The unappealing tweed suit melts into a tight black leather jacket, skintight black silk shirt, and black canvas pants that fit tight from the waist to the calves, then flare dramatically. His face changes, becoming dangerous, but still human, and he gains several inches in height. The farther he walks into the store, the brighter the room becomes, until it is flooded with light.

“A glamour,” Fang is right beside my ear, “Marcus is a mage, forge magic mostly, but the glamour keeps the curious humans at bay.” I am listening, of course, but most of my attention is drawn to the wall at the very back of the room.

The wall, it seems, is a glittering mass of steel. Every type of sword ever created, or close, hangs in pairs on it. Every one of them is perfect and beautiful; some simply made, some covered in what seems like hundreds of gems and gilt. Even from across the room, my eyes can pick out every detail of every weapon. But I am drawn to one pair in particular. I cross the room without even noticing and stop; reflected in my eyes are two perfect oval sapphires, each set in the hilts of two elegant Spanish fencing swords. The base of each blade is a perfect delicate one-and-one-half inch, and this width extends out two-and-a-half feet then narrows to a delicate six inch point. A shallow trough runs from the base to just before it narrows; and each blade is engraved with different runes.