Wolf

I woke to the sound of someone calling my name. Not for real, but inside my head. I listened for a while; loathe to answer the bitch’s call with the full moon still a week away. I ignored both her voice and the tugging that started in my gut in response, that is until she snapped at me.
Hey Fido, get up!
I bristled, snarling mentally at the insult, but she ignored that and sent me insidious remarks about what would happen to me if I didn’t make it to her in time. I growled quietly at each one, but got up and started getting ready for the journey.

I hate Canada. Especially in the winter time, not because of the cold, though it is an inconvenience for travel when all you have is a motorcycle; it’s not the country itself, or the people in it. Well, one person; Farra. I hate Canada because I have to drag my ass up there every month so I can get a little peace and quiet the rest of the time. So you can imagine that I was reluctant to cross the border, and not just because I don’t have a passport. I made it there about three days before the full moon; and the effects of the waxing moon were telling on me. I was shaky, paranoid, exhausted, and sporting a permanent five-o’clock shadow no matter how often I shaved. Whenever I went through a town people avoided me like I was an addict; I certainly looked the part. In spite of that I made it to my hideaway on the border without incident. The hideaway is nothing more than a shack where I can stash my bike, but I was grateful for its protection nonetheless. The North Dakota winter was harsh, there was already a foot of snow on the ground and more coming down, with clear signs of a blizzard on its way. I half considered just hunkering down there in wolf form until the storm blew itself out, but I knew the tugging of my gut would only be harder to resist in wolf form. Plus Farra was likely to send someone after me if I were late.

I sighed and started getting ready to leave. I don’t like taking a lot of things with me when I’m traveling, but there is always the risk of getting myself hurt, pack fights are likely this time of the month, and there is also the (slight) possibility of meeting a Hunter, so I was prepared. I slung the small pack over my shoulders then turned back to my bike and carefully extracted The Tooth from its bindings. The Tooth is a four-foot broadsword, a perfectly formed killing instrument, able to hack through bone and even toughened vampire skin with a single swing. Its grip and pommel were simple, leather wrapped (no silver of course) without decoration and a full two hands in length for extra swinging power. The blade was four inches wide and three and a half feet from hilt to point, housed in a simple reinforced leather scabbard and hung across the back in a harness. I carefully adjusted the straps so that the sword would still hang comfortably after the change and settled The Tooth on my back. It may not have a very creative or frightening name, but The Tooth has never been made fun of. I adjusted the straps one last time, then open the door and step out into the storm.