Werewolves

A sickening crack filled the small spilt level house, followed by the tearing of flesh. It was a glorious sound he could have sung to. The feeling of raw flesh brought back the blood lust he had not felt in ages. It came like an old friend you would never turn away. He yearned for more. The feel, the taste. The smell was intoxicating and arousing in a perverse sort of way. The man, if you could call him a man any more, quivered in his arms, his shattered spine allowed only his neck to move in a jerky shiver of muscles. He would die soon, leave this world as he came, crying for mercy. Sinclair was as pitiful as those who came before him.

"Michael, please! I'm your father!" the middle-aged French man cried. He was podgy around the sides, years of limited exercise and tobacco taking its toll. He was perhaps the most pitiful of the great line of magicians.

His cries for freedom fell on deaf ears as the man, once his son, leaned close to his throat. "Michael's dead," the vampire purred, slowly licking his jaw line. "My name is Henry."

Sinclair sobbed as he was fed upon, his magick and strength being stripped of him. In this form, Henry was not as large as he had once been, not by half. His soil drenched tuxedo made him appear like the devil himself. Long brown hair clung around his shoulders. It was a style Henry had always despised, but beggars cannot be choosers. The smaller form had the strength of the gods. He was a god.

Henry held Sinclair close, allowing their bodies to touch as he pulled every last drop of power from within the dying man. His lips made their way to Sinclair's throat. He felt the large man stiffen as he pierced the flesh with his teeth. Henry almost stopped. He really didn't want it to appear like a vampire attack.

It would alert the wrong people. But a frenzied hunger gripped him. First, he would drink from the husband and then his perky little wife who was cowering across the room.

He felt his loins tighten at the thought of her blonde hair.

Dropping Sinclair's lifeless form on the bloodstained beige carpet, he crawled on his hands and knees toward Mrs. Sinclair. She was young, too young to be Michael's mother. The body hosting his spirit was eighteen. Sinclair's wife could only be in her late twenties or early thirties. She was such a small thing, golden blonde hair, and petite body. It was her chest that must have caught Sinclair's attention. She was well endowed and had the feel of a cocktail waitress or former stripper. It was possible then, more than one Sinclair had fallen for such girls. Nevertheless, there was magick within her. Not as strong as her husband's, but still there. She was a seductress, using her gifts to gain money, fame, and love.

Henry's new senses told him all this in less than a heartbeat. When Michael was alive, he had resented her and at the same time, secretly desired her. Today, those dreams would come true, even if Michael were no longer alive to enjoy the fruits of his labour.

She did not scream, to much shock even to think clearly. It was how Henry liked it. He was a wolf stalking his prey. The boy would not be like this. No, the child would fight, so would his friends. Nevertheless, one by one, they, too, will become his. The faery and angel will bow before him. They will lay under him, crying out his name in passion, and he would give them a pleasure they could never have dreamt.

The woman whimpered as he reached her. It was impossible to believe she could ever have mothered the body he now inhabited. She was so young, so very tasty. He nuzzled her neck, drinking in her fear.

"Please, Michael. Don't do this," she sobbed as he undid her soiled blouse.

 "Lynda. May I call you, Lynda?" He grinned down at her as he sat on the edge of the bed and caught her leg before she could pull away. "That's a very pretty name. I guess you know by now your husband's dead and I'm not Michael. Well, not any more at least. And no, I'm not a demon, not quite at least." His hand started to travel up her naked thigh. "We're going to be very close for the next few weeks. Very close. You see, I've been dead this past week. A coma of sorts. A crazed Warlock switched bodies with me at the last moment." He indicated the closed bullet hole on his forehead. "Should've killed me. I'm not quite sure why it didn't or why Michael's memories led me here, but there's a purpose behind everything, I suppose. Now I'm just hungry. Very, very hungry."

She screamed then, long and as loud as the gag would allow her. Henry smirked as he lowered himself upon her. "I like my food lively," he teased before striking. Soon Elijah Hawke will scream in agony as he, too, lost all his loved ones to Henry Griffin.

Nervous, she narrowed her gaze past her fence and caught a shadow, a big upright shadow about eight feet high. She gasped, stumbling back. What the hell was that? She heard the sound of twigs and branches being snapped and she screamed. The shadow was approaching her. She spun on her bare feet and started to run back to the inn, but she lost her footing and stumbled onto the grass. Her heart raced so fast she thought it was going to explode.

Hands grabbed her by the shoulders and helped her up as she heard heavy breathing behind her. Almost hysterical now, she stared up at Gunnar and felt relief flood her veins.

“Gunnar, thank God! There’s a monster back there! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

His breathing was laboured, his expression grim, as his gaze dipped to her cleavage. Stella stiffened. He was naked. She inhaled sharply at the look of desire on his face.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said hoarsely. “Go back inside. Now.”

“Gunnar, what’s wrong? Where are your clothes?”

“I said go back inside,” he ground out.

“Come with me! There’s a huge thing out there. We need to call the police.”

“I…you,” he looked down at the rapid rise and fall of her breasts and swallowed hard.

Stella couldn’t move as something significant arose between them. Was he what she’d seen in the back and the moon’s glow had played tricks on her?

“Gunnar, what’s wrong?” she whispered. She inhaled slowly as his hands moved slowly around her and ran up and down her back.

“End my misery,” he said hoarsely.

Vasilis inhaled sharply as he took a staggering step back. He’d almost lost control and in broad daylight! Damnation, this woman was driving him to the brink of insanity. He stared at her ashen face, her lips parted in surprise, her breasts rising and falling and he willed his hammering heart to slow down. He’d almost lost control. He’d almost shifted in his Lycan form and raised his head to the heavens to release a pent up, frustrated, outraged howl. He felt Krako’s hand on his arm and shot his guard an angry look.

“At ease,” he barked.

Krako immediately withdrew his hand.

Vasilis drew in another sharp breath and looked back down at Alex. If not for the people around them, he would have taken her in his arms and surrendered to his baser need. His need to claim her. To take her and make her his.

At the thought, he stiffened violently. He’d never wanted to claim a woman in his life. He’d only wanted to bed them and temporarily sate his lust. He stared incredulously at Alex. No, this was impossible. There was no woman alive who could tame and calm his beast forever. One woman for all eternity? Ridiculous heresay, he scoffed mentally. The legend was not true.

Tearing his gaze away from hers, he looked at Ariel who was staring at him with wide eyes. He swallowed hard, pushing the bewitching Amazon from his mind. “Have your walk with your sister alone, little one. Ortega will come and tell you two when we’re about to leave.”

Ariel nodded slowly. “Okay.”

With a curt nod to Alex, he turned on his heel and left. In the privacy of his own tent, he went to his basin and splashed cold water on his face. He swore roughly under his breath as another rush of heat tightened his loins. He still wanted her. He still lusted after her. Dear God, he still wanted to claim her and make her his forever.

Was he going mad? How could one woman affect him with such powerful force when he could have anyone he wanted?

He stiffened. Was his father right? Was it time for Vasilis to mate?

Alex’s beautiful face swam before his eyes and he clenched his jaw as his heart thudded in his chest. Her sweet scent still hovered around him, seducing him, teasing him and he threw back his head, squeezed his eyes and released a long, gut wrenching howl.

“Dear God,” he whispered hoarsely when he fell silent. “What the hell is happening to me?”

 

He lowered himself next to her and gently lifted her on his lap.

She lifted her blue gaze to his and said huskily, “How did you find me?”

He ignored her question. The truth disturbed the hell out of him and he pushed it to the back of his mind. He ran his gaze over her face and frowned.

“What is wrong?” he asked abruptly, fear making his nape tingle. “You look weak, paler.”

She licked her lips. “I…I need to feed.” She glanced over his shoulder and squeezed her eyes. “Dammit, you scared the fox away.” She winced, gasping in pain.

“Eve, what is it?” He tightened his hold on her and shook her gently.

She gasped for breath. “If I don’t feed…I will die,” she said faintly.

He grimaced and lowered her gently to the ground. He looked around wildly. Dammit, he could have helped her if only she’d come to him. The cooks always had fresh meat being slaughtered and prepared in the kitchen for dinner. They were always washing blood off the counters and floor.

Deeply concerned, he glanced at the open field. It was barren. The forest was nearby, but he didn’t want to leave her alone while he searched for an animal. There was only one thing left to do. Grimacing, he looked down at her. All he saw were her daggers, her sword and a knife. Where the hell was her stake?

“Are all of your weapons made of silver?” he asked.

“What?” She blinked away her confusion until realisation lit her face. “No, you mustn’t. Let me…let me die.” She closed her eyes. “Please…I beg you…just take care of my daughter.” She groaned as she clutched her stomach.

He shook her. “Answer me!”

“Yes.”

“Your stake,” he said roughly. “Are you carrying it?”

“Be…behind me,” she said weakly.

Without saying another word, he lifted her and felt behind her. The stake was strapped to her back. He pulled it free and laid her down. His heart hammered in his chest as her breath came out in short rasps. Clenching his jaw, he drove the stake through his wrist, twisted it to make a deep cut and pulled it out, tossing it behind him.

Blood poured from his cut.

Quickly, he leaned over her still form and placed his bloody cut over her mouth. “Feed,” he said hoarsely.

Her eyes flickered and she shook her head.

Drago pressed his wrist to her mouth. “Eve, feed on my blood,” he said thickly. “You will die if you don’t.”

She opened her eyes and stared at him, her expression horrified. “I don’t…feed on…humans,” she said, her voice growing fainter.

He grimaced. “You forget I am not human. Now, feed.”

She squeezed her eyes. “Dear God, forgive me,” she said and grabbed his arm, pulling his wrist closer to her mouth as she began to drink his blood.