Best New Werewolf Tales (Vol. 1) (25 page)

Behind him, decaying to join the peat and the mire, already feeding the beasts and the heart of the swamp, the man-thing lay dead. With his death had come the blood, with the blood had fled his sense of purpose. He knew who he sought. He knew her scent, the temperature of her warm, flowing blood. He knew her eyes—last seen masked in terror. He did not know why he must seek her. Thought was fading. Man was falling to beast, will to instinct, and the search had melted to hunt in a bloody haze of lust and insatiable hunger.

The scent led him to the edge of the trees, and from there he could see the silhouette through the bars of the window. There was a familiarity to the scene, the face, the pulsing sound of the heartbeat he could just make out over the din of the night birds and the chirping of crickets. He moved like a shadow from the line of trees, squatting further into the four-legged gait that was becoming more and more familiar.

He saw the woman draw back from the window, heard her gasp and rise, as if to move for the door, but he was too quick. He noted, in passing, that a third presence lurked near the door, but the blood there was older––less appealing and flowing with a stagnant, over-ripe consistency. He focused on the doorway, the woman, and when he reached the opening, he leaped inside with a snarl.

As if from far away, he heard the woman’s screams, her words. He heard names, wails, things he should know and did not, and it infuriated him further. All he could see was the vessel that flowed with the blood he craved, the clean, pure blood. He launched himself forward, jaws gaping.

Jeanette, realizing that he was not listening, that he would kill her, thrust the bag that Mama had given her forward, tossing it in terror at his approaching jaws and flinging her arms over her eyes to remove the sight of her fate. She prayed that it would not linger, that it would be swift and sudden, and final.

She felt his clawed arms reach for her, felt the impact as the huge, furred body slammed into her and smashed her into the chair and the wall, knocking her half-senseless and re-animating the pain of her earlier bruises. She closed her eyes and silently awaited the closing of those massive jaws on her throat, the final moment of release. It never came. There was the one crash, the one impact, a soft moan, and then nothing. No sound. No movement. No death.

Finally, when her heartbeat and breathing had slowed to where she could move, she opened her eyes. There was a horrible snapping, grinding sound, and she flinched, but nothing touched her, and she sat up quickly, looking over at Paul’s suddenly inert body.

The bag had scored a direct hit on his gaping maw. Whatever had been in it, it had been effective, and sudden. The rose dangled from the closed jaws, dripping with saliva and blood, and his face was rippling—his whole form was—shrinking, warping, reforming. The wet snapping sounds nauseated her, and she turned her head to retch, half fearing those feral eyes would snap open again and spear her through the heart. They did not.

It was over in moments. She stood and looked down at the inert form of her husband, unmoving except for the regular rise and fall of his chest. The eyes were vacant, and the blood was now mixed with a thin trail of drool that ran down from the corner of his mouth and onto the floor.

She turned and noted that Mama Duvalier had done her part. The three dead bolts were locked tight, and she knew they would remain so until morning. It did not matter. She moved across the floor, stumbling as the pain shot through her legs and her abdomen, until she reached her husband. Kneeling, she raised his head softly and sat back, laying it gently in her lap.

She wiped away the blood from the corners of his mouth, but she dared not remove the rose. Leaning back against the wall, she softly caressed his hair and allowed her eyes to close once more. She searched deep, searching for memories of an older time, a better time, and the night melted away to darkness. As she drowsed, she leaned forward, kissing him once on the lips. She slept with a bittersweet taste on her tongue, the taste of blood and roses.

UNDER A CIVIL MOON

JOHN GROVER

Emily’s dream haunted her again last night. The men finally came for her with their knives and guns—guns that cracked like thunder through the forest. She ran through the trees and the mud, chest heaving, gulping pockets of air. Emily ran on all fours and sprang through the treetops desperate for escape.

In the end she always woke with them on her heels, blue uniforms, the whites of their eyes, hungering for her flesh and soul. Emily woke in the dead of night, bathed in sweat. She breathed a sigh of relief and rose out of bed.

A cool breeze swept into her bedroom through an open window. Emily went to it and gazed up at the full moon glowing gold across the shadowed horizon. A solitary howl filled the night. Emily sensed the melancholy in it. It was a lonely howl. Somehow she figured the wolf spoke to her. It understood her and she it. Both knew the men would some day catch them.

Not tonight.

Emily closed the shutters and walked slowly away from the window. In the back of the room the fireplace crackled with flames. In the fire she watched the last of the dark blue uniform burn.

* * *

The sun reached its highest point when the two Union soldiers stumbled out of the Virginian mountainside. Uniforms tattered, faces marred with blood and a trail of filth behind them, the two men stopped and collapsed.

James pawed his canteen and brought it to his lips. Robert’s eyes widened and he ripped the canteen from his comrade’s twitching hands. “Give it here,” he roared as the water poured onto his face.

“What in the Lord’s good name happened to our troop?” James whimpered.

“It was attacked, you fool.”

“By what?”

“A wolf.”

“No, that was no wolf. It was something out of Hell itself. Did you see our friends? Our brothers? They were torn to—”

“No more James. It was a wolf. Let’s keep moving before we take the blame for that carnage back there.”

James pulled himself up reluctantly and followed his buddy. The night before their troop marched toward Richmond to join General Butler and his men. The fall of the Confederate’s capitol city was imminent. In the onset of night the troop became disoriented, the light of the full moon befuddled their minds, and they became lost.

A shortcut through the mountains rendered them worse off then before and they camped. During the middle of the night they were attacked, Robert reached for James who scrambled for his rifle. A blood bath of nightmarish proportions unfolded, but not at the hands of Confederate soldiers. James’s firearm slipped into his hand and he got off one shot, at what he wasn’t sure, before his world went black.

James tried to push the thought out of his mind. His heart was wracked with the memories of his friends’ bodies lying in pieces around him as he woke from what felt like hibernation. “Captain Blake? Where on earth is the captain?”

“God only knows now,” Robert answered glumly. “We need to reconnect with the rest of the Union. Grant has the Confederates nailed down in Petersburg. He needs our help.”

James said nothing, his words died in the numb shock of the sights around him. Farms were laid to waste. The burnt out shells of civilian homes still smoldered on either side of the road they walked. Cattle were slaughtered. In some farms lifeless bodies littered the ravaged fields.

“What has the Union become?” James turned his head from the destruction and closed his eyes.

“Total war my friend,” Robert said, noticing his distressed comrade. “General Grant understands the concept. He knows it’s necessary. Only an utter and total defeat of the separatists will end that war.”

“You support this?” There was a harsh tone in James’s voice.

Robert said nothing more.

Hours of walking in the hot sun brought thirst and hunger. Hours of silence between the soldiers brought broken morale. When the lush gardens surrounding the last house out of the area appeared before them, the men nearly wept.

“It hasn’t been touched,” Robert said of the two-story white house with a picket fence surrounding it with perfection. “They must have missed it on the ride through here. We need food and water. Someone must be there.”

“They will not welcome us with open arms,” James said.

“Of course not,” Robert said. “We will take it if we have to.”

“I won’t hurt civilians…  I won’t…”

“We’ll starve.” Robert’s face turned red. His eyes narrowed. He drew his knife and grabbed James’s arm. “You will take it or we’ll both die. I need you. We’re buddies, remember?” A grin twisted onto Robert’s face, his yellow teeth glinting in the sun. “We’re not going to kill anyone unless they try to kill us. We just need food and water or we’ll never make it back home.”

James thought about this. He missed his wife dearly and his two boys. Too much time passed since he’d last seen them. And the letters had stopped. “Alright.”

“That’s a good soldier.” Robert turned and hopped the picket fence as nimble as a cat. “I wish we hadn’t lost our rifles,” he whispered back to James. “Feel naked without mine.”

James ignored him, but followed through a vivid painter’s palette of flowers and herbs flooding the yard on every side. Perfume hung thick in the air. Something in it, he wasn’t quite sure, made his nose twitch.

* * *

Faint music resounded from above as the two soldiers slipped into the house and crossed the living room. The aroma of cooking food tantalized their senses. James began to salivate.

Robert turned back and brought his finger to his lips, a moment later he vanished into another room. James stood his ground and looked around the room. He soaked in the beautiful tapestries on the walls, the long woven rugs on the floor and the laced covered furniture in the center of the room.

James took a step toward the huge fireplace with its carved mantle when a footfall stopped him. He assumed Robert’s return, but instead felt the cold barrel of a rifle against his neck.

“Do not move,” a woman’s voice said. “You are a stranger in my home and I have the right to kill you.”

James put up his trembling hands in surrender.
Yes end it now. Please, end it.

The sound of another voice filled the room. “Kill him and I will kill her.”

James turned to see Robert standing in the room with an adolescent girl in his arms. His knife was to her throat. Beside him, James took note of the woman, probably mid-twenties, lowering her rifle.

A scream erupted as a third girl charged the room swinging a hatchet above her head. She launched herself at Robert who promptly shoved his hostage to the floor and swung his knife wide.

The blade slashed the attacking girl’s right hand, stopping her cold. The hatchet toppled as blood flowed. The girl dropped to her knees and wailed.

Robert lifted his knife to strike again.

“Not my sister!” the young woman yelled and lifted her rifle but James grabbed hold of it first.

“Robert no!” James turned and pointed the rifle directly at his comrade. “Enough. They’re just girls.”

Robert lowered his weapon as the three sisters huddled on the floor. “Please don’t kill us,” the oldest said.

“We don’t want to kill you,” James answered. “We just want some food and water, ma’am. We are starving.”

“That’s right,” Robert added with a sickening grin. “We only want food and we’ll leave you alone. Promise. What are your names?”

“Emily,” the oldest said. “These are my sisters Rebecca and Annabelle, whose arm you just cut.”

“We’re very sorry about that,” James said on behalf of them both. “We did not mean to hurt any of you.”

Emily ripped a piece of her apron and tied it around Annabelle’s bleeding hand. “Let me tend to my sister’s wound, then I will fix you both some supper. It will be getting dark soon.” She glanced out the windows with concern.

“That’d be fine, ma’am.” James watched the three sisters gather themselves and move into the kitchen. He turned around to see Robert approaching him. He was seething.

Robert slid his face to James’s ear and whispered: “If you ever point a rifle at me again I’ll eat you alive.”

* * *

“Your dreams,” Annabelle whimpered as her big sister Emily washed the wound.

“Yes, the men have come my sisters. As I have told you. My dreams never lie. We must not let them destroy us.” Emily stared into the faces of her younger sisters. Fear left its mark on them. “They must go from here. We must make them go like all the others. This is
our
home.”

Emily led the other girls to the dining area where they set the table for the two soldiers. James and Robert took their seats at the oak table covered in lacy cloth. “We’ve been working on a stew in the hearth,” Emily said as she stood at the head of the table, a space she had reserved for herself. She refused to sit the Union men there. “It should be ready shortly.”

“Thank you,” James said. Robert only grinned.

At dusk the three sisters served up steaming bowls of meat stew with root vegetables. Like gluttons, James and Robert devoured the stew as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. Rebecca and Annabelle simply poked at their food with forks, disinterested and eyeing the soldiers with suspicion.

Emily looked up from her bowl and said softly: “You cannot stay here.”

Robert looked up from his bowl; a glob of thick gravy covered his chin. “Why not?”

“A full moon rises again tonight. It is not safe in these parts under a full moon.”

“Is that so?” Robert chuckled. “I reckon we can handle a full moon. Our entire troop was butchered and we survived that.”

“Butchered?” Emily was both horrified and glad. “The way our friends and family have been?”

“We do not know anything about that,” Robert answered. “But come to think of it. How has your house remained unscathed during the war?”

“I know how to protect the home,” Emily sneered. “My grand pappy taught me how to deal with your kind.”

Robert roared a great belly laugh. “Did he now? My you are a spitfire. Your grand pappy never met the likes of us before.” Robert pounded his fist on the table and screamed. “Boo!”