Breeds 2 (2 page)

And yet…

He rubbed his shoulder, knowing there should be a slit wide enough to slip three fingers into, and felt the sealed edges of the scar. Nor did he have the burning, arthritic ache that came with a silver-induced wound. Those items weren’t the only surprises of note. When Borland had blasted him with a shotgun and left him for dead in a snowbank, Morris forced the transformation from man to wolf. It took about three minutes, if one allowed the magic to naturally flow, to shift internal organs about, to enlarge musculature and reform bone. To push the change—to speedball through it—risked considerable damage, both internal and out. Damage that might not be corrected upon successive transformations.

Three minutes to safely morph.

In the fight with Borland, Morris had morphed in perhaps two minutes. Maybe even a few seconds less. And though his lungs and heart had made it through that rush job, he suspected his digestive tract, kidneys and liver might’ve been moved around and compressed into interesting places and shapes. And he’d been pretty sure his pecker and balls had been reassigned somewhere behind his asshole.

A guy never really appreciated how things hung until they’d been jammed into one’s spleen.

In the aftermath of the Borland struggle, however, perhaps a day or two after that little war, Morris realized he felt fine. Matter of fact, he’d felt great. His hand even regrew faster than he had originally expected, but, having never lost a hand before, he wasn’t sure exactly how quick it was supposed to sprout. He did know—with a chilling realization that tingled his spine—he owed his speedy recovery to his diet. What he’d eaten in Newfoundland. He’d talked it over with Kirk, who was up and limping around on a pair of shattered legs in two days. Walking tall on the third. Halifax, as Morris often referred to the only other Nova Scotian warden, had never sustained such crippling injuries before, and asking the elders for guidance on the wounds seemed unwise after a decidedly frigid Q&A on the telephone.

The elders. Morris sighed and took another mouthful of coffee.

They had wanted his report of what had gone down in Amherst Cove almost immediately after speaking with Kirk. Like a good little doggie, when they’d asked him how he’d healed so quickly, he’d given them an honest answer. A pause later, the elders had hung up on him.

Morris hadn’t heard from them since.

The Pictou warden wasn’t one to worry about much, but he was worried about the elders. Their silence bothered him. Bothered Kirk as well, but Morris hadn’t talked to the man since leaving Newfoundland this past May, nearly five months ago, after helping Ross Kelly transition to the ranks of
weres
. As a warden, no less. Not that the promotion disturbed Morris. He didn’t care who filled the vacant position as long as it wasn’t him. He wasn’t one for island life.

Then there was the other thing…

Where Morris broke down and fed upon the flesh of another
were
, and willingly became a cannibal.

A year later and he still remembered the taste of the
were
breed. God as his witness, he remembered. And the disturbing thing was… he missed it. Even craved it.

Kirk had kinda sorta done the same, feasting upon Borland’s breeds, doing so because his life depended on it. Morris had replayed the events of that hellish day and night in his head until his eyes crossed. He came to the same conclusion every time. He and Kirk had done what was necessary to survive Amherst Cove. And survive they had.

So why did he feel like he was fucking quarantined, for lack of a better word?

And though he and Kirk had talked at length about their surprising rate of recovery, Morris wondered if the warden remembered the taste of
were
flesh like he did.

That notion made him shiver.

The orange and yellow leaves covering the lawn rippled in a haunting breeze. Soft rustles of movement became whispers of paranoia. Morris didn’t like that. He finished his coffee in three quick gulps and put his mind to other things. Better things. The world would sort it all out eventually.

The telephone buzzed inside the house.

Not many had his phone number. Matter of fact, he could count them on one hand.

Morris considered not answering it, but that wouldn’t do. It might be the elders. If it was the elders, maybe he could ask if he should be worried about last winter’s forbidden dining experience.

He stood and went back into the house. Found the flip phone vibrating on the kitchen countertop.

Not the elders.

“Yeah?” Morris answered, scanning the ceiling.

“Morris?”

“Yeah.”

“This is Bailey.”

Morris didn’t know a Bailey. “And?”

“I’m from Alberta. Heading your way. Looking to do a little outdoor hiking.”

Outdoor hiking.
He meant a hunt.

“That so.”

“Yeah, how about some directions?”

“You’re a long way from Alberta.”

“Never been to your neck of the woods, either,” Bailey explained, his voice grainy over the connection. “Anyway, I’m on the 104 driving east. How do I find you?”

Morris supplied directions.

“I’m on my bike so I’ll be there in an hour.” Bailey hung up.

The Pictou warden lowered his phone and stared out into the wooded backyard. His first hunt of the year. Deer and moose were still ongoing.

He hoped Bailey wasn’t a freak.

By late afternoon, just as the sky paled around the edges and turned into gold, Morris heard the sputtering of a motorcycle. The machine could be heard a kilometer away, giving the warden plenty of time to become good and pissed off as the racket utterly ruined the countryside’s spell of tranquility.

The road leading to Morris’s cabin home was old and grown over. A grassy rise divided two sunken ruts salted with rocks, squeezed from the earth by a long, cold winter. For the intrepid snoopers who couldn’t take a hint, Morris had dug potholes in the road, some of them deep enough to give some serious whiplash if drivers decided to proceed. Unless the visitor was a motocross specialist, the first hellish drop was enough to make most turn back.

But not Bailey.

The headlight jumped and jigged as it came into sight at the far end of the forest road. Morris, decked out in a new leather duster and a black special-op sweater, stood at the mouth of the old track and watched. He stared down the length of his nose, projecting a very willing disposition to stomp on any stupid bastard dumb enough to try fucking with him.
Were
or cattle.

Didn’t make any difference to Moses Morris.

Dying sunlight fluted the figure as it sped along the road, growing in size and volume. The bike was a Japanese crotch rocket meant for the highways, not that it bothered the rider. Bailey wore unimaginative black leather and matching jeans. The bike revved repeatedly, needlessly even, as if the man were stricken with palsy. Even better, Bailey let loose a yodel of a shriek. A high-pitched goose of a war cry that didn’t impress the warden in the least. The motorcycle was bad enough.

Morris didn’t like Bailey a klick out.

He absolutely hated the man’s guts by the time he pulled up in front of the Pictou warden and killed the engine.

“Hey chief,” Bailey said and popped the helmet from his head, revealing an interesting haircut. The sides had been buzzed down to a five o’clock shade, while the top remained untouched and grown quite thick, resembling an artist’s paintbrush dipped in tar. The man from Alberta groomed himself as if in a spotlight.

The egregious display caused one corner of Morris’s mouth to twitch.

“That’s some road you got there,” Bailey exclaimed, baring a perfect set of teeth. “My shit’s gonna just squirt after all that. Jesus! That was like buzzing over the fuckin’ surface of the moon! Twice I damn near flipped over the front.
Eeeyow
! How ya doin’?”

Morris didn’t answer. Didn’t like the
were’s
enthusiastic smile. It was too buddy-buddy.

“Uh…” Bailey hesitated, the headlights of his eyes dimming. “You’re Morris, right?”

“Mm-hm.”

“So why are you making eyes at me?”

“You’re not a warden, are you?” Morris asked, knowing Bailey wasn’t, but he’d make sure all the same.

“And if I wasn’t?” Bailey asked, smooth features hitching into a smirk.

“Answer the fucking question, cocksucker.”

Bailey’s smile dissolved. “What did you say to me?”

“Cock,” Morris stepped forward, invading the man’s personal space and projecting war. “Sucker.”

For a brief second, Morris thought—no, he
knew
—Bailey was going to try something. He didn’t know what exactly, but something, and something bad. Because Bailey was crazy. Bailey was a homicidal wingnut a long way from home, and looking to have some destructive fun. Why else would he travel all the way out east on a pickle and ball buster? Morris knew all of that in the fleeting seconds of standing in the man’s company and waited for the worst,
expected
the worst.

However, giving the airbrushed metrosexual fuckwad his due, Bailey didn’t do anything.

Which showed intelligence.

“No,” Bailey answered with a soft leer. “I’m not a warden.”

“I am,” Morris reported. “And I like quiet. So when you leave my territory, you walk that goddamn bicycle of yours to the highway.”

“Or what?”

Morris tilted his head and stared serrated daggers. “Don’t question me, dogshit. You just fucking do. Understood?”

Bailey took his time in answering, but he backed down. “Yeah.”

“When I’m in your rodeo neck of the woods, whoopin’ my ass off like a glue-sniffing savage and disturbing the peace on a plastic piece of shit, then,
maybe
, if you’re wearing metal that is, maybe our roles might be reversed. But since I sure as fuck don’t plan on heading out west…”

That time, Bailey wisely kept his mouth shut.

“You still want to hunt?” Morris asked gruffly.

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t get enough this Harvest Moon?”

“Nope,” Bailey said, unwilling to engage in any conversation.

“That’s funny. Guy like you probably left dead things behind him every klick of the way out here.”

Bailey shook his head, clearly not impressed.

“Here are the rules,” Morris said. “You stay within a twenty-klick radius of my cabin. You hunt deer. No bear. No goddamn people. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t remind folks of that last one, but you look batshit crazy to me. Crazy enough to try and slip one by. You try that and there’ll be fuckin’ consequences, understand?”

“Yeah.”

That was good, but as God was Morris’s witness, he didn’t like the vibe exuding from this man.

“You can control yourself?” Morris asked.

Bailey flipped the warden a dry
please
look.

Morris didn’t give a shit. “Whatever you take down, you leave. No trophies. Eat your fill, leave the rest, and get back to the cabin. One kill and that’s it. Nothing else. So make it count. Don’t need you clearing out the countryside in one night. And I don’t think I need to remind you to stay the sweet fuck away from other cabins. Hear me? You leave the natives be. Make your kill, get back here, and ride out in the morning like your ball sack got hooked to a meteor. But you do so quietly, until you’re well and away out of my territory, and you can safely mouth off to your redneck buddies out in Cowtown about how you pissed on an east coast warden. Got all that?”

“Yeah.”

“Then say it, fucker.”

“I got all that.”

Morris turned away and strolled to his cabin, showing the
were
his back.

“Where you going?” Bailey called after him.

“Get some supper. Got a feeling it’ll be a long night.”

The notion of being hospitable was lost on Morris. He didn’t offer anything to the Albertan. Didn’t want to and didn’t have to. His job in this situation was just to be an observer, to allow the
were
to hunt an animal, and generally see to it that things didn’t get crazy.

He wasn’t running a bed and breakfast.

It had become too quiet outside, and the fact that Bailey was out there wasn’t lost upon Morris. He went to the fridge, retrieved a slab of hamburger meat, and dumped it into a metal bowl which he filled with water. Standing over the sink, he turned around and thought more about Bailey. Thought about the past Harvest Moon. Wondered about other things, things that had happened in the frozen hellscape of Newfoundland, just when a blizzard attempted to power-sand a little village off the face of the world.

Borland returned to Morris’s memory. That ancient war dog who’d fought as dirty as anyone the warden had ever come across. Used a shotgun on him, a weapon which was frowned upon by
weres
. Morris had to hand it to the old bastard though, because if the elders were coming after him, he’d probably do the same.

The urge to have a drink took him, so he went to the fridge for a beer.

Wait, y’fuckin’… peckerheads. Them I’se killed?

Borland’s voice hooked a tender spot in the dark fabric of Morris’s mind, causing every one of his bodily sphincters to clench. The warden’s eyes narrowed. He forgot the cold can in his hand as the fridge door gently tapped his side. A sub-zero swell of suspicion erupted from his core and raced along his nerve endings, leaving frost embers of disbelief.

The first one. Weren’t no warden.

Borland. To say Borland was crazy was an understatement. If the word could be applied with ink stamp, then the old codger had CRAZY stamped to his forehead with a rubber mallet.

Morris remembered Borland’s final warning, just before the wardens killed him.

The first one. Weren’t
no
warden.

That turned Morris around.

Right there, standing before the wall of picture windows, was Bailey, smiling as if he had a great big fat secret he was dying to tell. Morris stared back, his blood suddenly thumping in his temples. It took effort but he kept his features neutral. The chill of the beer reminded him he still held the can, so he opened it. The sound broke the spell.

Bailey’s brow arched, indicating that a friendly beer wasn’t a bad idea at all. His eyebrows almost disappeared under that low-hanging bang of hair that looked more and more like buffalo shit on his head.