Good Bones (23 page)

He felt Chris’s muscles tense. “Yeah. Okay. Be seein’ you.” Chris began to walk away, but Dylan caught his arm.

“Don’t. Fuck, this is hard. I haven’t done this before, okay? It’s always just been me, and when I’ve… been in a pissy mood… nobody else had to suffer. Let me have some time to myself. Please. I’ll be better by tomorrow, I promise.”

Chris gave him a long and skeptical look but didn’t try to disentangle himself. Dylan pulled him close and kissed the tender skin just under his ear. “Go home, Chris. I’ll hunt up dinner myself for a change. You can watch that stupid lawyer show tonight—the one I hate—and eat all the garlic beef jerky you want. Tomorrow… tomorrow I’ll make up for it. There’s this great steak place in the city, over on Burnside. I’ll see if I can get us a reservation.”

Chris pulled slightly away. “If you’re gonna kick me to the curb just tell me straight, man. Don’t wanna play any fuckin’ games.”

“God, Chris, I told you. I love you. I’ve never said that to anyone. I’m not kicking you anywhere. Just give me tonight. Please.”

With a slight shudder, Chris gave a single nod. He allowed his head to rest against Dylan’s for just a moment, and then he gently disengaged his arm. “I’m gonna go drink a bunch of that cheap beer you think you’re too good for.”

Dylan gave him a small smile. “Okay. I’ll switch you back to the good stuff tomorrow.”

He watched Chris walk away.

He intended to work on the plans that afternoon, but he simply couldn’t settle. He paced the house, absently cataloging future projects in his head. He seemed to find himself in the yellow bedroom often, looking through the window toward Chris’s property. The poplars had fully leafed out, so now he could catch only a slight, teasing glimpse of Chris’s back porch through the gap in the trees. Although out of his line of sight, he knew the stacks of bottles and cans were still there.

Fifteen minutes before sunset, he stripped off his clothing and left it folded neatly on the bed. Shivering slightly, he made his way downstairs and opened the back door a few inches. Since the wolf couldn’t manage the doorknob, he’d probably just bash the door down if it weren’t slightly ajar. “Should install a goddamn dog door,” he said aloud.

Then he waited, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet, preparing for the pain to begin. He’d spent all afternoon pretending he wasn’t thinking about Chris and how he might finally break the news to him. He could picture himself handing Chris a collar and asking, “How do you feel about pets? Do you have any dander allergies?” Yeah, that would go well. As for the continuing worry about the wolf harming Chris—well, he was going to have to deal with that later too. For tonight at least, he hoped Chris was safely indoors, garlic-breathed and slightly buzzed, watching unnaturally attractive attorneys spend more time fucking and scheming than practicing law.

When the pain hit, Dylan dropped to the floor. He had a moment to think that maybe next time he should transmogrify in a room that was carpeted, and then he couldn’t think of anything at all except the agony.

But oh, it was worth it. It always was.

Four-legged, he bounded joyfully out of the house and into the night. His survey of Chris’s house took only a few minutes. When he was satisfied that he’d marked his territory assertively enough, he ran back under the poplars, down the path, around the pond.

He found deer again tonight—the woods were full of them—but these were strong and healthy, and he regretfully decided they were too much for him. He felt a brief sadness that he didn’t have a companion to hunt with, but wolves don’t dwell long on what might be, so soon enough he was trotting with his nose to the ground, chasing another intriguing scent.

Like last time, he killed a rabbit—this one fat with late spring greenery—then a small rodent of some kind. It was too tiny to be more than a nibble to him, but it was fun to chase, and it crunched satisfyingly between his jaws. After that he was no longer hungry, and his urge to kill was gone, so he spent a long and happy time simply running through the forest, reading it the way a man might read the newspaper. It was a joy to leap and clamber so effortlessly, to put on short bursts of speed that made the tree trunks seem to fly by. He sniffed and dug and ran and pissed, and when he found something long dead and delightfully stinky he fell down on his back and rolled in it.

About two hours before sunrise he picked up speed again and circled back to his own farm. He was already within smelling distance of his pond when he heard the howl.

It wasn’t the yip of a coyote or the miserable wail of a dog left outside. This was a wolf, and it was calling a challenge. There was no question in Dylan’s mind at whom that challenge was aimed.

Black rage filled his heart, but so did fear. He ran faster, growling almost inaudibly as he went. His hackles were up, and his lips had curled back from his long teeth. He crashed through the ferns at the edge of the pond, startling the ducks out of their sleeping place with squawks of alarm, but he paid them no mind. He tore up the path, and the howl came again, nearer. Much nearer, in fact—the sound originated just beyond the poplars.

Dylan had read up on wolves—after the shock of what he’d become had abated slightly. He wasn’t sure if everything he’d learned about
Canis lupus
applied to him as well, but if wolves could reach a top speed of over thirty-five miles per hour, he was certain he was going at least that fast right now. His paws barely touched the ground as he surged to the top of the slope, raced across his mossy and debris-littered backyard, and zoomed through the line of trees.

As he burst out of the poplars, he saw that the back door to Chris’s house was wide open, spilling light onto the planks and cinderblocks and the colorful towers of glass and aluminum. At the same time, the smell hit him—a wolf. And the scent was familiar.

The howl came for a third time, its proximity almost hurting his sensitive ears. It was followed by a thud and a cry. A human cry. Also familiar.

Dylan cleared the back porch in one long leap and landed just inside the little house. A dark wolf—sooty black in contrast to Dylan’s tawny gray-brown—stood ten feet away. Its head was lowered threateningly, and its teeth were bared. Yellow eyes gleamed in the light from the cheap overhead fixture. Tail held stiffly straight, he answered Dylan’s growl. The two sounds rumbled against the crappy wood paneling and seemed to make the entire house vibrate. The dark wolf was slightly shorter than Dylan but more solidly built, and Dylan knew exactly how capable that animal was of tearing flesh as if it were paper. He’d once felt those sharp teeth himself.

“Oh fuck!” Chris was sprawled on the floor just behind Dylan’s alpha, trapped in a corner by the big wolf. Dylan couldn’t scent blood, so Chris was probably uninjured, but the acrid reek of fear was pouring from him. The odor filled the room and made Dylan feel slightly dizzy. The human smelled like prey, and Dylan wanted to kill.

Dylan took a stiff and cautious step forward, and then so did Andy. Chris took the opportunity to scramble to his feet, but Andy immediately spun and snapped at him, fangs missing Chris’s belly by mere inches. “Fuck!” Chris yelled again and backed up until he was pressed tightly against the wall. He put his hands out protectively, as if that would do any good, and his wide eyes darted desperately around the room. “Nice doggies,” he said hoarsely. “Nice fuckin’ goddamn wolves.” His voice broke a little on the last word.

Apparently satisfied with the human’s submission, Andy ignored him. Instead he raised his head and tail and, continuing a warning growl, locked eyes with Dylan. The message was clear: submit to your alpha.

And for a moment, Dylan was torn. The wolf belonged to Andy, but the man belonged to Chris. A wolf doesn’t question his loyalties, but what does he do when those loyalties conflict? He wanted his pack, and he wanted his lover. He was torn between a run through the trees and a passionate tumble in his bed. And even in his canine form he sensed he couldn’t have both. He wouldn’t do to Chris what Andy had done to Dylan, and in any case, he wouldn’t be willing to share Chris with Andy. But… Andy was his alpha, and Dylan knew his alpha would never turn him away for being a monster.

As Dylan vacillated, Andy relaxed just a bit. Chris tried to dart past him, probably heading for the kitchen and his phone, but Andy reacted, bashing the side of his squarish head heavily into Chris’s gut. Chris
oofed
and fell, and Andy was instantly on top of him, paws on his shoulders, teeth inches from Chris’s vulnerable throat. But he didn’t bite—not yet. Instead, he turned his head to look at Dylan. With a feral grin, he invited his beta to join in the kill.

And at that instant, Dylan’s uncertainty was gone.

He didn’t even bother to growl. He simply leaped, and his momentum bore Andy off Chris and onto the carpet. But Andy managed to keep his feet and suffered only a small graze from Dylan’s teeth. He was immediately on the attack, going straight for Dylan’s throat.

Dylan screamed when the fangs cut into his skin, but his cry was more from anger than pain. Whatever human thoughts had been bouncing around in his skull evaporated. For the moment he was strictly animal, and he
knew
this dance in a way no man had known it for thousands of years. Conquer or be defeated, master or be mastered, kill or die.

Oh, he wanted to kill.

Snarls and roars reverberated throughout the small room as the wolves’ powerful bodies crashed into one another. The coffee table splintered, and the sofa overturned. Something glass shattered and was followed by the thud of falling books. Dylan quickly lost track of what Chris was doing. He focused only on what was important—protecting himself while trying to rip out the other wolf’s throat.

Teeth and claws tore into Dylan’s flanks. Andy had a weight advantage. He managed to knock Dylan onto his side, then shredded a great bloody gouge from his belly. But Dylan was on his feet again before Andy could deliver a lethal blow. Dylan was favoring one hind leg, but he continued to move quickly, and he was still a few inches taller than Andy. He sank his teeth into the base of Andy’s neck. It wasn’t a killing bite—too much skin and fur to get at the spine—but it rendered Andy unable to swing around and bite back.

Dylan bit harder. The blood flooding his mouth tasted wonderful—hot and fresh and thrumming with life—and the sensation of fangs sinking to their roots was lovely. Hunting was good, but this was better, an adversary fighting back. Never before had Dylan had the opportunity to use his power to the full, to strain every fiber of muscle and tendon and bone into what he was doing.

Andy’s front legs collapsed, and Dylan fell on top of him. But when Dylan opened his jaws to reposition them closer to an artery or an airway, Andy bucked and swiped with one huge paw. Thick claws tore across the right side of Dylan’s face. He was immediately blinded on that side, whether from blood or actual damage to the eye he couldn’t tell, and it felt like the flesh was hanging from his muzzle in flaps.

Andy took advantage of Dylan’s pain, pushing his way upright and lunging at Dylan’s neck.

Teeth crashed against teeth, skin was flayed. Droplets of blood flew through the air and splattered against Dylan’s ears and back. Andy’s jaws began to close at Dylan’s throat, and he felt the despair of approaching death.

Chris
, he thought, a spark of humanity reviving.
Save Chris.

He twisted and heaved and didn’t care when more of his body was slashed as he managed to knock Andy’s grip free. Before Andy could recover, Dylan was on him. His mouth closed over the black wolf’s throat, and Dylan bit and ground with all his might.

Andy made a frantic howling noise, but it ended with a shriek and then a choking gargle. More blood filled Dylan’s mouth. His muzzle was bathed in it, his left eye as blinded as his right. He could smell nothing else, taste nothing else, and he felt the very moment that Andy’s heart faltered and then stopped.

Only when the black wolf lay motionless beneath him did Dylan unlock his aching jaws. He was positioned atop Andy during the death throes, and now he struggled to regain his footing. As he did, the furry body beneath him wavered and shifted, becoming the battered corpse of a naked man. Dylan blinked and swung his head around, searching.

Chris was there, still near the kitchen doorway. His mouth and eyes were wide with shock, but he’d managed to grab a leg from the broken coffee table. He held it firmly in two hands, as if it were a baseball bat, and stared at Dylan. “What the
fuck
?” he whispered.

Dylan discovered that he had a sense of humor, even as a wolf. Or maybe sunrise was very near. In any case, there was something funny about the way Chris stood there, holding his ground against wolves with only a piece of furniture as a weapon. Dylan huffed out an amused bark, took a wobbling step toward the back door, and collapsed into darkness.

Chapter 20

T
HE
light fixture overhead was a cheap plastic one, square and slightly yellowed with age. One of the three bulbs was burned out, but he could still see the silhouettes of insect corpses. A dusty cobweb led from one corner of the fixture to the textured ceiling. It all looked vaguely familiar, but his head was too muzzy to figure out why.