Werewolf Moon (The Pack Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

Slowly the events of the previous night came back to her. She had attempted to end her life! But something had knocked her from her path and her feet to rescue her. She was sure that something was a wolf; with golden eyes deeper and more inviting than even those of her Raoul. She remembered the wolf biting into her forearm, but what struck her most what that before the wolf bit her it spoke to her, with a voice from within her head that was not her own.

“Nothing made sense,” she thought. Her eyes searched the room for a chamber pot. She left the safety of the bed and rose to her feet to retrieve it and relieved herself.

Breakfast arrived shortly thereafter; delivered by a young girl who smiled widely but said nothing. She took several covered plates off a tray, one by one and set them on a table beneath the window. These acts of gracious hospitality made Petra feel a little less anxious in these unknown surroundings—

An unmistakable metallic aroma rose up from beneath the cloche, but she could not pair the scent with a meal she was familiar with. For a moment she squinched her eyes tightly shut, afraid of what she’d see. She opened them at the same time as she lifted the cover from the first plate; she was a lot of things, but coward wasn’t one of them.

“Goodness! Was that a… it couldn’t be,” she thought as she caught a glimpse of her breakfast.

It was a large meat steak: bloody and raw. Her eyes darted around immediately in search of a knife and fork. This seeming reflex shocked her more than the sum of all the events she had recently experienced. Her body was reacting with a base craving to the sight and smell of the fresh bloody steak. Her stomach felt as though it had climbed up into her throat and was threatening to leap out of her mouth to grab the meat, and return.

As if in a dream she watched herself reach out and pick up the bloody steak, without utensils, and delivered it to the body that—She didn’t have the chance to finish that thought as abruptly the plate was empty but for a small pool of fresh blood.

She gagged, but then realized how wonderful she felt, as if she’d slept for a solid week, eaten a large meal and was now in a state of rest.

“Yes, there was nothing comparable to feeling like this,” Petra thought. Like nothing would ever feel so wonderful again.

There she was wrong, she’d learn that when the moon rose that very night. But that wouldn’t happen for hours: first she must meet her hosts, a pair of women who’d lived together for many years, they told Petra as she emerged from her room.

Charissa was the eldest, and the one who had been shocked to find a woman leaping from the cliff but at one hundred yards from their cottage, was her mate Erigny who spoke with a laugh.

According to the tiny blonde Erigny, Petra was no longer fully woman. Once a month she’d turn into a wolf and stay in that form for several days. She wasn’t limited to change at the rising of the full moon, Erigny assured her; at any other time she could change at will. She was also informed that as a Werewolf, there was no longer a time limit on Petra’s life. Unless she allowed herself to be killed, she could live as long as she desired.

It didn’t sound bad to Petra, who didn’t quite believe the tale. Eternal life? Enough funds gathered throughout the years so that the women could live as they liked or not? Highly unlikely, but worth a shot. Petra had never backed away from anything in her life and she wasn’t about to start now. As such when the two ladies asked her to disrobe, she obediently obliged, stripping naked and following them to join the rest of the wolf pack who went outside to meet the moon as she rose. Having no idea what to expect, Petra sat on her rump and watched as the others lay prone and curled onto their sides.

Then the moon came into view at the edge of the horizon, and Petra felt a strange pull, a yearning for something she didn’t comprehend. Suddenly she fell onto her side with a heavy thump. A chorus of short barks nearby sounded suspiciously like laughter. She attempted to sit back up again, but again rolled sideways as her long tail was directly beneath her.

“Wait just a moment. Her what was where?”

Petra froze where she was and took stock as she stretched.

“Four legs: check.

“Extremely sensitive ears: check.

“A long nose which picked up every scent for miles? Check.

“The knowledge that life had permanently changed; was now eternal and could be enjoyed with a freedom that no woman of this time has ever had? Check.”

It took her several tries, but Petra succeeded in standing on all four feet without pitching forward or sideways. Once she was up, she began to walk until another wolf shot past her like a star in the night. Her heart leaped. That certainly looked like fun! With one enormous bound, she landed next to the other wolf and then promptly broke into a smooth run herself. Tantalizing scents arose and faded as the three wolves shot through dense forest, swerving around trees and leaping logs with abandon. Once Petra skidded to a stop in a clearing, drawn by the enormous round moon just above the trees. She threw her head back and howled instinctively at length.

Almost at once there was a response: the hair on Petra’s back rose with bliss. She wasn’t alone, and never would be again. She howled for a final time that night and set off running once again, wild and free.

Born in Wallachia, one of the principalities that would become Romania, Michael Raya Pătraşcu lived with his mother and father and two other entire families in a tiny three-room house deep in the forest. His father made a meager wage collecting nuts and selling them: by eighteen, Michael was determined to leave the forest and make something of himself. He’d heard talk about Castle Bathory, some eighty kilometers from his home. Apparently a beautiful young Countess was married to the Count of Bathory who was more than twice her age. She had a reputation for enjoying the company of young warriors. Just what Michael aspired to be, coincidently.

Perhaps the Count would train Michael to be in his personal army. He was big enough; a rare six feet and four inches tall and his dad had trained him in arms as best he could with his limited knowledge and experience. Yes, Castle Bathory held the key to Michael’s future. On his eighteenth birthday, Michael kissed his mom and set off on the long trek.

Having lived in the woods all of his short life, Michael was unprepared for some the sights en route to the castle. He passed through several villages where he saw people so unbelievably poor that they resembled walking skeletons. How could such things be, when on the other side of the same street men in uniforms carried women in outrageously rich clothing along at a trot? And if the small group ever passed the paupers, mostly there was no reaction whatsoever from the wealthy parties. Occasionally someone would throw part of what they were eating at one of the skeletons, but that was the only interaction Michael noticed.

Even the dogs looked more healthy than those poor souls.

As Michael hastily left a village behind for the open road, he was forming opinions that would be with him all of his life—a life that would prove to be a lot longer than he or his family could ever have imagined.

Finally Michael arrived at Castle Bathory, but felt too filthy to present himself. He needed a bath at the very least. Having passed a stream, he turned around and went back.

Somewhat cleaner but still in the same worn clothing he’d had for years, Michael passed through the castle gate and was immediately challenged.

“Name!”

“Occupation!”

“Reason for visiting Bathory!”

Evidently his answers weren’t pleasing, as the gate-keeper held his palm out in the universal ‘stop’ movement: “Denied! Next.”

Michael dropped his head and moved back to watch how others got through. It was easy enough, he learned: offer enough money and you were in.

People dressed worse than he was offered coins and were passed through, to Michael’s distress. How was he ever supposed to make his own way if he couldn’t get his foot in the door?

In despair, he shook his head and dropped it into his large hands.

“You, there. What’s your name?” A female voice spoke.

Michael pulled his head upright and there she was: the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Ever even imagined. She had long, pale hair freshly brushed. A long dress with familiar symbols painted down one side. At one time he’d had to memorize those symbols but it had been years ago. He doubted if he could—

“Read me the first three of these, Michael,” the woman demanded in her light, wealthy sounding voice.

Michael gulped in absolute panic. Obediently he stared at the top of the line of symbols, and the first one suddenly made sense: it looked like a pair of ears glued together. Hearing. That’s what it meant. The second one, though—try as he might, all Michael saw there were, well, nothing he’d tell a lady about. Not that he was right! He had no recollection of Dad ever teaching him about a symbol that meant THAT. The third one was once again obvious. A fist held in the air: off to war.

Great. He had one and three but the second one eluded him. Before he could lose his courage, he blurted that out to the woman. To his surprise, she demanded to know what he thought that second symbol meant.

“Nothing I’d ever tell a, uh, lady,” the young man stammered.

The blonde woman slowly grinned. “Whoever said I was a lady? Go on, give it a guess.”

Michael felt an incredible heat rising in his cheeks as he stared at that second symbol in sheer desperation.

“Not a penis,” he mumbled as he tried to focus harder. “Not a damn penis. NOT a pen—”

“That’s precisely what it is,” the light voice broke into his thoughts. “It’s the symbol for starting a family.”

“Makes sense,” Michael mumbled. “Should have guessed that.”

“You’re not the best reader, but maybe you’re strong and fast? Make a good warrior?” the woman said with a smile.

Michael brightened. “Yes Doamnă. That’s just why I came. I can hit anything at 200 stânjen with a bow and arrow, and at half that with a spear. Oh and I can climb a tree faster than anybody I know.”

It was the woman’s turn to choke back a laugh.

“Know what? I believe I’d like a demo of that last talent.” She looked around and pointed at a wide white oak tree. “Can you climb that one?”

Michael’s eyes followed her gaze. White oaks had luxurious, thick leaves covering branches that looked deceptively wide and strong. From past experience, Michael knew that many branches started out thick, then swiftly narrowed to a width that wouldn’t support a fat raccoon. Yet, this was a challenge.

“Yes, doamnă!”

“Right, then. One, two, three. GO!”

Michael took off at a dead run. As he reached the oak, his superior height allowed him to make a massive leap upward where he just caught a branch no other man could have reached without climbing to it. From that branch, he climbed rapidly upward and reached the top in seconds to open delight and clapping from the woman below. Instantly he headed back down, aware that the faster he went, the less pressure he’d apply to these thin branches.

“You’ll do, Michael. You’ll do!”

And that is how Michael found himself being regularly beaten black and blue by a squadron of lads a year ahead of him in training. However, that meant nothing to Michael considering what else he was learning: the finer points of that second symbol, to his own disbelief.

The lady turned out to be the Countess Bathory herself! After Michael had trained for two weeks, she met him as he walked to a nearby lake for a bath.

“Bet that water is cold this time of year,” she remarked.

“Yes, doamnă Bathory,” he responded nervously.

“Don’t call me that! My name is Liz,” she told him. “Come on. I know where there’s a much warmer place to bathe.”

She’d led him to a remote castle entry point, then down so many halls that he’d been instantly lost. He was so busy studying his surroundings that it didn’t matter.

The statues alone were so different from anything he’d imagined in such a castle. Naked people, mostly. Why have statues of something you see all the time? Rich people were a mystery, he concluded.

He came to a room with an enormous tub of water being heated by a series of small fires, each tended by a child. His mouth dropped. Who in the world was rich enough to live like this! All of that work: the wood brought in, fires started, water hauled—just so rich people could scrub their arses. He learned quickly enough that there were other uses for heated water. Elizabet asked him to step up on the platform and look into the tub as there was, “Something interesting he should see.”

Dutifully he’d climbed the ladder and arrived next to her. Looking down into the mist coming off the heated water, he said, “I can’t see a thing.”

Next thing he knew, she gave him a massive shove and he landed butt first into truly hot water. She roared with laughter.

“See well enough now?” she asked as she’d dropped her robe and stepped in after him, stark naked.

For the first time in his life, Michael was truly speechless—a state he was to become familiar with during his time in Bathory Castle.

They romped for hours. He learned what a mouth on his cock felt like (sheer heaven,) and what a twat tasted like (not bad, but nothing like heaven.) He enjoyed his first lengthy kiss and thought he’d die from the pleasure of it, and finally she allowed him to penetrate her.