The Wolf Gift (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 1)

Then Reuben was back at work, writing up a review of the old Chowchilla kidnap case, including updates on the kidnappers who were still to this day behind bars. They,d been young men his age at the time of the kidnapping. He wondered what had really become of them during their long years of incarceration. But that wasn,t the focus of his piece. He was optimistic. All of the kids and teachers had survived.

This was the busiest he,d been in one day since the massacre in Mendocino. He took a long shower, and went to bed.

An extraordinary restlessness came over him. He got up, paced, went back to bed. He was lonely, hideously lonely. He hadn,t really been with Celeste since before the massacre. He didn,t want to be with Celeste now. He kept thinking that if he was with Celeste, he,d hurt her, bruise her somehow, run roughshod over her feelings. Wasn,t he doing that these days without their putting it to the bedroom test?

He turned over, clutched his pillow and imagined he was alone at Nideck Point, in Felix,s old bed, and that Marchent was with him. Just a useful incoherent fantasy to get to sleep. When sleep did come he went down deep into the dreamless darkness.

When next he opened his eyes, the clock said midnight. The television was the only light in the room. Beyond the open windows, the city burned bright in spectral towers on the crowded hills. The bay was the absence of light: pools of blackness.

Could he really see all the way to the hills of Marin? It seemed so. It seemed he saw their outline way beyond the Golden Gate. But how was that possible?

He looked around. He could see all the details of the room with remarkable clarity, the old plaster crown moldings, even the fine cracks in the ceiling. He could see the grain in the wood of his dresser. He had the oddest feeling of being at home in the artificial twilight.

There were voices in the night. They sizzled just below the level of meaning. He knew he could pick out any one and amplify it, but why could he do that?

He got up and went out on the deck, and put his hands on the wooden railing. The salty wind iced him all over, quickening him and refreshing him. How invulnerable he felt to the cold, how energized by it.

There was a limitless reservoir of heat inside of him, and now it broke out on the surface of his skin as if every hair follicle on his body was expanding. He,d never felt such exquisite throbbing pleasure, such raw, divine pleasure.

"Yes!" he whispered. He understood! But what, what did he understand? The realization escaped him suddenly, yet it didn,t matter. What mattered was the wave after wave of ecstasy passing through him.

Every particle of his body was defined in these waves, the skin covering his face, his head, his hands, the muscles of his arms and legs. With every particle of himself he was breathing, breathing as he,d never breathed in his life, his whole being expanding, hardening, growing stronger and stronger by the second.

His fingernails and toenails tingled. He felt the skin of his face, and realized that it was covered in soft silky hair, indeed soft thick hair was growing out of every pore, covering his nose, his cheeks, his upper lip! His fingers, or were they claws, touched his teeth and they were fangs! He could feel them descending, feel his mouth lengthening!

"Oh, but you knew, didn,t you? Didn,t you know this was inside of you, bursting to come out? You knew!"

His voice was guttural, roughened. He began to laugh with delight, low and confidential and utterly yielding to the laughter.

His hands were thickly covered with hair! And the claws, look at the claws.

He tore off his shirt and shorts, shredding them effortlessly and letting them drop to the boards of the deck.

The hair was pouring out of his scalp, it was rolling down to his shoulders. His chest was now completely covered and the muscles in his thighs and calves sang with ever-increasing strength.

Surely this had to peak, this orgasmic frenzy, but it didn,t peak. It went on and on. He felt his throat open with a cry, a howl, but he didn,t give in to it. Staring up at the night sky, he saw the layers and layers of white clouds beyond the mist; he saw the stars beyond the reach of human eyes, drifting into eternity.

"Oh, God, good God!" he whispered.

On all sides the buildings were alive with pulsing lights, tiny busy windows, voices throbbing inside, as the city breathed and sang around him.

You should ask, shouldn,t you, why this is happening? You should stop, shouldn,t you? You should question. "Nooo!" he whispered. It was like reaching for Marchent in the dark; it was peeling back her soft brown wool dress and finding her naked br**sts beneath him.

But what is happening to me! What is this that I am?

An imperative as strong as hunger told him he knew, he knew and he welcomed it. He,d known it was coming; he,d known it in his dreams and in his waking ruminations. This strength had to find its way out of him, or it would have torn him limb from limb.

Every muscle in his body wanted to leap, to run, to spring loose of this confining spot.

He turned around and, flexing his powerful thighs, sprang up to the ledge beneath his parents, window, easily springing from that to the roof of the house.

He laughed it was so easy, so natural. His bare feet hugged the asphalt. And bounding across the roof he went, leaping forward as an animal might leap and then walking a few steps and leaping again.

Before he,d even meant to do it, he had cleared the entire width of the street and landed on the roof of the house opposite. There hadn,t been a chance of his falling.

He stopped thinking. He gave in to it and raced across the rooftops. Never had he known such power, such freedom.

The voices were louder now, the chorus rising and falling, and rolling as he turned around and round, and he was searching those voices for one dominant note, what was it? What did he want to hear, to know? Who was calling him?

From one house to another he sped, going lower and lower as he made his way down towards the traffic and noise of North Beach, flying so fast now that he scarce touched down on the smaller slopes, his clawed hands flying out to grasp whatever he needed to hoist his easy weight and send him flying over the next street or alleyway.

Alleyway! He stopped. He heard the sound. A woman screaming, a woman terrified, a woman who had become her scream in fear of her life.

He was down on the ground before he even willed it, landing soft and soundless on the greasy pavement, the walls rising up on either side, the light from the sidewalk showing in horrifying relief the figure of a man tearing off the woman,s clothes, his right hand clutching her by the throat, strangling her as she kicked at him helplessly.

Her eyes rolled in her head. She was dying.

A great effortless roar came out of Reuben. Growling, snarling, he bore down on the man, ripping him loose from the woman, Reuben,s teeth sinking into the man,s throat, the hot blood spurting in Reuben,s face, as the man screeched in pain. A hideous scent rose from the man, if indeed it was a scent. It was as if the man,s intent was a scent, and it maddened Reuben. Reuben tore at the man,s flesh, growls coming out of his mouth as his teeth tore at the man,s shoulder. It felt so good to sink his teeth deep into the muscle and feel it split. That scent overpowered him, drove him on. Scent of evil.