Bad Wolves

By SCE Swayne

Freezing rain slicked the sidewalk and dripped from the remaining bulbs around the dark marquee. I sighed, my breath frosting in the air. Really, an abandoned movie theater? Some people have no sense of subtlety.

I ducked through the broken door, boots crunching on shattered glass, and followed the scents of fear and wet dog into the auditorium.

A lone spotlight shone on the stage. The circle of light illuminated the blonde wood of the stage, the deep red of the moldy curtains, and two figures. One, bound and gagged on her knees, reeked of fear. It took me a moment to recognize Tessa, my favorite waitress from the local diner, her hair a tangled mess hiding half her face, pale skin showing through rips in the bright red fabric of her uniform.

Beside her stood her kidnapper. He wore track pants and nothing else, his feet muddy and torso lean to the point of emaciation. His hair was overly long, the curls dripping on his shoulders. That would be the source of the wet dog smell. He didn’t appear armed, but appearances didn’t matter for much.

I strolled to the front row. “Now, what’s a big bad wolf like you want with a nice girl like that?” I forced myself not to flinch when I got close enough to see his eyes. They were yellow, the sclera eaten up by the gold iris. Wolf’s eyes. Even in wolf form, a werewolf still has human eyes. They are, after all, the windows to the soul.

He grinned, well, wolfishly. “Call her leverage. I’ve heard enough stories about you to know that I couldn’t let you control our first meeting. This way, you have to come to me when and where I choose it. How did you get onto me, anyway?”

“I met the kid you turned last spring. Once I figured out he had been turned intentionally, it only took me about fifteen minutes on social media to find zoomers talking about the local cryptid.” I took off my leather jacket and threw it into the seats. The knife on my belt was exposed, but he didn’t seem to care. “A wildman with yellow eyes. You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“Maybe I wasn’t trying to be subtle.” He dropped into a crouch, running one claw-like fingernail along Tessa’s jaw. “Maybe I wanted the humans to remember why their ancestors feared us. That ancient gods can walk in human guise.”

I snorted. “You think you’re a god? Of what, body odor?”

“Power!” His shout echoed back from the dark theater. “And you would do well to respect that, once-human.”

“Sorry. I’m not impressed by a deity in track pants.”

And just like that, he became a wolf.

Jaws wide, he leapt off the stage. I planted my feet and shoved my fist down his throat.

Bad plan.

His teeth tore into my forearm, tearing open the skin and exposing the meat. Fangs scraped against my bone. He kicked his back legs up, claws leaving gashes down my chest.

New plan.

I punched him in the eye. His bite loosened just enough for me to move my arm. I grabbed his tongue and yanked as hard as I could. He yelped. His shock and pain gave me the opening I needed.

I dove away, rolling into a crouch. Sorry, Tessa. I’ll tip extra to help pay for the therapy.

I transformed, shredding my clothes. My flesh knit back together as fur fell over it like a cloak. It only took a moment to go from vulnerable pink primate to lean, mean, fighting machine. But that moment was still too long. He hit my side hard, sending me sprawling, all four paws going in different directions.

He latched onto my shoulder, gnawing at it while I pushed to my feet. As wolves, he was wiry and wild, but I was bigger. I threw my weight to the side, slamming him into the floor. His teeth slipped from my shoulder. Keeping him pinned, I clamped his front leg between my teeth and rolled off his back. A bone snapped, and he howled.

We circled each other, watching. We were both wary and wounded now. He limped, broken paw dangling at an odd angle. I could feel the ghost of his teeth with each roll of my shoulders, but I didn’t let it show. If he saw weakness, he would go for it.

He kept his broken leg away from me, thinking I would go for his weak side. I kept walking, watching behind him.

Closer…

Closer…

There. I launched at him, and he couldn’t turn quite fast enough. I hit his side like I was playing Australian-rules rugby, and we went tumbling. I pinned him again, and played the last trick he would expect. I transformed. Reaching past him, I grabbed my hunting knife out of the tattered halo of my abandoned clothing. Raising it high, I rammed it into his neck and carved.

I watched until the twitching stopped.

I climbed onto the stage. My eyes were still dilated from the transformation, and the light was dazzling. I cut Tessa’s bonds, my knife still bloody. She didn’t even whimper when I pulled the duct tape off her mouth.

“Run,” I told her. “Don’t look back. Don’t tell anyone.”

Watching the bright red of her uniform disappear into the gloom, it occurred to me that it might be a little awkward the next time I stopped for pancakes.

I retrieved my jacket from the front row, stepping over the dead animal, and pulled boxers and sunglasses out of the jacket’s pocket. It pays for a werewolf to be prepared. I could at least make it back to my car without getting arrested.

My stomach rumbled, the calorie deficit from two rapid-fire transformations catching up to me. I slung on my jacket.

I felt like pancakes.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

SCE Swayne is a one-time NaNoWriMo winner, many times hopeful. SCE (pronounced like a sneeze) lives in Ohio, where she scrubs people’s feet for a living. Her free time is divided between nail art, because as a millennial she gets a sense of validation from the attention of strangers on social media, and binge watching whatever drivel Netflix deigned to suggest this week. She has one cat, but give her time.

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