Present Day
These were the times when Alan felt most alive. Running through the night in his true form, strong and free, the moon singing in his blood. The world was alive with scents and sounds, a symphony of sensory input that was as intoxicating as it was overwhelming. For him, the Hunt was secondary. He enjoyed it well enough, and he definitely enjoyed the heart meat that came at the end of a kill. But Sylvia, Stuart, and Spencer lived for the Hunt. They could stalk and kill a different person every night and they’d never tire of it. They’d bathe in victims’ blood and gnaw on their hearts even if their bellies were full to bursting. In a way, he admired them. The pack Sylvia grew up in had been closer to the old ways of their people, to the primal essence of the wolf. Alan’s pack had become too much like their prey, and they had been weaker for it. It was Sylvia’s wildness that had first attracted him to her, and she’d passed it along to her two eldest sons. It was too early to tell which way Joshua would go, but it seemed clear that Morgan took after his side of the family. Perhaps when it was time for her to select a mate, she’d choose someone who would balance her, someone wild like her mother. Otherwise, she’d remain weak. Werewolves did not tolerate weakness in their ranks. If Morgan didn’t toughen up, she wouldn’t last long. As her father, the thought saddened him, but as pack leader, he wouldn’t allow emotion to get in the way of his responsibilities. And if the time came when Morgan had to be put down, he’d do it himself. It was the least he owed her as her sire and her leader.
He was grateful that the two hunters and their werewolf companion had come to town. Sylvia and the boys wanted to hunt more often than was prudent. There were only so many people who could disappear in Bridge Valley without raising suspicion. He’d done what he could to select prey that wouldn’t be missed, but it was becoming difficult to keep up with his family’s demands. The three captives—for they would hunt the weak werewolf, too, the one that stank from eating animal hearts—would supply them with fun for a little while, maybe all the way to Christmas if they spaced the hunts out far enough.
He heard Spencer’s guttural growl off to his left, then the heavy sound of rock striking bone and a cry of pain. Their prey changed course and ran deeper into the woods. Alan knew that Spencer had been trying to direct him to run into the thickest part of the woods and prolong the Hunt. But the hunter had turned the tables.
Alan could smell his son’s blood, but he did not run toward him. Spencer would recover quickly enough on his own. Until then, he’d pay the price for his carelessness by missing out on the Hunt. If he didn’t recover in time, he’d miss out on his share of heart meat.
Rather than being angered that the hunter had hurt his son, Alan was pleasantly surprised. It seemed as if tonight’s Hunt was going to be something special. The hunter wasn’t going to make it easy on them. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Feeling more excitement for a Hunt than he had in a long time, Alan howled and doubled his speed as he plunged through the woods.
* * *
Garth ran ahead of Dean. Sam was facing four lycanthropes, and he had no silver to fight with. As resourceful as Sam was, those were lousy odds, and Garth was determined to even them. He not only had his gun loaded with silver bullets tucked into the waistband of his pants, but he also carried Sam’s pistol and silver rounds, and Sam’s silver knife. The silver bullets so close to his flesh were uncomfortable, but the knife—even though its handle was leather—hurt like hell. It felt as if his hand was on fire, but since the silver wasn’t actually in contact with his skin, he suffered no damage. But even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. All that mattered was reaching Sam before the Crowders killed him.
Garth had no trouble tracking Sam. His scent was like a blazing beacon shining through the darkness. He could smell the Crowders’ separate scents in a crisscrossing pattern as they moved through the woods, never far from Sam, always driving him onward. Thank Fenris they wanted to play with him for a while, or he’d already be dead.
One of the Crowders had been wounded. The twin named Spencer, Garth thought, although his scent was much like his brother’s. Garth could smell the boy’s blood—from a head wound, he judged—and he smiled, baring his fangs. Even unarmed, Sam was still dangerous as hell.
As he ran, Garth became aware of a sound like whispering. It was the voice of the wolf inside him. It came softly at first but grew louder with each inch of ground he covered.
You are wolf, it said. Hunter, killer, feaster. Strong, swift, savage, merciless…
And accompanying the voice was a nearly overwhelming explosion of scent, more intense than anything he’d ever experienced before. That wasn’t true, he realized. He had experienced this, back in the Crowders’ dining room. It was the smell of Melody’s heart. He could join the other lycanthropes, take part in their Hunt, perhaps even share in the reward at the end. The thought of sinking his fangs into a sliver of the man’s heart meat made his mouth water. Then Garth realized what he’d been thinking.
Sam’s not just a man—he’s my friend!
He felt the animal part of him rising to the forefront of his consciousness, threatening to take over. The scent of human heart had aroused in the wolf a deep, all-encompassing hunger. The beast wanted meat, and it wasn’t about to let this weak little man whose body it was forced to share stop it. Garth could feel himself slipping away. It was as if he were drowning in darkness, sinking into depths from which he would never emerge. With his last conscious thought, he relaxed his grip on Sam’s knife and let the blade slide down. He then tightened his grip around the metal before it could slide through his hand. The metal seared his skin and the knife’s edges cut into his flesh. Blood flowed from the wounds, but the pain cleared his mind and drove the wolf away. He was grateful, even as the agony doubled him over. He readjusted his grip on the knife and managed to keep stumbling forward until the pain passed—mostly—and he was able to straighten and run normally once more.
The wolf’s voice receded into the background of his mind. But it was still there, still whispering, urging him to deny his humanity and allow his true self to run free and unrestrained. To hunt as it would, kill when it pleased, and devour the succulent heart meat of humans, as it had been created to do.
Garth still smelled Melody’s heart, although it was nowhere near as strong as it had been. He could ignore it for now, but he feared they would grow stronger. And when that happened, would he be able to resist it, or would the part of him that was Garth Fitzgerald IV be destroyed by the wolf? If that happened, his worst nightmare would’ve come to pass: the man would die, leaving behind only the monster.
He decided he’d fight that battle when he had to. Right now, Sam needed him.
* * *
Dean ran through the woods, Colt in one hand, silver blade in the other. Somewhere up ahead of him was Garth. Dean didn’t give a damn which of them reached Sam first, so long as they reached him in time to help him fight the Crowders.
The werewolves might’ve had a head start on them, but the hunters had a couple of advantages of their own. Dean figured the Crowders wouldn’t kill Sam right away. Not only would they want to play with their food before they ate it, Sam was far more skilled at fighting and surviving than the werewolves’ usual prey. And the Crowders thought he and Garth were still chained up in their basement. They wouldn’t be expecting their other two prisoners to be hunting them. With any luck, their attention would be so focused on Sam they wouldn’t realize he and Garth were coming for them until it was too late.
Of all the monsters he and his brother had ever faced, werewolves were among the most challenging. They were a perfect fusion of human and beast, fiercely savage killing machines with a singled-minded focus on their goal: to feed. You knew where you stood with a werewolf. There were no lies, betrayals, or trickery like you had to deal with when hunting a demon or a witch, and while werewolves did kill, often in a horrific fashion, they did so swiftly. The Crowders were different. They planned their hunts, abducting people to serve as playthings, until they were finally brought down and allowed to die. He’d seen Amos Boyd’s ravaged corpse. There had been nothing quick about his death. The Crowders had wanted to make him suffer, had luxuriated in his blood and pain. The Crowders might think they lived in harmony with their animal selves, but as far as Dean was concerned, they were more aligned with the worst aspects of their human side. To put it simply, the Crowders gave werewolves a bad name.
At that moment, he heard several shots come from deeper in the woods. The fight was officially on.
“Save some for me,” Dean said, and ran in the direction of the gunfire.