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She suddenly gunned the motor and took off, the open door grazing him enough to roll him onto the
gravel shoulder.
He lay there for a second, stunned, with what felt like a sprained ankle. He couldn't believe he'd fallen for
an old trick like that. Shit! The insurance company was going to squeeze out his blood for this one. He
felt for his wallet before he remembered he'd left it in the car. Of course.
Well, he was sure the prize asshole. What did he expect? You didn't exactly meet the kind of girl you
could take home to Mom sitting on a barstool talking dirty with her boobs hanging out.
Jesus, but this road was dark! If it hadn't been for the moon, he couldn't have seen anything. No cars had
come by in a while, so he'd either have to wait or walk.
He decided to walk. He stood up, testing his ankle. It hurt, but he could put his weight on it, so it couldn't
be too bad.
Jerry heard the leaves crackle behind him. Raccoon, or most likely a skunk, the way things were going
tonight.
He became aware of someone hiding in the bushes, right close behind him. He could hear the breathing.
He wasn't too afraid. Who's gonna screw with a defensive end? Usually his sheer size scared off the
wiseasses. Still, you had to be careful: lots of nuts out there these days.
He walked a little faster, never hearing actual footsteps; that was what was so weird. Just that dry
crackling in the bushes. He stopped, and it stopped. He walked, and it walked. The thought of nutsos
crossed his mind again. Jerry knew what was what he had seen that movie Deliverance, so he knew
what southerners were like.
Then the breathing started. Real heavy, like those guys with whatchacallit asthma. Ragged,
wet-sounding breathing. Slobbery.
It began to get to him.
"Okay, asshole!" he yelled. "Quit hiding like a sneaking rabbit. You got anything to say to me, you fucker,
come out an' say it!"
Nothing. Just that slow, steady rustling of leaves, coming closer. And that spooky-sounding breathing, a
little louder now.
Jerry stood very still, listening, his hands getting cold and wet.
And then all the sound stopped.
He felt a pressure on his back, right in the middle, then kind of a warm, wet feel through his shirt. The
pain didn't actually hit his brain for another few minutes. He spun around and gasped.
His panicked mind told him that it was a bear; he couldn't let himself believe what he was really seeing.
Jerry was plenty quick, but not quick enough. He'd never seen anything that big move that fast. He felt a
wrenching, then a hot pain as his arm was cracked out of the socket. The thing spun him around to face
it, its foul breath gagging him. Jerry punched at the monster with his good arm, kicking out blindly with
both legs as the werewolf lifted him into the air.
Its teeth bit through his shoulder. The huge claws ripped at his chest. Blood was already gushing from the
claw lacerations in his back and arm, making him progressively weaker. He couldn't hold on any longer.
The monster seemed to know that it had won and threw him down like an overused stuffed toy.
As Jerry's eyes misted over, he caught a glimpse of his chest, gaping open on the left side, blood pumping
out, red-glazed bones of his rib cage broken, lungs like glistening bellows, the delicate organs starting to
tumble toward the opening. It was so shocking that at first he didn't connect it with his own body. Then
perfect clarity&
Oh, my God! he thought. My heart! It wants my heart!
Then it was over, and the werewolf crouched hungrily over the remains of Jerry Moffatt.
Ripped and bloody as he was, the werewolf still felt an ecstatic joy, the pure passion that comes from
doing exactly as he wished. It was animal instinct that drove him into the night, enhanced by human
intelligence but unrestrained by human conscience.
He remembered his kill with pleasure. A man, a strong man, a werewolf's favorite prey. He was learning
that the fight was everything; yes, the kill was important a werewolf had to feed but it was the fight
that exhilarated him. The struggle, the blows on his body, the feel of his muscles pushing his limits gave
him physical satisfaction. The blood and adrenaline pumping through his brain gave him a galvanizing
mental charge. And finally, there was the addictive taste of human flesh, sweet and succulent, to renew
his strength.
The kill this night was more than just a kill. It was teaching him about his nature and his new body. He
found that the bitter smell of his victim's fear did something to him. When it flooded into his blunt nostrils
the last vestiges of human restraint left him. This loss of humanity seemed necessary to complete the
transformation, but the werewolf wasn't sure. He also discovered that they made no difference, these
small peculiarities. He simply did what he had to do and reveled in it.
He found that he could cover an enormous distance. He bounded along on powerful legs with a
supernatural speed, a fluidity of motion not possible with man and a dexterity not possible with animals.
The werewolf also knew many things that the priest did not or, at least, that it would take the priest
time to learn. The lunar cycle, for instance: 29 days, 12 hours, 44 minutes, and 2.8 seconds, the waxing
moon before and the waning moon after, the time that would give him life and set him free no matter how
the priest raged against it. He didn't know it intellectually: it was an instinct, something bred in his body,
felt with each heartbeat.
He knew what would kill him and how to avoid it. He knew what would lift the curse and destroy his
freedom, but the priest would never know the werewolf's mind as well as the werewolf knew his. The
werewolf didn't want to know what the priest thought, he didn't care. All he wanted was to live, to run
under the moon, to kill over and over until he was sated.
He also knew that this particular night was a bonus, a birth-night gift. Each Marley werewolf's first
transformation was on the greatest night of his life, whether it was a full moon or not. The werewolf didn't
understand this, but understanding was not important to him. Just knowing was enough: psychological
complexities and rational human logic were useless. He was born of instinct, of physical impulse, of the
hidden and dark secrets of the moon and the night.
His time was short now. This night was almost gone, but there would be another for him, and very soon.
He ran with his huge, bounding stride back toward the city, taking care to conceal himself when
necessary with an animal's stealth. A werewolf knew how to blend with the night.
He had run a short way when his sharpened hearing detected footsteps, when his newly sensitive nostrils
caught a scent that was human, yet not human, a scent like his own. The footfalls were heavy, powerful,
and the stride perfectly matched his, step by step. Puzzled, but with a growing excitement, he stopped
and turned.
Another werewolf stood looking at him, its face almost human in expression. This was a graceful
creature, smaller than himself, with an elegant blond pelt whose highlights shone in the moonlight like
polished gold. The golden werewolf's topaz eyes fixed the young werewolf to the spot. The young one [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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