...sequel time! Work on the sequel to "Wolf" has begun and I bring to you the opening pages of it! Lemme know what you think!
“...Sail on silver wings, through this storm
What fortune love may bring,
Back to my arms again the love of a former golden age.
I am disabled by fears concerning which course to take,
For now that wheels are turning I find my faith deserting me.
This night is filled with the cries of dispossessed children in search of paradise...”
--- Dead Can Dance, “In Power We Trust The Love Advocated.” (Wake, 2003).
He hadn't moved for hours. His ankles burned from crouching for as long as he had. His knees begged for relief. His hands hung loosely between his legs, fingers flexing as his eyes took in what he saw before him. The muscles in his back and torso, strong like bricks, were tense. His breathing was slow and purposeful, the predator he was more than evident. His tall ears pricked forward, swiveling towards the front of his face, his long muzzle as dark furred as the rest of him, jet black. A tail moved, twitched once and was immobile once again.
His green eyes blazed in the dark, brilliant twin irises of laser green.
Crouching on the edge of the rooftop, he leaned over just a bit further as his pupils enlarged, letting in far more light than a human could ever see. Below him, Dawson City spread out to the horizon, dark and twinkling, the universe in concrete form. Cars went by, stopping, turning, going, their headlights blurring. Store lights burned with bright neon. Steam wafted out of the grates that lead into the sewers. His ears could hear the subway going by under the asphalt. He could hear someone breathing if he wanted to but he had learned over the last two months to filter it out, to fine tune his senses to hone in on what he wanted. It wasn't perfect, but it didn't have to be when you were a walking weapon on two legs.
The gritty masonry beneath his finger pads was rough and spiky. He didn't care.
A hot city wind blew, stinking of exhaust and sweat. He tried not to breathe too deeply.
Figures walked by on the street. People. All of them. One thing was different now.
The number of werewolves, full generations mostly, had plummeted. No more did they walk openly next to their neighbors, their friends and family. Now, he thought darkly, now they had to hide, like rats, like vermin. Now only shifters braved the streets because they could hide in plain sight. So much had changed in the last few days. The world was insane. They had all seen it coming. No one believed it would truly escalate to this.
The line had been drawn and crossed now. There was no going back. The only thing to do was survive and fight for the truth. For freedom. It didn't help, he thought darkly, that he was a wanted fugitive thanks to a certain dirty senator. His wolf face was plastered all over every news channel and media outlet offering a massive reward for information that led to his capture. He hadn't been able to call his mother back in New York to check on her. He was sure they would go after her and question her too. She wouldn't crack. He was afraid in some pit of his gut that she would be taken but so far no news had reached him. The streets also had new compliments of police containment trucks. He sneered at them. Large heavily modified Ford Expedition trucks, jet black with black barred windows, roll and brush bars and suped up engines. The news had been full of stories of them picking up suspected werewolves from their jobs and homes. Smoke still rose in the sky from the lower end of town, where the abandoned factories were. The largest of the old structures belched black smoke, dragon-like. Fire crews were still trying to put out the blaze that he and his friends were responsible for.
That fight had cost them dearly and thankfully, it was over. Now, the search had begun, the search for one of their own who was taken that night by people unknown. They had only days before they lost him. He was dying and only they had the means to keep him alive. They had no home. It had been taken from them. He had almost died. He had nothing left to loose. The last month or so had forged him. Changed him. At first he had fought it. Then, he embraced it.
And that had changed his life forever.
Looking down again, he saw one of the black trucks slow to a stop and four men got out.
Men in body armor. Men with face shields. Men with electro-staves and assault rifles. The rifles were slung across their backs, the staves, two and half meter's of titanitum alloy, with capacitor tips and rubber grips. At first, their intention wasn't clear. He followed them, watching as they crossed the street as a unit, well coordinated, lethal and deadly and ...what was their target?
His eyes turned to the right, following their trajectory.
He saw a single person dressed in shabby clothes, a gray worn out hoodie with the hood up, scuffed up jeans and sneakers....and a tail. A brown tail.
A full generation werewolf.
A capture and containment crew.
They were going to take the man away. To place him in the camps that had been set up on the outskirts of the city. The fenced in guarded camps. No one had left them.
His upper lip curled back, exposing his pearly white fangs and rows of razor teeth. A low menacing growl escaped from his throat, deep and rumbling.
As the men advanced below, Brian quickly surveyed his surroundings. He was up at least four stories from the ground. He could easily make the jump straight down but he needed something more subtle. He might be able to reach the target before the police did. To his right was the fire escape and below it a dumpster and the asphalt. He looked back at the men and moved, leaping to his feet, clearing the building's roof lip, landing hard on the fire escape, its metal clanging under his weight. Not bothering with the stairs, he went over the edge, dropping like a stone, his feet slamming into the wall of the building, as he vaulted down, twenty, thirty feet, the world spinning past him, his hand rocketing out, grabbing the ladder of the last fire escape, jerking it loose from its moorings. It slid out fast, metal racheting against metal, screeching to a halt as he hung in mid air above the ground, dropping with a solid thump, landing in a crouch. He bolted into the shadows of the building as the werewolf walked past and at the same moment, the police made their move.
“Excuse me! Sir! Stop!” The lead officer bellowed, raising his staff. The werewolf took one glance back and in a panic, made a run for it.
“Dispatch we have a runner on Lexington and Northstar, just outside Peer's Record's! Pursuit in progress!” the second officer screeched into his radio as he took off, activating his staff. Instantly purple lighting erupted and crawled up and down the shaft, arcing back along the capacitor, snapping in the night. Brian snarled. Madison's technology. The bastard. The officer's belt radio exploded in static as the dispatcher returned. “...lethal force authorized if needed, copy. Attempt to bring in alive, repeat, attempt to bring in alive.”
“I said stop!” the commanding officer barked and without further hesitation, threw his staff with all of his strength. The metal pole flew and slammed into the middle of the werewolf's back between his shoulder blades. Sparks exploded as purple lightning bolts crawled over and into his body. He screamed in pain as every muscle in his body contracted and then shut down, throwing his legs out from under him, sending him into a head over heels roll to a stop against the brick wall of the record store, the pole dropping to the ground with a metallic twang.
The scent of burned fur and flesh filled the air. Pedestrians on either side of the street screamed in terror and ran. Cars went on by, not stopping. They knew better now.
The four officers caught up to the fallen werewolf.
“What the hell is wrong with you?! I didn't do anything!” the werewolf barked, spitting blood out of his mouth. He tried to get to his feet but it wasnt going to happen. His muscles, Brian knew, were spasming. It wouldn't have done any good anyway. The lead officers heavy booted foot swung forward, connecting with the downed werewolf's ribcage with a sickening crack.
“When we say stop, you stop. You are under arrest and detainment per the Werewolf Registration and Enforcement Act section three, article two. Your rights,” the officer spat, bringing his foot down on the werewolf's back pinning him to the ground roughly, “ are hereby annuled until genetic sequencing and DNA profiling have been completed. Do you have any questions?”
The werewolf arched his back and the officer, caught off guard by the sudden movement of his prisoner, stumbled back. “gently caress you, pig. I ain't going no where. I didn't do gently caressing anything!”
The commanding officer looked at his three subordinates. His face darkened nastily.
“I would say the suspect is being hostile wouldn't you, Fillmore?”
The one called Fillmore, a dark haired broad shouldered man nodded. “I think he is, Lieutenant.”
“I concur. Please subdue the attacking offender and render the situation safe.” The commander stepped back as the three men stepped forward. Three more staves snapped on with a hissing crackle, the purple light from the arcing electricity lighting up the werewolf's face, his amber eyes wide and although angry, utterly helpless.
Raising his staff, Fillmore brought it down hard enough to make it whistle aiming right for the werewolf's head.
A black blur blasted out of the alley.
The staff fell and slammed to a halt.
Fillmore's eyes went wide in shock.
Before him was a six foot plus werewolf, covered in jet black fur, well muscled and sleek, with blazing green eyes, and bared white fangs with pinned back ears. Dressed in bloody and torn jeans, the shirtless werewolf's bristling arm was what was holding the staff back. He had stopped it with a high block, a crude form of martial arts block. It was rookie like but effective. His forearm absorbed the blow and it had probably cracked the bone but he didn't even as much as flinch. He seemed to be aware of the weapon's design and stayed just below the shock tip.
“What the gently caress--”
That was all Fillmore got out. Brian swept inside his own arm and grabbed the officer by the front of his body armor, jerking him off his feet and throwing him through the plate glass window of the record store, glass falling, tinkling tot he ground in a piercing grating explosion. Fillmore's body slammed into shelves of records and compact discs, collapsing the displays on top of him in a heap, his staff flying wide.
The other three officers charged. Brian moved like he was taught, ducking the first swung right hook, spinning outside the blow, grabbing the commanding officers arm by the wrist, pulling it tight, slamming a round house kick into the back of his elbow. The officer's armor did nothing to stop the kinetic force, and his elbow bent at an unnatural angle, snapping wetly, blood coursing over his uniform as the bone ripped through the cloth. He went down in a heap, clutching his arm.
The other two were less ambitious and used more caution. They both swung their staves into a defensive position, purple lightning spitting.
With a war cry, the officer on the left spun the staff, aiming for Brian's head. Brian ducked smoothly, sweeping the man's legs out from under him, sending him crashing down with a painful thud, shaking his face shield. Brian's right fist came down as he rolled to his feet. The officer moved just in time as Brian's fist met concrete, spider webbing it, sending dust in the air. Back on his feet, crouched into a predator stance, Brian flexed his claws. That body armor was going to get in the way.
The second officer charged, swinging the staff widely. Brian leaped back, back--
The staff connected to his side. Pain splitting pain burned through his chest and for half a second, he felt his heart skip several beats. His vision flickered. He tasted blood and went down on his knees.
Not stopping, the cop dove at him, staff raised to smash in Brian's skull.
Brian opened his eyes again.
They blazed actinic white. No iris. No pupils. He felt the power shoot through his body, searing hot.
Brian's hands moved and the staff stopped as he grabbed it, the energy coursing over his hand like translucent purple water, biting, seeking ground. This time, he felt nothing through the rage. The cop's face turned pale behind his plastic riot shield. Brian rose to his feet, the staff clasped in his hands, his fangs lengthening. With a roar, he snatched the staff from the cop's hands and spun it like a baseball bat, the capacitor tip connecting with the cop's helmet, cracking it wide open, sparks flying as he went down unmoving like a sack of meat.
The last cop did the smartest thing yet. He dropped his staff and drew his rifle, flicking off the saftey, taking aim and opening fire, the tip of the rifle exploding in flame as hundreds of rounds spat out, bullets slamming into the ground where....
...where the black werewolf had just been.
Seeing his target was gone, the cop spun wildly, rifle pointing every which way, his breathing erratic, his heart thundering, his pulse through the roof. Brian could hear his heart. Could smell the bitter stench of fear. The man had pissed on himself too. It stunk. It only made Brian angrier.
The man turned and screamed once as he saw Brian at last, crouched gargoyle like on the metal awning that was above the ruined plate glass window.
With a lion like roar, a blaze of white eyes and a sparkle of fangs and claws, Brian flew from the awning, dive tackling the officer, rolling with the man in his arms and slinging him out into the street, where he slammed into the side of the police truck hard enough to dent the passenger's side door in and shatter the bullet proof glass before falling silent to the ground, the truck rocking violently on its wheels, its shocks screaming in protest.
Skidding to a stop, Brian rolled out of the way of a car, its horn blaring. Once he was on his feet, he steadied himself and focused, willing away the rage, sealing the beast back in the cage. Slowly, his eyes faded back to their natural green color and his fangs shrank back to their normal size. He hadn't even been trying. Moving fast, he pulled the injured brown werewolf to his feet. Brian saw he was young, maybe sixteen or so. Too young.
“Run. Don't let them catch you.” he growled and let the boy go.
The kid stood there, dumbfounded.
Finally, he came to his senses and bolted for a side street.
Somewhere sirens began to scream and they were coming this way.
Time to clear out. This area was off limits for a while. He would have to continue searching somewhere else.
His dark form vanished with astonishing speed into the alley, his shadow leaping up the walls, chimney jumping before erupting out onto the rooftops, blasting across them and into the night, gone like he never existed.
Last edited by ShadowWolf2010 (2012-12-15 01:06:56)
Very nice! It reminds me of a roleplay I used to be in. Sadly that roleplay was deleated.
As always, this is fricking amazing!!!!
Chapter One: Closure:
“You only see what your eyes want to see…
How can life be what you want it to be…”
--- Madonna, “Frozen.”
“Cold as the northern winds
In December mornings,
Cold is the cry that rings
From this far distant shore.
Winter has come too late
Too close beside me.
How can I chase away
All these fears deep inside?
I'll wait the signs to come.
I'll find a way
I will wait the time to come.
I'll find a way home.”
--- Enya, “Exile.”
The stench of burned wood, the retched scent of smoke and charcoal hung thick in the air; it made one’s eyes water, burn and tear up. The club stood for over ten years, a public safe space, where those of a like kind could gather without fear of persecution could come and let down their walls, lay in a burned ruin, its deep rich wood walls now gutted, their beams exposed and charred, black spike teeth that still steamed if one had eyes that were strong enough to see it. The stage had collapsed into a hole, black, with tendrils of snapped wire that protruded squid like, dead and lifeless. Tables and chairs, booths, would crumble at the slightest touch once they fully cooled. The once gleaming wood floors were soaked under water, roof beams dripped ash and filthy water and the hand carved bar was unrecognizable any longer. It was a world destroyed, a deadly wound dealt in many ways, physical and emotional.
Max Mullen stood there, in the darkness, alone. His tall grey furred frame was imposing, as his yellow eyes, glowing in the shadows surveyed what used to be his mentor’s pride and joy. Standing in clothes he had liberated from medical and storage facility below that had, to his surprise, survived the carnage and not been discovered, he felt out of place for the first time in this place that had been his home away from home for many years, since the days of his street runs and fight clubs. For the third time, a home had been burned away from him. He had lost again. Been stolen from again. He saw his father bleeding on the ground before him.
His mother dying in his arms.
He saw Draco, standing behind where the bar used to stand, going about his business, his cool amber eyes always soft and gentle, yet tempered, ready to help to pick someone up who needed it. Draco had taken them all in. Raven had been first. Then Max. Then Charley and Ryan, the kid Joey and lastly…Brian. Max felt the cold rainy nights and biting snowy days he has spent alone, scavenging, scrounging just to make to the next sunrise. Stealing when he had to, taking to the streets at night in a hot vengeance, trying to expel the rage he felt from his parents death, meeting only pain and exhaustion, nightmares and to repeat it all the next night. Draco had caught him one night and it all changed. Well, most of it, Max corrected himself, his tail twitching slightly. He still beat the living hell out of low life once in a while.
Draco had brought, for the first time in over ten years, a sort of peace to Max. He couldn’t put the fire out that seared his heart but he at least cooled it, allowing him to channel his passions into constructive means, helping those like themselves and protecting those who weren’t. As his feet crunched on the ashes, he took a deep slow breath and let it out, trying to focus through the pain and rage he felt…and the guilt. The guilt was the worst. He had been trusted to take care of his mentor, for the first time in his experience, their situations were finally reversed and he had failed. True, they had won a major victory against Rakinos and his machinations but the cost had been terrible.
Perhaps even too high.
Rakinos had taken his family from him.
Someone unknown had taken his stability, his rock.
There was so much he could have done to make thing different, to change the outcome…but right now he couldn’t think of a single one.
His fist clenched and his claws bit into his palm, drawing blood. He ignored it and let it flow. Better blood than tears.
His throat burned and he felt a half growl half whimper building and he crushed it. He would never be weak again. The truth he had been shown had wiped that way….if it was true. A part of him told him it was a lie, a goading last jab…but the other part of him, the part of himself that had died up in that Alaskan snow years ago as his family home burned, told him in a papery whispery gentle song that it was true, insidious and tenebrous, polluting his core.
The fur on the back of his neck raised and he felt the muscles in his upper back tense. Someone was here. He didn’t see anything. It was his nose that alerted him first.
It was a hot scent, one full of light and heat, the smell of the sun. It had changed so much since he had first smelled it. He knew what it was and relaxed as the slightly smaller dark shape of Brian Dorcy appeared next to him, moving, the very shadows his cloak because of his jet black lustered fur. His bright green eyes glowed solemnly as he stood beside his friend. Brian, like Max was in his wolf form, a tall bipedal humanoid wolf, with a long muzzle lined with razor sharp fangs, wolf ears and the graceful hands of a human, the powerful build of a werewolf and surprisingly, plantigrade feet, not dog like at all. His tail hung limply behind him and he smelled of the city, of gun powder.
Sniffing without looking at him, Max spoke, his rough voice barely a whisper.
Brian shook his head.
He replied, his own voice a bit lighter but not by much. “ I had a run in with the capture squads.” His bright white fangs flashed one in the dark and were gone.
A question lingered on Max’s lips. An answer he knew he didn’t want waited within Brian.
“Did you find anything…any sign?”
“No. Nothing. Just more and more armed police and National Guard troops…capture vans were everywhere. I saved a kid from being taken. Maybe killed a cop. I don’t know. Didn’t stick around to find out.”
Max frowned. “Did you leave a trail that they could track?”
Brian snorted. “No. What do you think I’ve lived with you the last few months and not learned anything?”
Max said nothing.
“Why are you up here in the dark?” Brian asked, trying to see what Max saw. His enhanced vision like Max’s, could see fine detail where baseline humans would have seen only black shapes and fuzzy outlines. He saw the destruction before him in perfect clarity. He could even see a little bit of the color that used to be in the floor.
A few feet from where they stood, Raven had asked him to dance not long after they first met. He could smell behind the ashes the scent of that night and it barely replayed as a ghostly vision in front of him, barely perceptible, even to his advanced eyes. A scent memory. He blinked it away.
“You know why.”
Brian said nothing back. He did know why. They had came back to the city last night, after the gun fire near the old factory that had been Rakinos’s base died down. Smoke still poured out from the burning hulk that been the building that Ridge had leveled with his chopper’s weapons. Panic had spread through the city and the National Guard and the Dawson City police had reacted with extreme hostility, rounding up werewolves and carting them off to camps on the outskirts of town. People were terrified. Draco, injured from the very attack that left the old club, The Wolves Den, a charred cinder, had been hidden in what they thought was safety while they, Brian Max and Charley, fought it out with Rakinos’s men and Rakinos himself on that rooftop miles from here. The battle had ended with in a firey explosion, leaving Rakinos dead and Draco gone and a city in shambles.
Max was here remembering, trying to sense anything that could lead them to their mentor and friend, searching the scent memories of the building.
“Nothing then.” Brian whispered, his head low.
Max didn’t not reply. He didn’t have to. Nothing.
Outside a few cars went by, the once full parking lot now littered with papers and trash, debris from the fire, empty of cars and customers. Brian reached out and tapped Max on the forearm.
“Let’s get down below. You know they patrol here every two hours.”
With that, he moved, crunching through the debris and walked behind the bar, reached out and gripped a hidden section of the wall, sliding and pushing in until a door opened, a thick bank vault like door that was disguised as part of the wall itself. A dim glow from the emergency lights illuminated his powerful lupine form before he vanished into the hall way and down the small flight of stairs behind the door.
Max sniffed a few more times, desperate for anything, any clue, any lead.
There was nothing here anymore but ghosts and they weren’t speaking. They were truly dead.
Following Brian, he made down the hidden hallway and closed the door tightly behind, sealing the locking mechanism and again, the club was left in darkness with never a sign that they were ever there. Outside in the night, a lone patrol car drove by and pulled into the parking lot, followed by a capture truck. The patrol car and the capture truck snapped on search lights and directed the beams all over the club’s burned husk of a shell, the brilliant lights penetrating the dark, revealing the ruined insides eerily like a sunken ship in the darkest oceans.
Moving from side to side, they, like Max, found nothing among the spirits of death and moved on, pulling out of the parking lot, driving down the road and vanishing around a corner.
The night went on.
Now, if you want to truly experience some thing, here's a bonus. The first book had a soundtrack...music I used to write a scene. I search for this music carefully, listening to hundreds of tracks before I finally find the piece that embodies the scene I am writing.....music that would play during if it were a movie so to say and it helps me experience what the characters are feeling.
I invite you to feel with me. Listen to the first piece of music of the Wolf: Blood Moon 'soundtrack' by Arcana, entitled "Closure."
The music is perfect! As I listened, I imagined the fight scenes of the first book and the destruction of the city.
Yup...the city suffered major damage...people are living in fear...werewolves are being rounded up....Draco is missing and has only a few days before he's dead...Cade is in control....not good.
Draco is going to die?
Did ya read the last book?
Draco was seriously wounded in an assault on the club when they came for Brian. The bullets may have been laced with something that is inhibiting his immune response and is sending him into immuno-systemic shock which will kill most werewolves very quickly and there has never been a case of them surviving. Yikes! Time flies!
Oh, I was hoping that he would somehow survive XD
just got finished catching up on the story. i have missed so much. can not wait for the rest of book two
Back from a long hiatus....catching up!