Blood Moon
by Sandy Adams
Copyright 1995
Rated PG-13 for violence.
Contains some graphic violence.
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The words of the curse rang in his mind as his body writhed and twisted on the floor. Sweat drenched every pore, ran into eyes already burning with the Change. Beneath the moon's baleful eye, his skin glistened, throbbing with every pulsebeat, distending grotesquely as he clawed at the planks beneath him.

He thrust out an arm as if warding off the moon, and instead snagged the trailing fringe of the curtains, bringing the heavy velvet down around him like a pasha's funeral pall.

His mouth stretched wide in agony as beastial fangs thrust from his gums; blood filled his mouth with the copper taste of terror. Warm and thick, the blood poured down his chin, coating the coarse brown fur sprouting on his face, his body. His spine twisted, splitting his fine coat and waistcoat at the seams. His broad shoulders, normally so square and proud, rounded with a beast's slouch.

Lifting his blunt, leathery muzzle, the creature -- trapped somewhere in the twilight between man and beast -- bayed its torment to the full moon.

Alien smells invaded its sensitive nostrils: the smells of human activity. The ground was strange beneath its feet, neither earth nor grass nor stone. Walls enclosed it, caging it on all sides.

Restless, it prowled, seeking freedom.

Suddenly, the clean scent of fresh air reached its flaring nostrils. Excited, it followed the tantalizing smell to an opening in the imprisoning walls. Beyond, lay windswept darkness, heavy with the promise of a brewing storm. With a howl of pure joy, it bounded through the opening, to the freedom of grass and trees and open sky. The full moon welcomed it, then, like a coy lover, hid her face behind a veil of clouds.

The werewolf threw back its shaggy head and bayed forth the call of the hunt.

Sea-smell filled the werewolf's mouth and nose, making it sneeze. The creature paused in the shadows of the dock, then lifted its head and scented the chill wind once more.

With the stench of brine came the sweeter smell of prey, the human odors of sweat and blood. Its mouth lolled open, tongue flicking over leathery black lips.

The blood of an unfortunate squirrel was drying on its muzzle. The gamey flesh lay heavily in its belly, but its hunger was far from satisfied. The man-smell drove it wild, out of the cloaking shadows and onto the wooden docks to attack.

Screams heralded its arrival. Women, gathered in the inhospitable darkness to offer their services to whomever was willing to pay with coin or drink, scattered before it. One scrambled onto a bale awaiting loading onto a ship bound for other shores; another toppled a stack of wooden casks in her haste to escape. A third, further into her cups than the others, lost her footing on the slippering planks and plunged into the frigid waters of the bay. Her heavy skirts filled quickly with water, dragging her down to her death. Still, she was luckier than her friend, who stood frozen, unable to move as she stared at the unholy thing advancing toward her, stiff-legged and growling ominously.

Like a bird paralyzed by a cobra's stare, the woman could only cower as her death sprang for her throat.

Burying its muzzle deep into the steaming flesh of its prey, the werewolf fed.

Beside him, the fire had burned down to flickering embers. Throwing off the blanket, he sat up and shoved his dark brown hair back from his forehead. Reaching for fresh wood to feed the fire, his hand shook as if palsied.

The dream...

Only it wasn't a dream. A dream could be dismissed upon waking, seen for the ephemeral thing it was in the comforting glow of the fire. No, this was memory, far darker than any nightmare.

Fortunately for his sanity, only the dream's essence remained in his waking mind. The terror, the guilt, stayed with him, and those were bad enough. But the details of what he had become, and what he had done -- mercifully, those faded as he woke. He didn't believe he could live with himself, were it otherwise.

A little off to one side of his campfire, his bay gelding snorted softly, its great head lifting suddenly as if it had caught a new and dangerous scent on the wind.

Alarmed, Barnabas snatched up the loaded pistol he kept beside his bedroll. Pistol in hand, he peered uneasily into the surrounding darkness, and wished he had been more diligent about keeping the fire going.

Eyes glowed in the shadows pooled beneath the trees, eyes like coals, watching him.

Nervous now, the horse stamped and tried to rear, held only by its tether. He murmured to it, and the bay edged as close to him as its tether allowed. Barnabas rose slowly, pistol at the ready. The fine hairs on his arms prickled as he spotted another pair of eyes...and another. Turning his head cautiously, he counted more and more pairs of feral eyes, glowing yellow in the firelight, surrounding him.

He forced a deep breath into his suddenly constricted chest, steadied the pistol in his grip, and...

...as silently as they had appeared, the wolves faded back into the dark forest.

Stunned, he edged closer to his fire in an instinctive move dating back to the cave. His pistol was a comforting weight across his upraised knee.

In the near distance, a wolf raised its voice in a mournful cry and was answered by its kin.

And, high overhead, peering down at him through the lattice of the trees, the nascent moon bore witness. And grew inexoribly fuller.

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