The Willing (13 page)

“Don’t come near me,” she snarled.
“Just don’t fucking come near me.”

And then she let out a yap much like a
dog in pain. Without any magical smoke or hoo-doo voodoo, she
Changed right before us, yipping and growling as she almost
instantaneously morphed into a black wolf that came up to my waist!
Not half wolf, not hairy man beast—full wolf, one bigger than I had
ever seen! Her green eyes looked like they were the ones that
wanted to eat me.

I looked at Rachel. “Rai?”

Rachel’s calm voice helped. “Move
slowly towards the door, Shaz.”

I reluctantly put my lead foot forward,
earning myself an instant reprimand from the beast Emily had
become. She snapped at my leg and I wrenched it back just as
quickly.

“Jesus, Rai, what do I do?”

Rachel leaned forward and basically
bitch-slapped Emily on her snout. Her great beast head shook itself
to clear.

“Run, Shaz. Just run!” Rachel commanded
as Emily’s hard, muscled body slammed into her and the two tumbled
onto the carpet.

I stood there completely frozen in
fear. I’m not good in situations like this, ever. Luka always took
care of all the scary crap, even when I was going to become like
him he gave me some pills to help numb the pain and calm me down.
So now, in another life or death situation, I watched as Emily’s
wolf teeth snapped at Rachel’s face. Rachel’s hand kept flying up
to block her face, which meant that time after time I heard the
crunch of bones as Emily bit down.

Blood poured from Rachel’s wrist and
hand, channeling itself in little rivers down her arms. I watched
like an idiot for what seemed like hours with Emily’s growls and
the sounds of tearing flesh filling my ears. Finally, something
clicked on in my brain and I rushed forward. I jumped onto Emily’s
back and started yelling at her.

“Stop it, Emily, stop! We want to help
you. Stop!”

I must have repeated this chant at
least half a dozen times, my fists pounding into her sleek shoulder
blades, before she turned her attention to me, shivering one good
time like she was shaking water out of her coat and throwing me
back. I stumbled but didn’t fall, which was good because I threw my
own hands in front of my face like Rachel had before she caught my
throat in her mouth!

I remember screaming when she sank her
teeth into my leg. God, why couldn’t I be strong like Rachel and
not scream? I shook my leg with a vengeance, trying to knock loose
the demon that had attached itself to me, but she wouldn’t budge. I
batted at her head, too overwhelmed by the pain to be making a
difference. Emily began to shake me like a rag doll, knocking me
against the coffee table. I scattered all Rachel’s knick knacks and
magazines.

I heard Rachel shouting in the
background, “Emily! Hey, you dumb bitch! Emily!”

The Lycanti girl finally turned, and
when she did, she got a face full of ground up pepper! Emily’s yelp
of pain was pain in itself to listen to, but when I looked down at
my leg and all I could see was mangled meat through the rips in the
jeans, I could only wish that Rachel had thrown acid on that damn
mutt!

As Emily pawed at her nose and eyes,
Rachel grabbed me by the arm and yanked me up. I cried out but she
hissed, “Deal with the pain. We’ve got to get out of
here.”

Dragging my useless leg behind me, I
followed Rachel as she tugged me towards the door and slammed it
behind her. We both stopped for a minute and took deep breaths,
listening to the anguished yapping inside the apartment. I could
feel the flesh inside my pants start to knit, oh God way too
slowly, and the burning sensation it brought with it made me lean
against the wall for support. Rachel cradled her arm. The bleeding
had slowed, but now I could see that the deep bite marks, some to
the bone, which marred Rachel’s marble skin.

She looked at me with her steadfast
gaze. “This never happened.”

I stared at her blankly. “What the hell
do you mean it never happened? God, Rai, look at your arm. Look at
my leg!” I gestured towards our immobile limbs.

“Look at me,” Rachel said harshly. I
forced myself to. “When we go before Lenora, don’t you dare tell
her about any of this.”

I blinked. “You still want to take her
to Lenora?”

“Yes.”

“Are you fucking crazy? She’ll kill
us!”

Rachel took a deep breath, as if she
were mentally preparing herself to explain everything to me. “We
can’t go on like this. The Children of Dacre are starving. There’s
only three of us in Southern California and Emily is the first
Lycanti we’ve fed from in months.” She pulled her arm closer to her
body, stroking it with her good hand. “They’re getting smarter,”
she whispered, as if Emily would hear us through the door. “Their
pack leader, this Josh guy, makes it almost impossible to take
them. Think about it, Shaz: We don’t have a choice. It’s destroy
the Lycanti’s solidarity, or starve.” Rachel paused for a moment,
lost in thought. “After all,” she said sadly. “Why do you think
there are so few of us left?”

Absorbing everything she said, I still
couldn’t believe we were going to willingly share space with that
beast inside the apartment ever again.

“You don’t think that Lenora is going
to agree to this, do you?” I asked.

“Lenora is the Daughter of the Mother,”
she answered quietly. “She will do whatever it takes to care for
her Children.”

After that came the mundane details of
dealing with the apartment manager who had heard the screams. Oh,
and the police who met us outside to write Rachel a warning
citation for noise violations (the barking dog), ask why we “looked
like hell” (what a nice guy, eh?), and warn Rachel that next time
she would face charges if she could not keep the peace (he didn’t
particularly care that Rachel’s closest neighbor was deaf). So
Rachel just said “Yes sir,” “Sorry, sir,” and “It won’t happen
again, sir.” I just stood there like a guppy with my mouth hanging
open, thinking about the rampaging wolf in Rachel’s apartment, and
wondering if my leg and arm would bear scars from Emily. After the
authorities had departed, Rachel looked at me with a slight smile
playing on her lips.

“Ready to go back up?”

I laughed. Jesus, nothing ever shakes
Rachel.

Emily

I will never know the words that Ranier
used to make Luka obedient, but they must have been powerful.
Ranier had swept in like a summer storm, bruising the sky around
Luka and me and turning it the color of week-old plums with his
authority. When Luka returned to me, I sought his eyes, but met a
wall of resistance. He coldly said goodbye and left me the number
to Ranier’s home if I had an emergency. Otherwise, he would see me
after our dance with the moon for the month.

I would wait for him to come to me, I
decided. I am sure that he had just discovered for the first time
that he was being declared Micah’s father, and for that, he would
need time. I would give him all the time he needed.

Thanks to the powerful Lycanti blood
coursing through my veins, my broken bones and shredded insides
mended in weeks. I probably should not have lived through my
encounter with Maria, but these days, I find I am too damn stubborn
to die. Luka still had not spoken to me about anything intimate at
this point. Instead, that day he left me to my convalescence, alone
in a motel room in northern Brazil. I do not speak Portuguese, but
luckily a handful of the staff spoke English, so I was able to
somewhat articulate my desires. Ranier paid for the room at Luka’s
insistence. The patriarch also had several sets of clothes sent
over to me, all in my size. Meals were delivered to me that first
week since I had trouble getting around, and the hotel staff made
sure I did not want for much.

Luka went home to his father’s grand
estate.

He went home to Brooke and their son,
Alexander. The memory of his hands on me sustained me for most of
those weeks, but the night before the full moon, before the Change
would claim me, I sought out the blood and warmth of another living
creature. I needed to feel wanted, and I wanted to feel need. As
much as I longed to go pull Luka from Brooke’s arms (for the
impending Change affects us all the same), I would quell that
desire. A stranger would have to suffice, no matter the language
barrier. So dressed in a pair of jeans and a tank top, I hit the
streets of this mid-sized Brazilian city.

The weather decided to remain
temperate. The humidity hung in every corner of the sky, but this
is Brazil, so close to the coast, to the forest, and to the rivers
that you are practically breathing through a wet cloth most of the
day. At night though, the breeze finds you, the buildings are alive
with lights, and the soft, slurring sounds of Portuguese dance
around you as people call back and forth to each other in the
artificial light. I did not even attempt to focus on the words.
Luka would have translated for me, laughing at my “American
ignorance,” but his desires and attentions ranged far from me at
the moment.

The rhythms of the people and lights
around me made my body practically vibrate. I could feel ever wisp
of electricity that laced the sky, the life around me caressing me
and making me remember who it feels to push up against another
body. Even the beams of the moon seemed to work to unbutton my
jeans and stroke me from throat to thigh. Hours from now it would
get violent with its urges, but for now, only the softness buffeted
me with insistence.

Where does one go for a one-night stand
in a small Brazilian city? Where can depraved people like me prey
on the foolish humans who mistake my litheness as a guise for
pleasure instead of savagery?

Why, where the naïve and the lost go in
any city, of course: a Roman Catholic church.

The spires of this small church don’t
stab the air like the American places of worship do, each trying to
outgrow the other in hopes of attracting more parishioners. Had the
music not been pouring out the doors, I would have passed it
completely. The building was a circular brick and mortar affair;
everything about the building suggested it was well-cared for and
perhaps no more than a few decades old. Since like 90% of
Brazilians are Roman Catholic, I wasn’t surprised see that the
inside of the church was warm with both candlelight and modern
appliances. The music which had drawn me in was piped through
speakers hanging over the doorway.

Even with the falling darkness, six or
seven men and women sat in the pews listening to the priest speak
in soft, slurring Portuguese. I hadn’t been in a church since I was
around 12 or so during my mother’s religious phase, and the
boarding school I attended did not require religion. Standing in
the doorway looking around, I tried to identify the person most
likely to fulfill my needs. Five of the attendees had gray hair; I
needed someone with stamina. Another was a girl probably about my
age. The only person left who fit my requirements was the priest
himself, who was middle age but wearing it well. His lighter brown
hair seemed out of place among the olive-skinned patrons, and his
body was built like someone who had been an athlete in his life
before the church. He was off limits, but the older man sitting in
the second row was a strong candidate. I sauntered up to the front
and sat right next to him. He looked up at my in surprise and I
gave him a bold smile.

He had gray at him temples. I judged
him around forty or so, probably with a wife at home, perhaps just
getting off work. He tentatively offered me a smile back, but could
not stop his eyes from traveling down to my bra-less tank top. I
just smiled prettily again, then turned to listen to a service
which I could not understand in the least. Every once in a while I
would hear the word “padre,” which I knew meant “father.” But for
all the Portuguese I knew, the priest could have been speaking of
his breakfast that morning.

Before long, the man next to me was
glancing at different parts of my body more and more. I just
crossed my legs and pretended to remain focused on the priest. I
could smell his excitement though, practically pouring out of him.
He was the same type of man I had seen wandering the streets at
dusk: olive-complexion, onyx eyes, and an average, stocky build
which suggested he ate well enough. His clothes recommended the
same, and while they were certainly worn, they hadn’t been torn and
mended like some of the younger men’s clothes out on the street.
Overall, he was a choice candidate

The service finally ended. The other
patrons, rustling in their haste with their parcels picked up
before coming here, left almost silently. The man beside me stood,
and I could see the outline of his interest through his cotton
plans.

His greeting was quiet,
almost hoarse. “
Como vai
você
?” he asked.

I grinned sweetly and shrugged. “I
don’t speak Portuguese.”

With a furrowed brow, he
sighed. His next words sounded sarcastic: “
Ingles? Que bom
!” He reached down
and tugged at my hand, bringing it to his lips.
“
Venha comigo
.”

“That is not a good idea,”
barked a voice from the front of the church. It was the priest, who
had never left, but stayed to witness the exchange. Nosy bastard.
The priest looked at the man next to me and said rapidly,
“
Como vai você? O que é
isto
?”