He ran, and beneath him, the earth bled. Mud-slick dirt churned under his paws, warm as if a river of fresh, glutinous blood. Above, trees strained for the ruby-tinged night, their limbs strung with scarlet needles, bark desiccating like flayed flesh, dried to a brittle finish by the icy winds. Even the moon hanging low and swollen above the mountain peaks reflected the fury in its hue. When he ran—pounded until his heart hammered towards explosion, tore across ground until spittle turned to sour foam, sprinted through sweat clogging his thick coat and stinging his eyes—the rage owned him, possessed him even, and in its terrible purity, granted reprieve.
He flashed through undergrowth, branches and thorns snatching, nature pleading with him to stop. But resolution only came when scalding breaths failed to fill his lungs and screaming muscles seized into in-operability. Then he would crash to the unyielding clod and surrender to exhaustion.
At first, the end used to come within a couple of hours. Now it took longer. The gruelling marathons stretched on, forcing him to pound for hours and hours before relief would settle. Not that he deserved respite; he wasn't worthy of anything good in his life after what he'd done.
A jagged memory pierced his consciousness: Eddie Stone, a strong and proud wolf—his friend—staggering backwards, eyes wide with fear, blood-greased hands clutching wildly at the gash in his neck, his mouth working to ask why, but only producing a rush of bubbling blood.
It was Michael who had cut his pack-member's throat; slit it at the exact point which would yield the best harvest before pressing the chalice rim to the gaping wound. 'Fill it to the brim,' whispered as he pinned Eddie in place.
'You were possessed!' a desperate cry yelled over the diabolical command. 'You weren't in control!'
He snarled the voice away, only to hear it replaced by Leanne Stone, Eddie's mate, wailing for mercy before he visited the same death upon her. 'No! Michael, no!'
Hearing his name, he cowered from the echo.
Michael Vincent shouldn't exist. As a vile, murderous piece of scum, his surviving pack members should have ripped him to shreds before flinging his limbs into the farthest corners of the earth. Instead, they'd allowed him to live. Perhaps this was the better punishment; a lifetime of guilt and torment.
Propelling himself forward, he welcomed the scalding cramps arresting his body. Breath thinned as lungs failed to suck in oxygen. Vision feathered, pinching out the forest. Oblivion called, urging him home.
The earth swam in red. Michael Vincent surrendered and crashed into its embrace.
***
"Day three."
Michael scored a line through the date on his hand-written calendar. He'd listed only two weeks. It was too soon to plan any further ahead—to cradle hope he might make it a whole month. Alone, he sat at a rickety table, his empty dinner plate shoved aside. Today was always going to have been the hardest, and while another four hours needed to pass before midnight arrived, the primordial urge to phase into his wolf raged weaker than the previous night. Setting down the pencil, he splayed his fingers. A slight tremble remained, but nothing as intense as earlier. The ringing in his ears had passed in the early afternoon, and shortly after, his spine had quit twitching to morph. "Day three," he repeated. A tiny win, but progress he wouldn't snub.
Compared to yesterday, his surroundings had also improved. The thin-walled, two-room hunting shack presented a damn sight worse when he'd first dragged himself over the threshold, but scoured and tidied, the space now took shape. Where he'd shoved the wobbly table against the wall, a single row of kitchen cabinets ran along his left. A cracked window splintering the forest view, sat above the sink, and to its right, the gas stove, which had taken him considerable time to get working. The shack's owner; Charlie Simmonds dropped off a fridge earlier that morning, and now wedged under the counter below the stove, Michael possessed all he needed to keep himself fed—on human food. Ripping into fresh kill every mealtime for the last few months had nudged him closer to fully surrendering to his animal side. He hadn't realised how close he'd come to losing his humanity until three days ago. Thankfully, he'd hauled himself back from the precipice, and the young woman he'd tracked through the forest escaped unharmed. Clearing his throat against the disturbing memory, he studied the room with a critical eye.
It almost drained his thin patience, but he'd also gotten the wood-burning stove working. A small fire now danced behind the dirty glass, spreading heat and a bit of cheer. A single armchair sat before the heat source, and beside it, an upturned wooden crate functioning as a table. He'd also dragged the empty gun cabinet across the floor and repositioned it to act as a divider for where he'd placed the army cot bed against the west wall. Beyond those meagre bits of furniture, the shack offered only four shelves hung on the east wall. But Charlie promised he'd drop off more pieces over the next few days; lamps, rugs, bedding, a small coffee table, a locker for beside his bed, and extra pots and crockery for the kitchen.
If Michael wanted to claw back control, he had to remain in human form for the next two weeks. That meant keeping busy and not wandering; either mentally or physically. But he had plenty to occupy his mind. The cabin needed a lot of work. He intended to stay indefinitely, and while he didn't demand many comforts, he did like the basics. This far up the Rochfort mountains, he'd also be left in peace. He'd purposely chosen this site for its remoteness. In two weeks, if he deemed himself and his wolf ready, he'd shift, and if it didn't go to plan, at least he wouldn't have the worry of being close to civilisation. The forest where he'd almost attacked the young woman was situated on the southerly edge of Rochfort town. Charlie's shack was a solid fifteen miles north of there, so a safe distance from the locals.
Would he have pounced on her?
The abrupt query rattled his fragile nerves. Before the memory could replay in full, Michael swatted it aside by grabbing his empty plate. Lukewarm water waited in the sink. He washed the plate and cutlery, narrowing his thoughts to the tasks needing urgent attention. "The water heater," he decided first. And then he'd tackle the toilet that wasn't flushing, the dripping faucet in the bathroom, and a shower that produced a trickle. But those jobs demanded daylight. He'd purposely left one task for this evening; the rust-riddled stove needed scrubbing clean. After finding a wire brush in the lean-to at the side of the cabin earlier, he was now ready to confront the mess.
Happy to be close to the warmth, Michael dropped to his hunkers and brushed the flaky surface. For the first while, his mind held occupied with removing the orange film choking the intricate pattern running in a wide band around the stove's width. But as he progressed to smoother sections, his thoughts wandered.
He had to admit he was quietly pleased with himself. He hadn't really believed he would make it this far without phasing back into his wolf form. Yes, he'd only made it three days, but considering he'd been wolfed out for the last four months, he'd done well. Urban legends told tales of werewolves who stayed in their wolf form for so long, all traces of humanity vanished. Rumour had it that once this happened, the wolf would turn feral, and any living thing—human, fellow werewolves, even vampires—wouldn't stand a chance if attacked.
All sorts of nightmarish tales sprouted from these dark whisperings; the rabid white wolf of London, the russet-haired howler of Canada, and the vicious Hancock who lost his mate in a pack fight and swore revenge. Hancock turned wolf to track the killer, vowing he would not return to human form until he avenged her death. But he never found the wolf responsible, and legend continues to warn of how Hancock still roams, slaughtering entire packs in one night, no known man or beast able to stop him. As a kid, Michael often teased his friends with the tale, swearing he'd seen the huge wolf prowling near their home, moon highlighting the streak of grey fur which ran from Hancock's nose to tail.
Legends always hold a grain of truth, he reminded himself, brushing dust onto the newspaper spread on the floor. He may not have turned as wild as Hancock, but proof his humanity faded had been undeniable when he'd tracked that woman. It was the jolt he'd needed. Her scream had wrenched him right back to Blackwater Ridge and the horrific acts he'd carried out there. Never again did he want to cause fear like that in any person.
Michael shuffled sideways to work on a new section, taking a moment to regard the difference already made. He wouldn't dwell on the incident in the forest. Instead, he'd look towards the future and strive to leave the past behind. He'd never make peace with what he'd done; the lives he'd destroyed would never be paid for, not even by ending his own, which he'd considered. Guilt owned him now. Its clammy presence resided in his bones and had the right to do so until Mother Nature called time on his life.
How he should live that life was the burning question. He needed to find a neutral state, a place where he was neither happy nor remorse-ridden. Happiness, he didn't deserve, and remorse, as he'd already learned, allowed him to be swallowed by his animal side, which in time would smother his humanity. If his humanity evaporated, he'd be a danger to others—again. So what should he do?
Michael scrubbed harder, sending rust powder spilling down. Today had felt right; balanced, despite continuing to struggle with his caged wolf. What was it that made him tolerable to himself? He'd simply risen, eaten, and worked.
The scouring slowed as realisation came. Waking, eating, working, and sleeping; in those simple activities, he had existed in an indifferent state. There lay his answer. He would do nothing more—or less.
"Exist," he murmured, and with an accepting nod, returned to his task.