The Worst Werewolf Read online

  A NINESTAR PRESS PUBLICATION

  www.ninestarpress.com

  THE WORST WEREWOLF

  ISBN #978-1-945952-66-1

  Copyright 2017 Jacqueline Rohrbach

  Cover Art by Natasha Snow ©Copyright 2017

  Edited by Cora Walker

  Published in 2017 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, NineStar Press, LLC.

  Warning

  This book contains sexually explicit content, which is only suitable for mature readers, violence, and death of children.

  THE WORST WEREWOLF

  THE IMMUTABLE MOON

  JACQUELINE ROHRBACH

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One: The Bloodservant

  Part Two: The Worst Werewolf

  Part Three: Devil with a Blue Dress

  About the Author

  DEDICATION

  To my husband. This book is what you get for saying, “Write whatever you want!”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Mike Mattison, thank for your help and support. You suffered through the early drafts and helped me make a story out of a tragic mess. Anna Kaling, thank you for being an awesome beta reader. Your comments really helped me see the manuscript’s weak spots! L.M. Langley, I might have gone nuts without your pep talks. Thanks!

  Susan Pratt, Shaffer and Amy Claridge, Dan and Matt, and Michael Hanscom and Prairie Brown: thank you all for being awesome, supportive friends. Big shout out to Shaffer and Amy for letting me pay them in baked goods. Also, thanks for not calling me a total idiot when I needed my fingers for math-based games. You at least waited until I left.

  Thank you, Mom and Dad. I know you thought I was crazy when I started this project.

  Big thanks to NineStar Press for taking me on as an author. Very excited to work with you all, and I appreciate the opportunity to do so!

  PROLOGUE: YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME, MOON

  I enjoy eating people the most when the moon is in its crescent stage. Those strangled utterances, those blood-soaked-urine-stench denials where you turn to me and say, “But the moon isn’t full.” It’s your fault. You’re far too enamored of the mystical powers we give rock. Half, full, quarter. The cycles are only shadows.

  I get it, though. You’re attached to what you think we ought to be. The hopelessly cursed writhing about on the floor, clawing and heaving out of our skins until monsters bend and twist upward from the wreckage, howling before we zoom off to go kill what we love most in the world.

  You were told so many things that it’s going to be disappointing to hear about how awesome being a werewolf is. It’s nearly impossible to kill me, I have a fabulous head of hair, and I never met a problem I couldn’t eat. The transition from man to wolf is painless, like slipping on a much beloved sweater before running off to kill something.

  Misconceptions abound.

  We’re not big skulkers in our everyday lives. We even go to conferences wearing T-shirts that say, “Blame Bigfoot.” Sort of an inside joke. And I resent the notion I—or any of my kind—seek out promiscuous teenagers like some punitive abstinence-only education. Pure and simple, I’m an opportunist. Teenagers out in the woods alone and having sex are distracted, isolated, and vulnerable. Plus, you get two for the same amount of effort it would normally take to get one. All in all a low-risk, high-reward proposition.

  You’ll find most werewolves are similarly pragmatic feeders. What we are doesn’t demand we eat virgins, evildoers, do-gooders, loved ones, or any particular classification of people. What we are doesn’t even require that we kill. It simply requires that we feed.

  That’s not to say that we don’t have limits. Most of us won’t target children unless we’re desperate. It’s also not to say that we don’t ever have motivations. Everything else takes a backseat to the necessity of it all. I might prefer to eat bad people, but I’ll eat whatever is convenient when I’m hungry enough.

  Here is where we prefer the version of events we sold to you. Hapless victims of moon and circumstance who slipped and fell on your throats only to wake the next morning with some dreading sense of what have I done are far more sympathetic than monsters who made the choice to kill.

  * * *

  I’m a Moondog.

  The Isangelous and the Varcolac, the self-described trueborn werewolf packs, see the similarities between Moondogs and them as the trivial stretch of space where dirt touches sky. Technically, it’s there. That’s all there is to say about it.

  My kind will never be authentic werewolves like margarine will never be real butter. We’ve got the magic, we’ve got the hair, we’ve got the teeth. Somehow, though, we don’t have enough of it for our trueborn kin, who catch us and cull us the same way humans thin out unwieldy deer populations. And for the same reason.

  Food is limited. Moondogs hunt, we kill, we eat. Usually.

  Our reasons are as varied as we are. Scattered, often nomadic, my kind are a breed stuck in the miscellaneous folder. One pack might kill because it makes good, practical sense. Another because they enjoy it. There are even a few packs who keep their humans around as pets the way the trueborn do. Bloodservants they call them.

  My pack calls the bloodservant system slavery. Freedom is important to us, even yours to a certain extent. Killing you rather than enslaving you is a courtesy. Eating you is practical. Bodies talk, and not all of us want to be storytellers.

  * * *

  Telling someone you’re a werewolf is pretty much a commitment to eat him later. Many of us confess anyway, mostly newcomers and sadists. No matter the reason, no matter how innocuous or vile the intent, those conversations have a certain trajectory to them.

  My therapist thinks the werewolf is something I created, my way of dealing with a trauma he’s going to uncover after enough tell-me-about-your-mother sessions. Eventually I’m going to eat him. People have a difficult time accepting the randomness of it. One day you’re a court-appointed therapist so sure that the person sitting across from you is confused, possibly insane. Then, your car breaks down on an isolated road, and the poor, deluded man you’ve been helping along appears with some very bad news. His monster is quite literal.

  And that’s the truth of it. There is no karma, no overarching system of justice. My street address is at the intersection of time and opportunity. If you and I are there, and I’m hungry… I’ll eat you. Because that’s what predators do.

  * * *

  Don’t stab me with your silverware. It won’t hurt me. I’m still going to kill you. Now it’s going to be painful.

  * * *

  Vampires exist. They’re not the suave, sophisticated monsters of lore people love to hate and desire. Created to destroy humanity, they are a biological weapon manufactured with one mandate—feed. One can become hundreds in days. Millions after. The disease they carry takes the rest.

  Wolves had a natural immunity. Surviving victims of the undead found themselves subject to a magical experiment of merging beast DNA with human. An oopsy daisy with the same blood hunger was born.

  I’ve eaten so many nerds who could not accept it, who could not let go of their precious, precious lore. It’s worse than the moon thing. Honestly, I seek them out in bookstores. I linger by the comic book section, knowing one always comes along at some point.

  “Oh,” my
know-it-all nerd will say, “I don’t like that one because the werewolves are not realistic.”

  “Absolutely,” I’ll say back, and before I know it, we’re talking about it over coffee. He’s ripping apart the absurdity of comic-book werewolves while I’m memorizing the scent so I can rip him apart later. At some point I’ll ask, “What about werewolves who drink blood?”

  Those delicious little geeks and dweebs can’t help but argue. “That’s vampires!” If I persist—and I often do—most leave, huffily looking over their shoulders as if to tell everyone else in proximity, The nerve of this guy. Telling them I don’t have to eat them is a must in the final seconds. I could just drink their blood, leaving them dizzy, confused, and unharmed. But they insisted a werewolf who does this could not exist. Who am I to argue?

  * * *

  Tovin didn’t remember this when I asked him about it, but that’s how I first met him. There he was…this green-eye, shy-smile masterpiece I was going to make a Happy Meal—fuck, and then eat. There I was at the table saying to the universe, “The usual, please.” Then, somewhere in the middle of the routine, he became unusual and said, “It could happen. Why not? Maybe they have a salt deficiency.”

  It was so adorably specific.

  * * *

  This started out as a love letter if you can believe it. Anyone will tell you I’m prone to this sort of thing—off track, side-tracked, drifting along until finally arriving back at the same point, only to get off track again. Somewhere in the middle of writing my letter, it occurred to me that it wasn’t who I am. Despite all those times I placed my nose against his head to sniffle up his familiar dander, I ended right back at the beginning, as a werewolf who likes to kill people in those small moments when they think they’re safe.

  I didn’t eat him, if you’re worried about that. Those normal things that would have tipped me over the edge—snoring, farting, arguing, moralizing—somehow became endearing with Tovin. Small changes, more like accommodations, came over me until I big-spooned him like a chump. Now that he’s gone, I look back on our love like I look at peanut butter and banana sandwiches. It was moment where the universe bent its will and allowed something to be awesome despite everything working against it. Yeah, it said, I’m going to let this just be.

  Of course, it couldn’t last. I could go on for days listing people I ate and then told him I didn’t. Before you think too poorly of me, keep in mind that the lies I told were no more egregious than the questions he didn’t ask. Really, though, I want whomever you might be to find my green-eyed, shy-smile exception so you can tell him what I can’t.

  Tell him the moon is full.

  PART ONE

  THE BLOODSERVANT

  CHAPTER ONE: LIVE ACTION ROLE PLAY

  The speech began with a “Did you know that?” and expanded like the infinite universe. Garvey felt the collective agitation of the people around him who were waylaid by the speaker. Their polite recognition of the man’s existence somehow turned into a half-hour explanation of medieval shoe making. Don’t worry, Garvey wanted to tell the captive audience, I’m going to kill him for you. Well, more for himself. But they would benefit in the long run.

  “Are you stalking someone?” Mazgan towered above Garvey because he was too good to sit on cheap lawn furniture. He twisted his head in the general direction Garvey was looking. He wouldn’t see anything too obvious. Colt—the great shoe orator—was way off in the distance.

  Garvey hesitated. “Well—”

  “Stop. I need you focused.”

  Focused for what? All Mazgan ever did was talk. Besides, as a modern werewolf, Garvey knew how to multitask. He could hunt and listen at the same time. The uppity, self-aggrandizing Alpha Guardian from the Varcolac pack would nag until Garvey was servile and attentive. He put on his best show of being meek and said, “Yes, Alpha Guardian.” The title fumbled out of his mouth. Moondogs like Garvey didn’t buy into honorifics. Saying them now tasted like treason.

  “As you know…” Mazgan began the usual speech, a protracted, theatrical time sink Garvey had heard at least a hundred times by now. Blah, blah, blah. Go to the door between worlds and get vampires.

  The Door wasn’t very impressive. Always far more practical than whimsical, wolves were not much for show. It was exactly as advertised. A large motherfucking door. The frame of it was dragon bone—cut clean, symmetrical like any other frame. But the actual doorway hid in a casing of wood. Despite its drab appearance, it had a power almost anyone could feel. Garvey wanted to experience it again.

  At first, the plan felt like a grand adventure that was most definitely going to happen. Mazgan even had him go on a practice run. Then disappointments began to heap up afterward—one on top of the other—as the alpha delayed. Perfect moment, he kept saying, we must wait.

  There were only moments in Garvey’s mind. And they were what one made of them.

  Dwelling on such things wouldn’t feed him. Either Mazgan would eventually get around to sending him after the vampires or he wouldn’t. Afterward, they’d either use the vampires to kill humans or not. Until then, listening to the scheme was more drudgery than thrill. Garvey let his senses drift back out to the crowd, back to the hunt, when he was sure Mazgan was too caught up in the I’m-so-great moment of his speech to notice.

  Humans were everywhere. They hobbled along in their makeshift period costumes. Even the fake vampires and werewolves in attendance were trapped in a time where lords, ladies, and peasants all inhabited the same space, ate meat on a stick, and mangled Old English.

  Mazgan was miserable around them. Getting him to see the utility of the venue was a long, violent process. There were lingering marks across Garvey’s back where the Alpha Guardian’s claws tore into his flesh. But here they were. As Garvey watched a green-faced woman whack away at something on the ground with a foam club, he couldn’t help but feel that all the pain had been worth it. Live action role-playing—or LARPing as the humans called it—was hilarious.

  “Can you get access to one of the portals to the Door?”

  The last bit made Garvey snap to attention. Once Mazgan started his speech, he rarely asked questions. For once, maybe they were going to do something. “Yes, I can.” Mazgan raised an eyebrow higher and higher until Garvey addressed him properly. “Yes, I can, Alpha Guardian. There’s one in the Boo Hag library.”

  “You mean the Isangelous.” Mazgan raised his eyebrow at Garvey’s use of the common pejorative for the Isangelous pack. Such insults were off limits to wolves of Garvey’s status. Happily, Mazgan moved on without a violent reminder. “They’ll let you in there? You are certain of this?”

  Garvey nodded. Mazgan couldn’t make him tag on an honorific title to a head gesture. The other wolf gave him a narrow-eyed, skeptical look. A natural-born screw-up and a Moondog, a pack of other screw-ups, castoffs, and exiles, Garvey understood he wasn’t exactly known for his efficacy. A guarantee from him wouldn’t mean much. Time to change topics. “When do you want me to go?”

  “Soon.” The dismissive tone didn’t do much for Garvey’s hopes. “You are going to get Lavario’s bloodservant next week?”

  Garvey repressed a sigh. “Yes, Alpha Guardian. Next week.”

  “That needs to go poorly.”

  “How poorly, Alpha Guardian? Like, kill the guy?” Garvey did not want to do that. There was no reason for it as far as he could tell. Plus, the guy was smoking hot. Garvey planned on having himself a taste of that. This would be impossible if Tovin, the bloodservant, were to die. Or if he got rejected at distribution, which was pretty much the same thing.

  Eyes narrowed, nostrils flared. After a long pause, Mazgan smoothed down his hair, already slicked back with a heavy oily product, and snapped his teeth shut like a bear trap. “Do as you are told.”

  The welts on Garvey’s back itched. He looked to his left, then right. There were so many people around he doubted Mazgan would try anything. “Kill him, Alpha Guardian?” Garvey asked again. He’d pay for it. But t
hat was later.

  “It can go that far, but does not need to.” Mazgan finally said after a long, seethe-filled pause.

  Garvey thought about it right up until he saw a vein pop. “Damaged goods it is, Alpha Guardian.”

  “Excellent.” Mazgan clapped his hands together. “And Garvey.”

  “What?” The Mazgan paused again. Seriously. “What, Alpha Guardian?”

  “Make sure everyone knows it was you who caused all the fuss.”

  Garvey chuckled. “I promise the boy will have my scent all over him.”

  * * *

  White plastic tables occupied by hucksters selling a variety of nonsensical goods—enchantments, cures to enchantments, and various pin-on ears—outlined the field area where the gathering took place. A human female with a red and yellow glittery star taped to her forehead breezed past and shouted, “Flameball!” A male fell the ground where he convulsed and screamed until an ally, some whelp wearing a makeshift cape, shouted, “Extinguish!”

  Occasionally, it occurred to Garvey that he looked ridiculous. It hit home now as he adjusted his fake werewolf ears, these grotesquely long and pointed things made of plastic and sadness. But he’d made himself a promise to feed on Colt. Few other werewolves were so dedicated to a particular outcome—unlucky humans bumbling their way into hungry mouths were plentiful enough that it wasn’t necessary to latch on to one. But stalking his food enriched his life. Garvey learned to ski, fish, knit, paint, and dance all during the chase. LARPing was the latest on the list.

  “Garvey. Garvey.” Contingency A, some human he might kill instead of Colt, poked him in the side to get his attention. The two other sour humans in the group had given up trying to engage him a long time ago and just sat there trading cards with each other.

  “Yes?”

  “What about your princess?”

  He had a princess? He’d told so many lies he couldn’t remember. “She died.”