The Evening Wolf

By Olivia Barrington-Leigh

Five years have passed since the monster Alfred released to trap Jean Rene claimed its freedom. Alfred, wounded during his failed coup of the Wolfe Hunters, has finally regrouped, and moved his band of hunters into a new estate. The Wolfe family is split, Thomas has sworn fealty to the Sun Wolf and his White Queen and heads the king's guard, The Odin. Jean Rene and Diana's reign over the European wolves has been uncontested and they live in Jean Rene's childhood home - a castle - happily surrounded by a family made not of biology but a shared love and loss.
"Teeth closing around sinewy muscle, warm blood filling its mouth; the last of the man’s life drained from his body. When the slow, steady squirts of blood ceased when the heart stopped beating the beast roared in frustration. The man had been homeless and half starved. There had been little meat and he’d died too quickly. The beast liked eating while its prey’s heart beat strong within its body. He always saved it for last, relishing it like a piece of soft candy. Chewing the last of what was in his mouth he buried his snout in the opening in the man’s stomach, burrowing upward, beneath the ribcage, until he reached the heart. Still so warm that it was easy to imagine it pumping.
He was born a werewolf. He was made a monster."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivia Barrington-Leigh
• Release date: Sep 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310896811

Olivia Barrington-Leigh

Wife, mother, sister, lover...and one day, a damn fine storyteller.

Book preview

Prologue

The six-by-eight cell had been home for so long it was almost all he could remember. There was a short time before the four stone walls and straw-covered floor that reeked of waste and was infested with too many things to name. There was a time before pain and starvation, sleepless nights . . . before Master. The pup did a good job at not remembering what could have been; instead he spent his time getting through each day. For one day he would be bigger, stronger. Too bad it was not this day.

The sound of footfalls made him cower in the corner. His whimpering was loud; the sound competed with the echoing of his heart in his ears, and his breathing coming too quick. He was powerless to stop the warm stream that ran down his hunches, soaking the already water- logged straw when he heard the jingling of keys. The sounds he made were almost human as he pressed his body tight into the corner. His cries fell on deaf ears. They always did. He dared not fight or bite. A boot-covered foot in the side could break ribs. He knew from experience. These were the times he fought extra hard to forget what it felt like to be held in a warm, loving embrace, or the sound of a voice that promised the world, and every touch—tenderness. Sitting in the cell alone, he won the battle to forget the too short time he’d spent with his parents. It was only when he was being taken from the cell did he think of them. Many moons had passed since their slaughter, thirty-six to be exact. He knew because he remembered every day of his life. It made the short time he’d been on earth that much worse.

The man who opened the door was one of the nicer ones, which meant he didn’t fear for his life when the man stepped into the room. That didn’t stop him from burying his muzzle in the corner, filling his nose with the stench of mold, mildew and waste, even still, his heightened sense of smell allowed him to pick up on the human’s scent. It was one of the many things that set him apart. One of the reasons Master kept him.

The man crossed the room in a handful of strides. A large hand fisted his fur, grabbing him by his scruff. Come on mutt.

He was three years old, bigger than the day they’d taken him but not big enough. He was too terrified to enjoy in the fact that the man strained to carry him.

Soon—but not soon enough.

Doors lined the walls along the hallway at regular intervals like sentinels. Some were cells and others were where the pup was sent for conditioning. But the man didn’t stop at one of the doors, instead he headed for the end of the hall where he pushed opened a door. Night air cooled the pup’s body. He breathed fast and hard, not from fright, but to fill his lungs with fresh air, his tiny eyes darting in every direction. He loved outdoors, even if he only saw it for a few precious moments, on fewer days. The last thing he looked at was the moon: a full one. He threw his head back and howled, the sound not at all matching his previous disposition, nor did it match his body. Cheers from the barn punctuated the sound. His handler chuckled, raised his arm until he and the pup were eye to eye.

You’re going to win me a lot of money, aren’t you boy?

No, there was no reason to fear this human tonight, something much worse awaited him on the other side of the double-wood doors. The noise was almost too much once inside. While he dared not fight his handler, he did bare his teeth and growl at the screaming men they passed. It was like throwing fuel on an already blazing fire. The barn smelled of sweat and blood, piss and shit. It demanded more. Fists were raised in the air, mouths were opened and yelling, excitement was the order of the night. The man chucked the pup in the ring; the hard packed dirt did nothing to cushion his fall. And he was the nice one. A second pup was tossed in on the opposite side. The shouts of the men surrounding the ring were endless thunder. The pup’s opponent hackles were raised, its lips peeled back, saliva dripped in ropes from his mouth and a low menacing growl escaped its throat. None of it bothered the pup. He was afraid of the rooms inside the big house, afraid of most his handlers, but things were different in the barn. In the barn pain was a lover’s caress and killing a kiss.

He walked towards his opponent: low to the ground, focused, as silent as the grave. He tuned out the yelling men. It was only the two of them. The other pup (also black) was bigger from being well fed. But sometimes size really doesn’t matter. It isn’t the dog in the fight—it’s the fight in the dog. The opposing pup lunged; his flight across the space was impressive. The pup moved to the left, threw his head back and grabbed the landing pup’s neck. His opponent’s jaws clamped down on his back. The pain was bad, but not the worst. Not with what Master did to him on a regular basis. They rolled around on the blood-soaked dirt—a tangle of legs and paws. Claws slashing, teeth tearing, even their tails seemed to fight as they battled. Here in the ring, he had his revenge. What he couldn’t do to the men who held him prisoner was taken out on those unlucky enough to be thrown in the circle with him. The surprised and pained yep of the challenger was the sweetest music. There was no mercy; he tore the wolf’s throat out. And because he’d been denied food for so very long—he ate.

He was born a werewolf. He was made a monster.

****

Present day

Body odor and the acrid smell of the campfire drifted on the night’s breeze. It mingled with those of alcohol (which the man had drunk earlier) and marijuana (which he’d just finished smoking). The camper’s clothes matched his collapsible shelter. A patch in the crotch of his pants kept him decent. The knees were worn out, a square of color, darker than the rest of the pants but still faded, showed where a pocket had been. Denim was not what made the material stiff. The jeans were as dirty as they were ragged. Every edge on the thin sweater was unraveling and the tee-shirt beneath had a rip that traveled entirely around it. Only an inch of fabric held it on the threadbare top. His shoes were more duct and electrical tape than rubber and leather. After dumping the contents of a can of string beans in a pot, he settled down on a pile of blankets that would pull double duty serving as his bed later in the evening. The man lifted his face, basked in the soft light of the full moon. The thing hiding in the shadows mirrored the action; closing its eyes, inhaling deep, flaring its nostrils, marveling in the surrounding smells both human and not. Its ears twitched as it listened to the symphony that only deep country offered: toads, cicadas and night singing birds. It loved when the moon stole the sky from the sun. Movement from the man drew the creature’s attention back to the reason it was there. The man took a rag and pulled the pot from the fire. The beast allowed him to finish his meal. It would be his last.

Moving in silence that was a contradiction to its size, each step bunched thighs as thick as an average man’s waist. Its arms, ending past its knees, sported claw tipped fingers as sharp as any blade. Thick black fur covered its chest and thinned into a line as it traveled down its abdomen but covered its powerful back and limbs. The massive head sitting atop a thickly veined neck sported a protruding snout, pointy-tipped ears and teeth too long to fit in the beast’s mouth. His canines lengthened in anticipation of meeting flesh; his mouth watered as it readied itself for the taste of blood. But its eyes—its eyes were beautiful. It may worship the moon but it was the sun reflected when he was more animal than man—two burning, golden orbs that were bright as the star at noontime on a clear day. In calmer times its eyes were the color of molten metal. When its form broke and mended, melted like warm wax, reshaped itself and cooled; man, beast or animal, its eyes remained the same. When its body lied, its eyes told the truth. It was not human. It took a step forward like a nightmare emerging from dark waters.

Marijuana hadn’t dulled the primal instinct of self-preservation, the man was up and running before his stoned mind registered exactly what his eyes widened at the sight of. There was no time to scream, he used everything in him to run for his life. The beast stopped only long enough to howl. The blood-curdling sound filled the night, silencing every creature within hearing distance. There were predators, and then there was . . . more. A thing so deadly that the respect paid was not earned, not taken or given, it just was. Like the sun rising in the east, or the moon controlling the tide.

A few steps were all the man made before he was taken down from behind. His mouth opened in a silent scream because sometimes pain is so great it steals the ability to make sound. Claws dug deep, one in his back, the other in his thigh and he was flipped over. Ropes of saliva dropped on his panicked face, ran in rivers into his matted hair. The beast buried its nose in the man’s neck and inhaled. It was a lot like smelling good food before digging in. It was exactly that. Moving quick as a viper, it struck. Not at the neck but in the man’s side, giving the muted scream sustenance. The bite exposed spine.

The earth drank his life’s blood as greedily as the beast that fed off his flesh. Too weak from blood lost and shock to do more than whimper, the man prayed for unconsciousness. It was too much to watch himself being eaten alive. He’d never been a religious man but he thanked God as his vision blurred—then darkened.

Teeth closing around sinewy muscle, warm blood filling its mouth; the last of the man’s life drained from his body. When the slow, steady squirts of blood ceased when the heart stopped beating the beast roared in frustration. The man had been homeless and half starved. There had been little meat and he’d died too quickly. The beast liked eating while its prey’s heart beat strong within its body. He always saved it for last, relishing it like a piece of soft candy. Chewing the last of what was in his mouth he buried his snout in the opening in the man’s stomach, burrowing upward, beneath the ribcage, until he reached the heart. Still so warm that it was easy to imagine it pumping.

Chapter One

Josephine Baxter, Jo, to all she knew and loved, threw the last of what she needed for the weeklong trail-ride in the duffle bag. She was always surprised how her heart often spoke before her mind had a chance to process any and all requests spoken by her father. She’d been raised around horses but had never taken to them, and while she manned-up when needed, she thought her days of extended one on one time with them was over when she moved from the small quiet town her parents lived in, to the larger one she now called home. Jo zipped the red and black bag, closed the Velcro that held the straps together and threw the mammoth thing on the floor at the foot of her bed. Taking a deep breath, she replayed her morning routine in her head, going through each step in order to ensure she had all she needed. Sure, she was just traveling an hour down the road but she was going to be pissed if she got all the way there only to discover she’d left without her underwear, or her favorite lotion, or hairbrush or worse, a toothbrush. Checking off her mental list, she was satisfied all necessities rested within the confines of her duffle. Bed made, bathroom cleaned, dishes washed, dried and put away, she pulled on cowboy boots that were as old as your average junior high school student and looped a just as old belt through her jeans. The buckle was big, silver and gold. The boots she sometimes wore, they were cute. The belt and buckle hadn’t seen daylight in four, no, five years. She slung the duffle over her shoulder, the weight pulling her to one side, and walked through her two bedroom townhouse making sure all the lights were off, the iron wasn’t plugged in and the fridge door was closed. She didn’t have OCD; she was just thorough that way. She didn’t have much, but she loved her shit, wouldn’t do for it all to go up in flames because she’d left an appliance on.

The Jeep was black with a faded top and had thick-treaded tires that said it was off-road ready. It was a façade. The only time the car saw anything other than smooth asphalt was when she visited her parents, and only then because their driveway was dirt. She threw the bag in the back and hopped in. She enabled the Bluetooth speaker on the visor and called her mother before starting the ignition.

Hello love, her mother said a little breathless. The whinny of horses in the background brought back memories that never faded regardless of how much time she spent away. She could almost smell manure and hay.

I’m pulling out now, Jo said, swinging her arm across the passenger seat, turning her body so she could see as she backed out. I should be there in an hour.

Drive safe. We’ll be here. Randy and your father still have the wagon and feed to load.

Jo’s heart skipped a beat. Randy was her father’s stableman. Were they still called that? He was years younger than her, but legal, and hotter than Georgia asphalt in July. He was FINE, that’s right, all capitals, and Jo had been attracted to the barely legal young man for the last four years, when he wasn’t legal. He’d hooked up with the wrong crowd and was fast on his way to becoming a statistic. Her father was a pillar of the community. Not born and raised there, but an adoptive son of the people in a town that only had two traffic lights. Jo’s father opened his door to anyone in need. The town was the poorest in the state so the number was many. Countless troubled boys’ tides had been turned by the force of nature called Samuel Baxter, Randy just one more drop that made up an endless stream.

Jo was down for a weekend visit when she first saw the teenager with the body of a full grown man. Shirtless and handling a bale of hay like it weighed little more than a blade of grass, his sweat glistening skin showcased perfectly defined pecks and an abdomen that you could do your laundry on. His skin was as black as the ace of spades and flawless. She licked her lips at the memory.

Josephine?

I’m here.

Her mother chuckled, letting Jo know her fantasy wasn’t as secret as she thought. God, she hoped she wasn’t as transparent to Randy. It would be too embarrassing. Seeing how he was twenty one and she was pushing damn near thirty. Not that that was old, but still.

I’ll see you soon, she said suddenly ready to get off the phone.

Mm hmm, her mother said and was laughing out loud when Jo ended the call.

Jo pulled onto the freeway headed home. Seven years ago she’d left for college and two semesters in she’d left, not mentioning to her parents that she’d really flunked out. Not because she couldn’t do the work (she’d been a straight A student in high school) but because her heart wasn’t in it. She hadn’t gone to her classes, partying away the days instead of spending them with the world closing in on her one lecture at a time. The problem with Jo was she couldn’t decide what she wanted to spend the rest of her life doing. So she’d left after stealing her grades from the post office so her parents wouldn’t be disappointed in her, or anymore disappointed, since dropping out was pretty damn disappointing in itself. They’d been so loving and understanding she still choked up thinking about it. She found a job and then her tiny townhouse thinking she’d take a year off, maybe two, until she decided how she wanted to spend the rest of her life. Her two year plan hadn’t worked out, and she’d moved on to a five year. She was happy, satisfied in a life where she earned enough money to pay bills, buy a library of books and go out once in awhile.

Jo’s parent’s home was small and built in a time when insulation was a thing of the future. If you pulled up the wood floors you’d see the ground. The same could be said for the walls. But it had charm, and more importantly it was home. Chicken’s scattered as she pulled into the backyard and parked next to the RV. Jo cut the engine and got out; shielding her eyes she looked in the direction of the barn. The Adonis, aka Randy, had a fifty pound bag of feed slung over one shoulder and was carrying a second. Even from where she stood she could make out how his muscles bunched beneath his fitted shirt and jeans. His cream colored cowboy hat hid his face but Jo didn’t need to see it. Her mind’s eye saw his chiseled features, thick, long lashes, dimples, and a set of full kissable lips. She shook her head to clear it.

Josephine!

Jo turned and looked into the face of her beaming father. He was always so glad to see her, like she lived on the opposite side of the country and rarely called, instead of her two towns over and called at least once a week.

Her words were just as glee filled. Daddy!

Her mom came out of the RV right as her dad straightened his six-five frame with Jo’s arms still around his neck. She was a small woman, only five-three. She’d gained little weight since her high school days and most of it was in her hips.

How’s work? He asked lowering her back to solid ground.

Fine, good, Jo answered leaving his strong arms and going to hug and kiss her mom.

I’m glad you made it. He spoke from behind her. Jo’s mom rolled her eyes when she leaned back from their hug.

Her dad had organized the trail-ride, but she was sure her mother had done most of the work organizing everything. Getting in touch with people, keeping track of how many riders were coming, buying food and any other supplies needed. It ended on Sunday after a weekend rodeo. Her mother had a fulltime job, a fulltime paying job; her second job was working fulltime for her husband. His picture was next to the word: hard-worker, in the dictionary.

Of course, wouldn’t miss it for the world, Jo said. Her mother gave her the bullshit lip.

Help your mother while I check on Randy.

Jo watched her dad walk away, glancing in the direction of the barn. Randy took his hat off and whipped his forearm across his face before throwing a hand up. She returned the wave smiling like a damn idiot. One of these days . . .

She took her bag out of the Jeep and put it in the camper. Fifty people had signed up for the trail ride. Jo tried not to think about the upcoming ride. She’d ride a horse because she knew it would please her father. But she would much rather be in the wagon with her parents. Her father had more than six. The one he’d take today was painted emerald green and had a tan canvas cover. It was straight out of Little House on the Prairie. A team of four draft horses would pull it. Jo’s father didn’t know how to do anything halfway. It was the biggest and best for him when it came to his toys. She stretched, preparing mentally and physically for the day. It was going to be hard work, but satisfying, and fun. With her father there was no other kind.

Chapter Two

Jo loved her parents. She really did. The fact that she was setting up a tent after riding a horse long enough to make her bowlegged was testament of it. They’d started the ride at ten, taking breaks along the way and made it to camp about an hour ago. It was summer and the sun had about three more good hours in the sky. Most of the tents were already up. Okay, they were all up, every one of them but hers. But prideful person that she was, she refused the offered help of the other riders. Dammit, no tent was going to get the better of her. She was smart and able bodied. She should be able to get the thing standing.

Are you sure you don’t want any help?

The voice behind her made her want to scream in frustration and smile at the same time. Her dad had that effect on