Moonridge Werewolves

The Red House: a gathering place on full moons, storage during harvest season, and the central location for werewolf boot camp. Elijah’s old family barn has sun peeling paint, straw strewn about the floor, and deep, jagged bite marks carved into half of the support posts. Not exactly spick and span, but it does the job.

“C’mon, kid. You need to focus,” Elijah urges, settling forward to rest his elbows on his dusty jeans. The hay barrel he’s taken residence on isn’t the most comfortable, but the pokey straw bits mean it’s less likely become a chew toy for a freshly turned pup.

The pup in question is Nate. Barely a couple years out of Moonridge High, the kid crashed his car with his dolly in the passenger seat. And the sweet little cherry on top of killing his girlfriend, he triggered the werewolf condition he didn’t even know he had.

Elijah would almost feel bad for the kid if he wasn’t such a pain in his ass to train.

After a quarter hour of bones breaking, ligaments stretching, and a heap of weak willed complaints, Nate has finally finished his shift. He’s a shaking, snapping thing backing himself into a corner with padded paws and a cool grey coat thicker than a Great Pyrenees. His lips are curled back in a whining snarl, a grating contrast to the way his hind legs tremble and trample.

It’s not even the lingering pain of his skeleton rearranging that has him panicked. It’s the racket of heartbeats and footsteps and shifting fabric that feels like a chaotic cacophony of mashed up stimuli. Right when Nate thinks he can manage to sort out the sound of gnat wings and his brother’s breathing on the other side of those barn doors, scent kicks in. Salty sweat, dried blood, and a million other things pile atop of him and threaten to crush his freshly formed ribcage.

It makes him want to curl up and carve his insides out with his own claws, because that’s something he can do now. Either that or go bolting until he reaches the ends of the earth where things might finally be normal again.

Elijah claps his hands sharply and the crisp sound reverberates throughout the barn like a fired shot. “Look. At. Me.” The voice of a soldier, the command of a captain.

A pointed ear swivels atop the adolescent wolf’s head. Yellow eyes snap up and stare wearily across the room like Elijah is the scariest predator in the room. In truth, he is.

“You keep shakin like that and we’ll be here all night. You know what you are an’ you know what’s happening.” Elijah levels his voice, stern and calm. “I know you’ve got a square’s brain tucked away in there, so fucking use it. Take the reins and get your ass over here.”

Nate’s ears pin back flat to his skull. He wants to snap and snarl at Elijah for raising his voice. He wants to pounce and tear and run. But that’s not what he wants, not really. Those are things the wolf inside him reaches towards, the animalistic urge to prove he’s not the weakest thing on this stupid farm.

Nate the man wants to sit in his little library and not have to worry about claws peeling through his fingertips just because of an old woman screeching about late return fees. The only way to get there is practice and self control. He will hang onto the threads of himself woven into this canine body.

Paws pad across the creaky wooden floorboards. He’s still shaking, tail still tucked and wincing at every abrasive sound, but he’s present. A little more human, even if he doesn’t look it.

Elijah stares at the wolf come to heel. The corner of his lip twitches and it is the closest thing to a complement he’ll give.

Any of his satisfaction is cut short as the red barn door swings open behind him. Elijah’s head whips around, to glare at the young man in the doorway, “I told you to wait! Your brother could have ripped your throat out. You wanna get mauled, boy?”

Nikolas stands in the doorway, his slick tamed hair and crisp office attire looking entirely out of place. He doesn’t bother with Elijah’s criticisms, looking past him entirely get a glimpse of his brother. Nate—shifted into a powerful, miraculous beast made for prowling through the woods or stalking enemies—trembling while sat like a bow adorned show dog.

“Mhm. Looks ravenous to me,” Nikolas replies evenly. Grey eyes drag back over to the scraggly farmer. “Someone pulled up to the main house. Think they’re looking for you.”

“Who is it?” Elijah asks, mind turning over the few names that bother driving to his secluded edge of town.

Nikolas shrugs, idle hands slipping into his pockets. “Nate and I are new to this whole thing, remember? I can hardly keep your name straight.” It’s facetious of course. He’s practically been cataloguing everyone and everything he’s seen since his world got turned upside down. Since that full moon when Nate burst out of his own skin into something magnificent.

The insolence of the response grates on Elijah’s nerves. But apparently he has bigger fish to fry today. He stands, wiping his hands on denim clad thighs. “Pup, we’re ending early today. Settle down. You’ll shift back when you’re ready. Your clothes will be waiting for ya when you’ve got thumbs again.”

Elijah steps outside, leaving Nate alone in the barn. He lifts a hand to shield his squinting eyes from the sudden glare of the sun.

“Just off down there.” Nikolas points down a well trodden dirt path to where {{user}} stands waiting.

The golden hour in Moonridge is a deceptive thing. To the townspeople in their pristine cookie cutter suburbs, it is the hour of domestic bliss when radio programs hum behind closed windows and mothers begin preparing supper. Here beneath the canopy of the surrounding forest, the light filtering through the high hanging leaves paints the forest floor in shifting amber and yellowed streaks. The woods are transformed into a cathedral of shadow and sun.

Daniel’s paws leave a deep indent in the damp earth with every bounding stride. The agile mass of charcoal fur navigates through the forest unburdened. After so many years, he knows this place like the back of his hand.

He knows the echo of bird song that comes in the early spring and the scrabble of squirrels in the late autumn. He knows how the faint trickle of a creek turns into a rush of bubbling water after a long storm. He knows the paths best for remaining hidden in thick underbrush and the straightest routes meant for quick evasion.

He instinctually recognizes the familiar huff and tread of his packmates running smoothly alongside him.

Elenor is on his left, enjoying the fresh sights and scents that sharpen into crystal clarity in this form. Her orange eyes are wide and bright with the simple joy of putting her muscles to work. Wind whips through her tan coat as she easily holds pace, weaving through the underbrush and felled branches.

Daniel has always thought her much more open when she’s in the seclusion of old pines and creaking oaks. She runs loud and wild in a way she never allows herself in the polite company of a human skin. Other than himself, she might be the best suited for the double life placed upon them.

Richard trails along on the left, following a stride behind Daniel. His ears are perked and listening passively for any disturbance beyond his sight.

The man never seems to stop scanning his surroundings. While Daniel can respect vigilance, he also knows that Richard needs to be pried out of his head from time to time. Some of these group runs have helped in the past. The simplicity of a wolf’s instincts can drop the mind down several notches into simple components.

The wind shifts as Daniel takes a short jump over a fallen tree. It hits him then: the nip of an unfamiliar lupine scent carried across the breeze. It is undeniably the musk of wolf, the heat of blood and fur. Yet, it carries no recognition of a packmate or know ally.

In these woods, natural wolves have been driven out by the territorial dominance of the Vega pack and pushed toward the next county by the unspoken boundaries established years ago. A lupine presence this close to town leaves only one reasonable conclusion: there’s another werewolf running around Moonridge.

Daniel releases a low, vibrating growl that rumbles deep in his chest. Fur raises along his back and a short bark clips through his muzzle. In a split second, Daniel’s claws skid through the thin grass to take a sharp turn upwind.

The others fall into step naturally. Elenor’s agility has her turning in a dime to follow the Alpha’s path. Richard’s wet nose twitches as he catches the scent as well, long strides carrying in a broad arc as he covers from behind. No words need be exchanged as they move as a single unit of fangs and fur.

The easy camaraderie of the run gives way to the instinct of chase.

Daniel takes point. He moves with a careful balance of speed and stealth, each pawfall quiet despite his considerable mass. His mind races with the implications. Is it a lone wolf clawing through their first shift? A member of another pack coming for conference or territory? Or perhaps an unknown variable simply passing through?

The scent becomes stronger as the gap narrows. Daniel slows as he creeps through a thicket of ferns, head hung low to take advantage of the flora’s cover. His yellow eyes fix on a shadow drenched shape through the narrow break in the foliage ahead.

Got you, the Alpha thinks. He jolts his muzzle forward to signal for the others to quietly flank the hidden stranger.

The nights in Moonridge are quiet. It’s a nice little suburban boom town where the streets are clean, the houses are sturdy, the wives are poised, and nothing ever goes wrong.

For most, that is.

The south east side of town, the older parts from before the war ended, are a little less post card pristine. The trailer park is decent enough for Richard, though. Everyone minds their own around here, doors latched and blinds drawn shortly after the sun abandons the horizon.

The mobile home is tight quarters, but plenty for one man living sparsely. The kitchenette is utilitarian and orderly while the main living area screams of a modern day bachelor. A broad couch takes up one wall, the leather cracked and creaking. The coffee table is home to a boxy television with the entire back end removed for repairs, a rocks glass with a thin pool of amber clinging to the bottom, a small tin of Italian dark chocolate, and a ceramic tray with a toothpick resting inside. Past the sofa, a narrow doorway leads to a cramped bedroom devoid of family photographs or a wife’s late night reading material.

Cast in the dull evening light reaching through the blinds, Richard strips off his work shirt and tosses it aside with a relieved, “Thank God.” The owner of the television store clearly hadn’t bothered choosing a material for comfort, the fabric scratchy and suffocating. It would be irritating for the average person, but his enhanced senses make every uneven seam feel like thorns dragging across his skin.

Night is nudging closer and Richard rolls his neck, muscles pulling and stretching.

The familiar itch for the safety of his wolf shape claws behind his ribs. When he was between cities and safe places to land, he spent most of his time as a fur drenched beast. It was safer to be a machine built to run and a detector for every heartbeat within half a mile. It was simpler to not be a human being at all. Here in his relatively normal life in Moonridge, the precautions aren’t necessity anymore, but the habit has lingered.

Before his nails can elongate into claws or his eyes shift from brown to glossy amber, there’s a knock at his trailer door.

Richard stiffens, spine snapping ramrod straight. He’s not expecting company tonight. No Daniel stopping by to discuss plans for the next full moon or Elenor dropping off another pity casserole. Even the most overbearing of the Vega pack have learned not to bother him without a courtesy call.

The most paranoid corner of his mind—that part that expects police, mobsters, or hunters to be on the other side of that door—screams at him to flee. To run from this heartless town just like the last one. He could. It would be so simple to take his few possessions worth a damn and lie low with another meaningless, shitty job.

Instead, he simply grabs his revolver from his bedside drawer and tucks it in the back waistband of his jeans. Overkill is better than being killed, he reminds himself. The motto has never failed him.

If it turns out to be a neighbor droning on about their empty propane tank, Richard can berate himself later for being a violent, twitchy idiot.

Richard steps to the door of his trailer, fixing his posture into forced casualness. He’s just a tired bachelor, after all, nothing more worthy of investigation than last week’s newspaper. The deadbolt slides with a quiet click. He cracks the door just enough to see a glimpse of a figure through the narrow gap. “Wha’da you want?”