When I was growing up, I had two constants in my life that made all of the bad things seem okay. The first was my mother, who was murdered on the night that I first became the wolf. The second was my sister, Lissa, who stuck by my side through the worst of my young adulthood, constantly in danger from people who wanted to shoot me full of silver bullets. Worse than that, she lived under the fear that what happened to me - the curse - would happen to her as well.

And eventually, it did happen to her. But she was cured, her lycanthropic genes destroyed (accidentally, 'cause I know the fucker didn't do it on purpose) by a psychopath named Glitternight. Good for her, because while I suffered through life a slave to a curse, she got to move on to a somewhat normal existence. It's not her fault that the two of us grew apart, and it's certainly not her fault that we don't speak to one another anymore.

It's my fault. It's always my fault.

"Jack?" she asks, wisely keeping her distance from me across the threshold of the bathroom door while I towel off my rain-soaked head.

"Yeah, I'm here," I answer, not really knowing what to say to the young woman who's become my sister in name only.

"I didn't want to come to you, Jack," Lissa tries to explain, "but I didn't have a choice. These men, they've been after me ever since Dad's funeral a few months ago. I tried to find you earlier, but didn't have much luck."

"I've been out of town," I reply, the gears of thought turning in my water-logged mind. "Tell me something, Sis...how exactly did you even know where to look for me? It's not like you can just look me up in the white pages these days."

She doesn't answer right away, her eyes focused on her feet as she chews nervously on her fingernails. "I don't know how to say this, but..." She pauses, and then twitches slightly. "I saw Dad, Jack. Or his ghost, or something, I don't know. He told me where to go, said you were shacked up with some girl. I didn't know what else to do, so I listened to his directions and ran here. Sybil found me outside the apartment, near exhaustion."

"That's Gypsy for you," I say with a forced laugh, "bringing dogs in from the storm."

If anything, my forced attempts at levity could easily be construed as a crude defense mechanism. Since it's been years upon years since we last really had a conversation, Dad's funeral not withstanding, Lissa doesn't really understand. The girl's been hunted like an animal for months, and I come to her with the slapstick routine. Arguably not my brightest move, but let's face it people...I've never claimed to be the brightest light bulb in the box.

"Look, Lissa, I'm sorry," I say after I finally notice that she's two harsh words away from freaking the fuck out. I toss the towel into the sink and move toward her, only to see her shrink back at my advancement.

"No, I'm sorry," she says, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, "I'm just tired. I need to sleep. Think we can talk about this tomorrow?"

"Sure, Sis," I answer, clumsily turning away from her, "in the morning. We'll work it all out, I promise."

As she walks out the room, flicking off the bedroom light with her finger, she smiles back at me. "I love you, Jack...but don't make promises you can't keep."

With the light from the bathroom putting the dark bedroom into harsh contrasts of shadow, I stumble in and fall face first on the bed. Lissa isn't the only one who's exhausted, but even with my body and mind as tired as it is I can't keep the events of the past night from invading my thoughts. Cracking my eyes open, I roll my head over to the side and take a look at the thick book sitting on the nightstand. My dad's journal, stolen from a supernatural library populated by the Devil...a book that could possibly contain my own personal Holy Grail.

He said it had the cure for lycanthropy somewhere in its untranslated pages. I don't even want to consider the implications of another cure dangling in front of my nose, only for it to be yanked away under the veil of discrimination. I can only be smacked in the face by the rolled-up newspaper of harsh truth so many times before I learn not to shit on the carpet, y'know?

"There you are, Jack," a voice purrs from the bedroom door, closed behind her with a click of the lock. Sybil Dvorak owns this apartment, and it's not hard to figure out why she's letting me stay here with her. "We have a few hours before daylight...plenty of time for some bloody hanky-panky."

She's on me before I can even start to protest, her robe opened to reveal her naked body beneath. Sybil sometimes goes by the name Gypsy Moth, and while our history together is muy complicated and has way too many references to a zombie named Digger that likes to beat people to death with a shovel, I can tell you quickly that she's a mutant. Tactile telekinesis is what she calls it, meaning she can manipulate fabric, hair, and other soft tissues with her mind.

Suffice it to say, that makes her one dynamite lay. "Gypsy, wait a minute," I protest, admittedly half-heartedly, "my fucking sister is in the next room. I'm a little creeped out."

Not surprisingly, that makes her even spryer. "Would you like me to invite her to join us? It's been far too long since I was ravaged by siblings."

"Come on," she whispers into my ear before biting it hard with her teeth, "let the beast out to play."

I see her smile as the change takes me over, my clawed hands raking deep, bloody grooves into her back. She loves the danger, the threat of death that comes with fucking a werewolf. And I know, even as I let loose a howl that I'm sure the entire building can hear, that once that danger is gone...she will be, too.

For Mature Readers Only

# 12
October '06

Strange Tales Presents

Savage Tales
featuring Werewolf by Night

All the Rage
Part One of Five

Written by Chris Munn

The sun has come up, finally bringing an end to the storm - both literally and figuratively - that has ravaged the city and my life over the past few hours. Sybil lies asleep in the bed, her hedonism apparently extending to sleeping in late on a weekday, while I lean carelessly over the steel rail of the balcony. New York, New York: a hell of a town that I know I sure as fuck wouldn't want to live in, much less die. I admit, while the easy explanation for my mid-morning meandering on the balcony could be attested to simply not wanting to smoke inside, I'm really hiding - just like I always do. I'm hiding from Lissa and the questions that I know are going to come up eventually.

The last time I was in New York, five long years ago, I fled from persecution. I murdered some people...or at least, I think I did. Those last few days before I ran to the wilds of the forest are a haze, a blur that hasn't become any clearer over time. All I know is that people are dead, and I'm the most likely suspect. I mean, I am a fucking werewolf, after all.

I rub my eyes, trying like hell to remove the crusty build-up accumulated during my brief period of rest. I really should lie down, try to sleep some more, but I'm to that point where exhaustion has set in so firmly that I can't sleep. So instead I just finish the last drag of my cigarette and toss the butt off the balcony, hoping that it hits some yuppie passerby on the street below. Death from above by a spent cigarette, what a way to go.

Closing the sliding door behind me, I notice that Sybil's still sleeping like a coma patient. It's a little creepy, watching someone sleep - knowing that there's just one fine line between sleep and death. Quietly I make my way out of the bedroom, hoping that there's some coffee ready to be brewed. To my surprise, I'm not the first one awake...nor am I the first one with the taste for coffee.

"Good morning, Jack," Lissa says before taking a sip of her coffee, the aroma coming from the freshly brewed pot tickling my sensitive nostrils. I nod and grunt something inaudible as I make my way toward the countertop, coffee mug snatched up from the sink on my pass by.

"So," I say, finally remembering how to speak through my haze of exhaustion, "how are things with you these days, Lissa...aside from the being hunted part, I mean. You got a husband or kids somewhere out there?"

"I was married for a while, yeah," she answers, though I can tell right away that she really doesn't want to talk about it. That's me, sticking my foot in mouth for the millionth consecutive time. "But it didn't take. Things were really rough for a while, Jack, and I thought they were getting better..."

She cuts herself off in mid-sentence, retreating inside herself while staring intently at the brown liquid in her cup. I fidget about the kitchen for a moment, wanting so badly to place my arms around her, to tell her that everything's going to be okay. But the years are between us, and I'm left with a feeling of uncertainty. "Lissa, I..."

"Did I make a mistake in coming here, Jack?" she asks, cutting me off before I can make a bigger ass of myself than I already have. "I mean, I saw a ghost of our father, which should be impossible. But after all that I've seen in my life, most of which brought on by hanging around with you I might add, how can I believe anything I see or hear? Ghost's aren't supposed to exist, I know this...but neither are demons or werewolves."

"I wish I could tell you that it was all in your head, sis," I admit, taking my own turn at avoiding eye contact with the one person who should know me better than anyone else on this planet, "but I can't. I've seen Dad's ghost, too...in fact, he's been haunting me for the better part of a fortnight. He led me to a weird library last night, where we met a man that claimed to be the Devil (believe it or not). The Devil, Hellstrom, scared Dad into doing a quick fade out...I imagine that's when he went to see you."

"Damn it!" Lissa yells, slamming the mug down on the kitchen table with enough force to crack the bottom of the porcelain. "Why are these people chasing me, Jack? What do they want with me?"

I have a fairly good feeling that I already know the answer to those questions...I just don't have the heart to tell her that, once again, she's become a target because of me. It's just too much of a coincidence that she started being chased after I reappeared in New York. Her hunters are after me, I can feel it in my bones. I just don't have the foggiest notion why .

"These people that are after you," I ask, trying to keep the conversation steered toward business, "what are they like?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" she answers with a desperate laugh. "Vampires, Jack. I think they're vampires."

And there it is, the last piece of the puzzle that I needed to confirm my fears. If Lissa was being tracked by vampires that wanted her dead, then she would most certainly be a meal for them already. "Then we've got a lead," I finally say, pushing myself away from the counter upon which I'd been leaning, propelling my body back toward the bedroom, "and I know where to go to get some answers."

"You do? Where?" my sister asks, my nonchalant reply giving her pause.

I turn and flash a smile. "The last place I saw vampires, Lissa...the Underworld."

So, despite my overly-dramatic exit line, the Underworld doesn't actually open until the sun goes down - leaving me with a good eight or so hours until I can track down the vampire leads. Just as well, because the more time I've allowed means the more time I'm able to brace myself for walking into one of the last places I remember before things went all kaflooey five years ago. Funny enough, I was tracking down leads there last time, too...and encountered vampires, same as now.

The connections keep growing, drawing lines between dots all across the random poster board that my life has become. Is it possible that everything that's happened from the time I fled New York to the moment I found my dad's Journal has come from the same root source? I never found Glaucon, Juliet, or the child of mine that she's supposedly carrying after she raped me in a Romanian dungeon. The Cult of Nature's Atrocities seemed pretty keen on getting hold of my werewolf man-juice...maybe they're after Lissa now, too? But it doesn't add up; why would a werewolf cult use vampires as their foot soldiers?

With a shake of my head to clear the cobwebs, I step out of the taxi and onto Bleeker Street, Dad's journal gripped beneath my left arm. With plenty of daylight left before I can leg it over to the Underworld, I've decided to spend my time a little bit more wisely than drowning my misery in alcohol - though that was one of the more immediate options for the day's activities - and get to work on finding out what this book I stole last night has inside of it. The book's written in Sumerian or Latin or some other dead language, most likely as a code to keep just anyone from picking it up and calling a demon from Hell.

So I've decided to bring the book to a man that a) can decipher dead languages easily and b) I trust wholeheartedly. Naturally, it's been a good five years since I've seen him...but considering I'm already knocking on the door to his church, I figure that's something to worry about when the time comes.

Father Vincent Adobe opens the door slowly; his attention turned more toward his robe being caught underneath than toward his visitor. I smile and chuckle under my breath as the black man finally manages to pull his cloak out from beneath the door. There's a smile on his face as he looks up at me, an expression that immediately swivels from shock to disbelief to irritation.

"Hey, Padre," I say with a smile and a slight salute wave with my free hand, "been a while, huh?"

"Jack Russell," he says - though he nearly spits it out - while opening the door a bit wider. "What the hell do you want, coming to me after the way you left me last time?"

So, okay, in all fairness I really can't answer that question without sounding like a jackass. The last time I saw Vincent was in this very church, in the confessional booth - where he finally saw me as the werewolf. I did it on purpose, for dramatic effect to drive home a point (which I fail to even remember now), and immediately after I skipped town. People were dead, I quite possibly killed them, and it was better for everyone I cared about to just disappear before I brought seven shades of death raining down on them.

"I, uh, kinda need your help."

Vincent just stares at me for several long moments, his eyes narrowed and his brow creased in that way some people look when they're trying to make a tough decision. Finally, he steps aside and allows me entrance. "Come on in, Jack."

"Thanks, Vince," I start as I walk through the door of the church, turning back around to face him as he closes the door behind me. "First off, I'm really sorry about --"

And then he punches me in the face, a blow that knocks me off my feet and firmly onto my ass. I can't say I didn't deserve. But it still hurts like hell.

"Are we cool now?" I ask from my spot on the floor, wiping away the blood from my nose with the sleeve of my coat. Vincent stares at me again with that same facial expression he had before.

"Yeah, I guess we are," he admits, offering a hand to help me up as punctuation to his agreement. With his help I'm back on my feet, and with a slight smile he waves a hand toward my face. "Sorry about that. You just...man, you scared the shit out of me. I still don't know what to think about what happened back then, Jack."

"It's okay," I answer with a smile of my own, "try being the one to live with it."

"Touché," he replies before leading me into the back of the church. "So what can I do for you now that you've made your miraculous return?"

I pull the book from the satchel hanging under my arm, beneath my coat, and place it on the table. "That's my dad's journal, Vince. Written somewhere in it is a cure for my...for my condition. But it's written in a bunch of coded, dead languages that I can't decipher on my own. I was hoping you could take a look at it, see what you could translate for me."

Vince furrowed his brow as he flipped open the book, thumbing through a few of the pages - obviously disconcerted with the arcane symbols and scrawled spells contained within. "I'm pretty rusty on my languages, Jack...but I'll keep the book, see if I can't dig some stuff out for you."

I place my hand on Vince's shoulder. I'm proud of him...his flinch is barely noticeable. "Thanks, man...I owe you more than you can ever know for even trying to help me right now. I don't have many friends, Father."

"Well," he says with a smile, this one more genuine than the previous ones, "you can say you've at least got one... again."

After I leave Father Adobe's church, the rest of the day is spent following up what few leads I could possibly think of concerning the vampires following Lissa. Granted, it's not easy trying to track down vampires in the middle of the day...and after several fruitless hours I'm left with no answers and a quarter inserted into a payphone.

"Hello?" Sybil's honey-dripped voice purrs into the phone.

"Hey, it's me," I say, twirling the phone cord between my fingers as I talk - a nervous habit. "Look, I'm about to hit up the Underworld soon as the sun goes down. Once night hits, I want you to be on your guard as much as possible. Lissa's still there, right?"

"She most certainly is," Sybil answers, "but she's not the most thrilling guest I've had here."

"Just make sure she doesn't leave," I advise, "and for the love of God do not let anyone you don't know into the apartment. She's being hunted by vampires, and they have to be invited inside before they can do anything. Are you sure you're gonna be okay by yourself until I can get back?"

She sighs before answering. "Jack, I've been at the danger game as long as you, and I know how it's played. I took the liberty of phoning in some old friends this afternoon...they should be coming in on one of my private jets sometime during the night."

"Just...just keep my sister safe, Gypsy," I say before hanging up the phone. The sun had descended into the darkness during our conversation, and across the street I see the first stirrings of life around the staircase leading beneath the building. I give it just a few minutes more, then cross through the traffic...making my way toward the Underworld.

So, okay, I realize that maybe an explanation is in order. All this time, you've probably been wondering just what the hell the Underworld actually is, since taking a trip to Hell is a little out of reach at this point in my life. The Underworld is a bar - and yeah, I know, stereotypical, right? But this particular bar has a particular clientele and a particular set of rules. It's the type of place that Goth bars wish they could be...it's a bar for the supernatural.

The dead and undead meet for pool in the back. Blood flows on tap, with a zombie bartender that never forgets a face (especially those who don't tip). And, in my particular case, it's a great place to feel the pulse of the horror underground.

Not surprisingly, as I make my way down the concrete steps into the basement nightclub, I start seeing some familiar faces. A few of the people raise eyebrows at me, recognizing me from various places - a few of them even from my father's funeral a few month's ago. The giant worm guy still creeps me the fuck out, but it's easy enough to just brush past them all without saying a word. If I've achieved anything over the years of the curse, it's a pretty hellish reputation for being a bad mother fucker.

"How's it going, Sam?" I ask as I saddle up to the bar, fingers rapping rhythmically on the bar top. The zombie in the leisure suit and bowtie smiles, the half of his face that's rotted to the bone making the curl of his lip look downright odd, and immediately grabs a glass from the rack.

"Jack Russell, you old hound dog," Sam says as he douses the glass in beer, then tosses it my way. "Haven't seen you in years...heard some nasty rumors about what happened to you, man. Everything work out for you?"

"Well," I say with a small sigh, "that's the upside about losing everything, Sam...anything else bad that happens can only seem like an improvement."

"True enough, Mr. Jack," Sam replies as he turns to clean some glasses with his apron, "true enough."

"So," I start again, "have you seen many vampires in here lately?"

"Funny enough you should ask," Sam answers, "because the vampire clientele has been pretty scarce lately. None of them have come in for months now." He pauses, then nods his head toward one of the corner tables. "All except that one, anyway."

Trying not to be too obvious, I turn my neck to glance over my shoulder. Sitting alone at the far right table is a pale, ghastly looking creature...and I can smell his rotting stench from here. "What's his story?"

"His name is Rank," Sam says, "and he's only sort of a vampire. He got the raw deal of vampirism, with all the weaknesses and none of the perks. He's been decomposing away since he was turned, but can't die until someone stakes him. From what I've heard, he used to hang around with Blade a few years ago."

"Rank, huh?" I ask as I stand from the barstool. "Thanks, Sam. Put a drink for me and the vamp on my tab, will you?"

Sam nods accordingly as I make my way toward the vampire's table. If this Rank guy worked with Blade at one point, that might mean he's either a) a good guy, like Hannibal, or b) he's easily intimidated. So let's see which it is.

"How's it going, Rank?" I ask as I pull up a chair to his table, his grotesque stench hitting my wolf sense of smell like a shovel to the face. "Care to answer a few questions for me?"

Slowly, Rank lifts his head, and I see that Sam wasn't exaggerating about the guy decomposing. He looked like a zombie with leprosy, bits of his face hanging on by threads of skin...certainly not the most pleasant site to look at. "Wh-who are you?" he asks. Yeah, easily intimidated it is, then.

"My name's Russell, with a Jack in front of it," I say with a smile and a raise of my drink in a mock toast, "and I'm looking for some info on vampire activity. Seems that some vamps have got it out for my sister in a bad way recently, and the family's not too keen on that sort of thing."

"You're Russoff's son, aren't you?" he asks. "I can see the resemblance between you and him. There's not much I can tell you, man. You usually can't spit without hitting a vampire here in New York City, but things have died down big time ever since your dad passed away. Well, except for that mess with Dracula a few weeks ago. But when big daddy fang comes to town, every vampire just kinda drops what they're doing to stand to attention."

"Dracula?" I ask, cocking an eyebrow in curiosity. Could just be coincidence, but it's hard not to think of the possibility. In a roundabout way, Dracula was part of the reason my family got saddled with the curse in the first place.

"Yeah," Rank continues, scratching at a large boil on the side of his cheek as he talks, "something about Drac coming to town to pick up his granddaughter. Got caught in this big fracas with Hannibal King and Blade, and he hasn't been seen since. Some people think he's dead, but really...how many times has that happened, only for him to come back stronger than ever?"

"What do you know about my father?" I ask, just as one of the waitresses - this one a rather cute pixie-looking creature - sets our drinks on the table. "That's on me, by the way."

"Thanks, man," Rank replies with a salute of his glass, "I appreciate it. As for your dad, well, I guess you know about him being the guy trying to get werewolves and vampires to come to a truce after all these centuries of dislike - if not open warfare. It actually looked like the two groups were coming to an accord - but then Gregor died, and things kinda went nutty. That's when the vampires did their quick fade out of the foreground."

"One more question for you," I say as I light up a cigarette - a gesture turned down by Rank when I offer him one as well. "Who represented the vampires and werewolves during these peace talks? Who had contact with my dad before he died?"

"The vampires were represented by a guy named Brother Stephen," he answers after taking a drink, a bit of the liquid spilling out of the hole on the underside of his jaw, "and the werewolves by some European guy - Glaucon."

Glaucon. Son of a bitch.

The pieces are starting to fit together, and damned if I don't like the way the puzzle is starting to look. Now I know what's tying the vampires together with Glaucon, who is pretty obviously the person after my sister. He knew my dad, too, which makes my meeting him in Romania a few months ago more than just the coincidence I thought it to be. So now I'm knocking on the door to the person who sent me to Romania in the first place: Roberto Stolanetti, my father's lawyer.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Russell," the secretary tells me, "but Mr. Stolanetti is out of town with a client. If you'd like to leave a message and a number where you can be reached, I'll pass both along at the earliest opportunity."

"Thanks, doll," I say while walking out the door, "but I'll catch him when he gets back."

The rain is starting to pick up again now that I'm outside, walking down the street back toward Sybil's apartment. I wish Jessica Drew was available, since she's the one who does detective work for a living. My own investigative skills aren't much to speak of, and finding someone with the ability to put two and four together in a logical sequence isn't the easiest task in our little horror community. There's Hannibal King, but Lord knows where he's at these days.

"Excuse me," I hear said from the alley I'm passing by, Sybil's apartment building only a block away. I turn to see who's stopping me, and immediately see something that tugs at my heart. It's a little girl, eight years old at least, her eyes welled up with tears. A stuffed bear is hugged tightly around its neck by her thin arm, wet and worn down by the nasty weather of the city.

"Oh, honey, what are you doing out here?" I ask, kneeling down to talk to her at her level. "Where are your parents?"

"My parents died," she says between sniffles of her nose.

Okay, this doesn't sound good. "How did they die?"

The little girl's frown turns into a twisted smile, revealing a set of tiny fangs behind her lips. "I killed them and drank their blood... that's how."

Fucking vampires! The little girl pounces on me faster than I can think, but I've already triggered the change into the wolf. If there's a vampire out here, that means they're probably trying like hell to get to Lissa inside Gypsy's apartment - which means I need to ditch the baby vamp as fast as I can.

With my coat tossed to the side, my doubled size throws the little girl for a loop. Her fangs bite down hard, but instead of my throat she hits my fur-covered shoulder, causing her to cough from the hair clogging her throat. I pull her free from my arm and hold her out by the scruff of her neck, baring my own larger fangs carried within my enlarged snout. "You think it's so much fun to go around biting people," I growl, "let's see how you like it."

And I bite down on her neck, crushing it between my jaws. The child's blood runs down my throat as my rows of razored teeth grind and shred her, cracking her spine in two. The girl's head falls off and bounces down the sidewalk, and with a fierce howl ripped from deep inside of me I lift the tiny headless body into the air. "This is the best you've got?" I scream into the night sky, not caring a bit if anyone sees or hears me.

I snarl loudly, then toss the little girl's body into the dark recesses of the alleyway in front of me. The vampires have just declared war on me and mine...and it's time for some fucking payback.

I hear Lissa scream as I bound over the railing of the balcony, and for a moment I'm afraid that I'm too late. Somehow, the vampires got inside without being invited - or hell, maybe they just tricked Gypsy somehow. I crash through the glass doors that lead inside, only to find the apartment completely normal...Lissa is screaming because of me.

"Sis, calm down!" I yell, coming toward her with my claws and snout dripping blood and gore from the vampire I'd just mauled. I realize too late that it's been many, many years since Lissa last saw the werewolf - and even then, that was before the wolf mutated into the more bestial form it carries today. So I back away, willing the transformation to reverse, and slowly I turn back into plain ol' Jack Russell.

Strangely, that doesn't seem to help. I'm still covered in blood, around my mouth and on my hands, and all Lissa can do is crumple down into the corner, hugging her legs to her chest and shaking back and forth. Sybil comes out from the apartment's foyer, her eyes swimming with questions on why I would do something so terrible to my own sister.

I just shake my head and stare at my blood-covered hands in disbelief. The blood of a small child, vampire or not, dead by my actions.

"Same old Jack," I hear a man say from behind Sybil, "same old shit."

I raise my head, vaguely recognizing the man's voice. He's older, his graying hair combed over to hide the balding spot on top of his skull. He's wearing a trench coat, the standard uniform for a private investigator - though when I saw him last, he was a reporter for a Los Angeles newspaper. He lights up a cigarette and smiles at me.

"How's it going, man?" he asks. "Long time no see, huh?"

His name is Buck Cowan, and once upon time he was my best friend...so why is he now holding a gun pointed right toward me?

"Buck...?" I ask, my voice trembling.

"Sorry, buddy," he answers, his finger slowly pulling back on the pistol's trigger, "but this is the way it has to be."

And then he fires...

Next Issue: Holy shades of 1975, Buck Cowan - Private Eye extraordinaire - is back! But why's he out for Jack's blood? Find out in part two of "All the Rage"!

For Mature Readers Only

# 12
October '06

Strange Tales Presents

Savage Tales
featuring Conan the Barbarian

"The Hungry Ones"

Written by Josh Reynolds

The Cimmerian stalked through the thick underbrush, his sullen eyes flicking this way and that as he watched the trees. No sound penetrated the thick forests of Gunderland. No, no sound nor light. Everything was silent and dead. The air hung heavy with a greasy taste that left flesh clammy and oily. No breeze blew to relieve this sensation and the youth's skin crawled beneath the much scarred and torn haubrek he wore. He was tall and broadly built yet with a rangy, hard frame. His skin was brown from the gaze of outland suns and his eyes blue and smoldering; a shock of raven black tousled hair crowned his broad head. From his girdle hung a notched sword in a worn leather scabbard.

Conan squinted into the gloom, his fingertips sliding over the hilt of the sword belted to his waist. Forests were full of noise, even the forests of his gray homeland. The silence that enveloped him was unnatural. And as such it caused his skin to crawl with a nameless, primitive dread, an emotion the Cimmerian was not used to feeling. He had felt fear before. What man hadn't? But what he felt now caused him to shudder unconsciously and without control.

Something was watching him. And indeed had been for a while. He didn't know what it was but that was not important. All that was important was that it had yet to reveal itself and that, to Conan, marked it as a threat. An unknown threat. And Conan, like all barbaric peoples, feared the unknown.

His eyes flickered from side to side, trying to watch everywhere at once. He could hear it every so often. The padding of paws across the root strewn earth of the forest. But were they paws? Or something else? Images rose in his head of the ghouls of his childhood nightmares and he shivered. Then, with a snarl he clamped down fiercely on those feelings and concentrated on listening for something more important-any signs of pursuit.

The Gundermen held grudges unlike any peoples he had yet come across. He'd thought he'd lost them days ago, but only this morning he'd back-tracked, looking for any signs of what thing had been shadowing him and instead found the prints of boots. They'd been hunting him through these dark forests for a fortnight and all because of a simple misunderstanding. Conan grinned in the darkness as he slid ghost-like between the looming trees. Bust a man's skull in a fair fight, whose business was that but those involved? And if the winner parted the loser of his purse and sword besides well that was fair as he understood things. But then Gundermen were never known for playing fair.

Conan stopped as a whisper of sound tugged at his ear. Feet on the hard packed earth. Iron shod boots, much louder than his leather ones. The Gunderland wolves had caught up to him again. But no more. He was tired of being the hunted. The Cimmerian looked around, then finally up. With a silent snarl he dug his fingers into the wet bark of the closest tree and began to climb with ape-like speed. When he'd gone high enough he situated himself on a branch to wait.

If they wanted him, then by Crom they'd find him, but only on his terms.

He did not have long to wait.

There were four of them, clad in mail and leather, not looking like soldiers at all, their tawny hair bound in the style of local huntsmen, but to Conan this was a only a minor detail. Gunderman all looked alike to him. They walked warily, in a single file, eyes looking about suspiciously. Looking for him. But they didn't look up.

They never looked up.

As the last man passed beneath his branch, Conan dropped lightly to the ground and used the momentum of his landing to hurl himself at the back of the last man in line, his sword springing from its sheath with a hiss of displaced air. The blade struck the Gunderman in the back of the neck, cleaving his head from his shoulders in one lightning quick stroke. As the body toppled, Conan ducked his shoulder under it and charged forward, using the body as a battering ram to slam into the rest of the Gundermen, who were turning around now, drawing their own weapons, mouths open in shock and...fear? Two of them tumbled to the ground, tangled with the body of their comrade and Conan howled wolfishly as he leapt over them, sword held in both hands, raised over his head. The only Gunderman still on his feet had drawn his own blade and swung it to meet Conan's own as it descended. The force of Conan's blow snapped his foe's sword in two and went down to cleave into the man's shocked features. Conan cursed as his weapon became lodged in the new corpse's skull and was yanked from his hands as the body toppled backwards.

No use trying to free it. Not when the other two were already getting to their feet, covered in the blood of their comrade. Two armed men against one unarmed. Long odds. Impossible even. Conan bared his teeth in a snarl and clenched his fists. "Come on then dogs. Come to it and get it done. I bashed his skull and fairly but if you want vengeance I'll take at least one of you mewling whoresons with me to Crom's dark halls."

The Gundermen looked at him, then at each other. One of them stepped forward, blade drawn. He was the shorter of the two and his pale eyes bespoke a dangerous confidence. His hair was plaited in the style of the hill clans and when he opened his mouth to speak Conan saw that his teeth had been filed into points. The Gunderman pointed his sword at Conan and said, "Who in the hells are you?"

Conan blinked.

"Conan. A Cimmerian."

"Why the bloody hell did you cut off Bjern's head?" The Gunderman barked. Conan shook his head in confusion.

"Because you were hunting me. Why else would I cut off his head?" He grunted. The Gunderman looked at his companion.

"Were we hunting him? I thought we were hunting an animal."

"We are hunting an animal." The other Gunderman said.

"Animal? I'm no animal." Conan said, backing up slowly until he stood over the body his sword was imbedded in. "And I'll gut the first man who says such."

"You'll find it hard to gut anyone with a foot of good steel in your belly barbarian." The short Gunderman smiled, displaying his teeth. "I am Svetch the Curse and I'll pin you quick unless you keep away from that sword of yours."

Conan returned the smile and stopped, raising his hands. "You think you're that quick?"

"No. But I'm quicker than you."

"We could test that."

"Both of you be quiet!" The other man hissed, head cocked. "Something's out there." He gestured at the trees that surrounded them with his sword. The weapon trembled in his hand and his face had gone ashen. "It's out there."

"What?" Conan asked softly, slowly lowering himself into a crouch.

"What else Cimmerian. A demon." Svetch rasped, eyes dancing madly as he laughed. "Two days ago something broke into a farm house and killed everyone within, the entire family save the youngest daughter. Her it dragged off into these cursed woods. Some of us who were in the village decided to hunt it down. Kill it whatever it was. But its always stayed just out of sight. Out of reach, leading us deeper and deeper into these woods. No animal is that smart. So it's a demon."

"We thought you were it at first, when you attacked. But it was just a mistake and a stupid one at that." The other man grunted. "Stupid." He shook his head.

"I thought you were soldiers." Conan shrugged, his tone unapologetic, simply explanatory. "But I've noticed something shadowing me as well out here. Tried to track it once or twice but its slipped by me every time. Cursed cunning beast, demon or no."

"My sentiments exactly." Svetch flashed his teeth again. He sheathed his blade. "Which is why I'm not going to kill you. Yet. Not if you help us."

"What of your comrades?"

"I didn't like them much anyway. Especially Hrulf. Fat pig always hogged the wine." Svetch gestured at the one Conan had beheaded.

"You'll pay?" Conan asked. Svetch shook his head.

"No, but we won't kill you."

"You couldn't kill me even if I were bound and drunk."

"Well until then, will you join us? Safety in numbers."

"When you put it that way, why not? Do you have any objections?" Conan glared at the other Gunderman who simply shrugged, his eyes only for the trees. Shadows were growing long along the trail as the sun set above them. He nodded at Conan. "My name is Jarl. I saw you once before. You killed a fat Kothian in Zamora."

"We've all killed Kothians." Svetch laughed. "And most of them are fat."

"He did it in complete darkness." Jarl pointed at Conan. Svetch whistled appreciatively. Conan laughed.

"That was a while ago."

"You leave an impression."

They made camp after burying the bodies of the other two Gundermen and Conan squatted beside the fire Jarl made, cleaning his sword. He looked over at Svetch. "Do you even know what this demon of yours looks like?"

"No idea. No survivors to tell so we can only go by the marks it left behind. Great rending slashes like those made by a wolf or a leopard, but no spoor. The bodies weren't eaten, only mauled."

"In Cimmeria we have stories of men who become wolves at night." Conan offered. Jarl snorted.

"We are not Cimmerians. But I am forced to admit you may have a point."

"Of course he does. It's a demon then. But even demons fear steel." Svetch said. "Granted we have only three blades as opposed to four, but the Cimmerian is worth more than either of those two other slugs were." He held up his own sword and kissed the blade. "And I myself am worth two of him, so that demon had best surrender itself quickly."

"You are funny Gunderman. Like one of those pet monkeys the Zamorians sell on street corners." Conan smirked. Svetch bared his teeth. Jarl only shook his head.

"This is no laughing matter. It has been shadowing us for days. Leading us on. Shadowing you too Conan. Like a wolf stalking its prey. It's playing with us. Taunting us by leaving tracks, or showing just enough of itself to lead us on a merry chase. We've nearly gotten lost several times out here and its only by the grace of the gods that we've not lost the path."

Somewhere, out in the darkness a branch cracked under sudden pressure. All three men leapt to their feet, swords in hand, eyes scanning the darkness around them. The sounds of something heavy stalking through the brush reached them and once Conan thought he caught the glimpse of glowing eyes.

"I'm hungry. So hungry." The voice was like the grating of rocks over steel. It echoed in the clearing, coming from everywhere and nowhere. "So hungry."

Then, nothing.

Silence.

"You see?" Jarl hissed, not looking at them. "It's watching us. Listening to us."

"You're being foolish." Svetch snapped, crouching and scooping a limb from the fire. With his makeshift torch in hand he advanced towards the last place the sounds had come from. Conan followed behind him, sword held ready.

The light of the torch threw back the shadows as it passed through the trees. They saw nothing. Nothing but more shadows.

"It's gone." Svetch said, lowering his blade. Conan shook his head, but did not reply. Behind them, Jarl suddenly screamed as something arced into their camp, landing with a bloody plop. Svetch and Conan whirled to see Hrulf's bloody head grinning up at them. Jarl pointed and said,

"It's playing with us!"

"I wondered where we left that." Svetch muttered. Conan sank his sword into the head and and lobbed it back out into the darkness with a flick of one thick wrist.

"It's of no use to us. Let the beast have it back if it's so hungry."

It was a long time before they settled down enough for sleep. Jarl took first watch as the other two sank into a fitful slumber. The silence of the forest played on his nerves. Why was it this quiet? Why had they followed the beast? For him it had been the sight of the butchered family so like his own. His missed his wife at that moment, for all her shrill screeching.

It had killed before. They had not mentioned that to the Cimmerian. Every month, new bodies. Travellers mostly. Stuffed under tree roots or hidden in gullies. The creature hid its kills until two nights ago. The farm house had only been a few miles away from the village. Who knew when the beast would grow bold enough to come into the village proper?

Soon enough for some. That was why they had decided to hunt it. Jarl and his cousin Rolf whose skull Conan had split. At least there was something to be thankful for in all this. Svetch had been in prison for killing a local man andhe and Hrulf his cell-mate had volunteered on the promise of freedom.

Hrulf was dead already. They were all dead men. Unless they left now. Left the forest, gave up the hunt. But for love of his family, Jarl would not give up. Not without killing the beast.

Wrapped in a cloak taken from one of the men he'd killed, Conan breathed softly, his keen eyes alert and watchful. He needed little sleep and had had plenty despite the days of hard flight.

Was it a demon? He'd seen things in Zamora that left him no doubt that such things existed. And even if he had, he had no inborn contempt for the belief in magic and the supernatural the men of the south seemed to have. Steel and fire would see it off whatever it was. It always had before. Conan was more worried about his companions.

He still did not trust his new companions. Only in his own lands had he known foes to become friends so easily. Not here in these civilized places. Soft southerners held strange grudges and the Gundermen most of all.

But they would find his back possessed no eager lust for a blade.

Conan watched. And waited.

Svetch slept, unconcerned, uncaring. His was an even more simple philosophy than even the Cimmerian's. Sleep when you could. Fight when you had to. That was how he'd found himself imprisoned. Locked up for killing a man in a fair fight. That never happened in the hill country. The flat landers were so touchy about these things though. He should have just left. Made for the hills as soon as they set out, but he hadn't.

Safety in numbers.

After the beast was dead though...

Jarl stared into the fire and was suddenly startled by the sight of a frail form stumbling out of the darkened woods, pale skin bloody, hair tangled and filth encrusted. Jarl rose to his feet as the girl collapsed on the other side of the flames. He knew he should awaken the others but instead he crouched beside her, patting her face, trying to wake her. He blinked as he recognized her. The missing girl. "Girl? Girl wake up! Tell me how you got here!"

"I-it carried me. Left me here." She moaned softly, grabbing his arms, trying to pull herself up. She looked battered and half starved, her ribs visible beneath her bare flesh. Blood covered her and Jarl winced. She would not live long. Not with that much blood coming out of her. He tried to comfort her, holding her close, trying to find her wounds.

"Where are you hurt girl?"

"I'm not hurt." She whispered faintly. "Just hungry. I'm so hungry." She continued as she pulled herself up, her lips inches from Jarl's ear. Beneath his hands, her skin shuddered and Jarl steeled himself to watch her die.

But she didn't.

"I'm so hungry." Her voice changed, roughened. Her flesh writhed and burst as wiry hairs the color of wheat sprouted and wormed their way to the light, covering her twisting, squirming form as she became something else. Jarl screamed as her face exploded into a lean muzzle that buried itself in his neck, silencing his screams with a brutal jerk and loud snap of his neck bones. Conan was on his feet in the instant, sword bared, a boot connecting with Svetch's ribs, rousing him.

"Up! Up dog! There's sword work to be done!" Conan bellowed as he threw himself at the malformed beast that crouched over Jarl's jerking body, his head supported by long, claw tipped fingers as the creature twisted his head and ripped it from its perch. It laughed with a hyena-like bark and shoved what was left of Jarl aside. It rose to its hind legs and said, pink tongue dangling between open jaws,

"Hungry. So hungry."

"Well, have a belly full of steel, perhaps that will settle your desire!" Conan roared as his sword swung down on the creature. It twisted aside with supernatural grace and raked his torso with its claws, shredding his armor with ease. It grunted laughter at him as he stumbled back and charged at him, knocking him from his feet. It leapt atop him, scrabbling at his chest and throat, jaws snapping inches from his face. Svetch appeared above him and launched a cut at the creature's back. At the impact it reared back and shrieked, though no blood coated his blade. Indeed, there was not even a trace of a wound. Svetch took a step back as the creature swiped at him and he fell backwards over Jarl's corpse.

"Conan, my blade didn't cut it!" He yelped. Conan did not reply as he pulled himself to his feet and hurled himself upon the beast, discarding his own blade as he did so.

"Steel doesn't work? Then we try something else!" Conan growled as his fingers dug into the thick fur of the beast's throat and jaw and he encircled its neck with his arm. His legs scissored around the creature's torso and he strained against it, trying to choke it into submission. The creature rose into the air, claw-hands tearing at Conan's arm as it swung the Cimmerian around like a rag-doll.

"That's not working either!" Svetch shouted, getting back to his feet. Conan tightened his hold on the beast and shouted back,

"Then figure something else out damn you!"

"Don't you scream at me you Cimmerian pig!"

"When I get down from here I'm going to crack your neck Gunderman!"

"Try it!" Svetch snapped as he dove towards the fire. If steel didn't work then fire would. All beasts feared fire as did demons. This thing was both. He whipped up a burning hunk of wood and turned, shoving it into the creature's chest. "Burn you whoreson!"

The creature shrieked like all the devils in hell were after it and Conan was hard pressed to maintain his hold. He uncoiled his legs and dug his heels into the ground. Then he pushed forward, riding the beast into the flames of the campfire. Conan leapt aside as the beast smashed into the flames, rolling away as its greasy pelt caught fire. The wolf-thing staggered up and out of the flames, burning, an inhuman torch. Conan leapt for Jarl's blankets and snatched up the dead man's wine skin. With the knife in his belt he tore it open and fung the contents on the creature, causing the flames to spread. He lashed out with a booted foot and kicked the beast back into the fire. It's screams spiralled up into the night and Conan and Svetch took turns pushing the creature back down into the fire with their swords, gagging on the smell as it burned itself to nothing.

It took a long time for it to die.

As the morning sun rose, weak gray light filtering through the trees,Conan stirred the ashes of the fire, his sword point finding the eye socket of a skull. Human. He hefted it. "Who was she?" He asked. Svetch shrugged.

"Didn't know her. Maybe she was a witch. There are many in these lands."

"Aye." Conan dropped the skull and looked around. They had buried Jarl already. Out of sight out of mind. "Well then, what now?"

"Now nothing. I'm heading East. There's sword work in Turin I hear."

"You won't tell those who sent you after this beast of its fate?"

"Should I? The job is done and I'm a free man. If I go back like as not they'll try and imprison me again. You're free to go yourself though. Be my guest."

"No. I'd not find any warmer a welcome than you." Conan smiled grimly. "Turin you say?"

"Turin."

"I've never been to Turin." Conan sheathed his sword. "I think I might like to see it." He said, eyes already on the horizon.

For Mature Readers Only

# 12
October '06

Strange Tales Presents

Savage Tales

"Daniski's Wolf"

Written by Josh Reynolds

When Daniski looked down out of his sitting room window to watch the sun rise, the wolf looked up and in at him from the sidewalk below. Its eyes were yellow and stupid under the light of the streetlamp. Nonetheless, he felt as if it were laughing at him.

It was, of course, the same wolf.

It was always the same wolf, until it wasn't.

He closed his eyes tightly, brushing forcefully at the lids with his knuckles, trying to control his breathing. One. Two. Three. Let's see what we can see.

My what big eyes you have. Daniski swallowed thickly as stray thoughts loped through his skull and looked out the window again. The bag of garbage his downstairs neighbour had left on the curb for the trash man in the morning looked up at him, the light of the street lamp reflecting eerily off something metal visible through a rip in the bag as it sputtered and went out. There now. Perfectly reasonable.

Perfectly.

Something growled and he whirled, sloshing tea all over his white shirt and eliciting a yelp from him as he looked wildly around. The cordless phone growled again from its place on the television, a soft, dull snarl. Reasonable. This was a reasonable world, full of reasonable people.

Reasonable.

Perfectly.

He snatched up the phone and hissed into the receiver. A telemarketer snarled back at him and he slammed the phone down on the table and furiously daubed at the tea on his shirt with a napkin. Morning breakfast was becoming more dangerous all the time. The wolf nodded in ageement and he threw his cup at it, a shriek dying in his throat as the cup cracked the television screen. Only a reflection. Just a reflection of something that wasn't there. He stood in the center of his living room and looked around to be sure. The wolf was gone. It was always gone.

Until it wasn't.

Daniski sat down heavily on a chair,his head in his hands. Why wouldn't it go away? Why was it following him? Trembling fingers reached for the phone. Dialed a number. So familiar he'd worn the numbers off the buttons on the phone. Buzz. Buzz.

"Hello?" A sleepy voice answered. "Hello?" Cranky now. An edge to the words. He could hear the rustling of sheets. How late did psychiatrists sleep?

"Doctor Goodwin? It's Arthur Daniski. I-I saw it again."

"Arthur? Saw what?" Doctor Goodwin sounded confused. Daniski resisted the urge to hang up. She couldn't help him. It was foolish to think otherwise.

"The wolf. I saw it again." He said anyway, feeling as if the world were crumbling beneath his feet. She couldn't help. No one could.

"The wolf? Oh. Oh! Arthur." She said with a firmness that implied recognition. Sympathy. Doctor Goodwin was good at that. Skillful. "Arthur. You know you're not supposed to call outside of office hours."

"I know. I just-I saw it again. The pills aren't helping. I can still see it!" His voice had a brittle pitch he didn't like but he couldn't control it. "And it can see me."

A sigh. Barely audible. "It can't see you Arthur. It's not real. We've been over this. It's simply a hallucination. Apparently a stubborn one." A fumbling sound. A hand reaching for an alarm clock perhaps. Another sigh. Louder than the first. She wanted him to know he'd inconvenienced her. The doctor as suffering saint, a voice in his head growled, pink tongue lolling over yellow teeth. He held his hand over the phone and looked around.

"Shut up." He hissed. The wolf laughed, hidden somewhere. Daniski backed away until he felt the wall behind him, hard against his spine. If he could see it coming it couldn't get him.

"Arthur?" Doctor Goodwin's voice, muffled by the meat of his palm. Concerned. Angry. "Arthur are you listening?"

"Yes. Yes Doctor. Just distracted. I'm sorry. Yes?"

"Arthur, I want you to come for a session this afternoon. After my last appointment at five."

"You want me to come at night?" Panic thrilled through him like icewater coursing through his arteries. Night? Wolves were nocturnal weren't they?

Yep. Yessiree that we are, the wolf growl-laughed. He could hear it padding around. Pad-pad-pad. Its tail swished against the walls. We are the children of the night and we make such beautiful music as a famous man once said. Sweat popped and trickled down Arthur's face as he whipped his head back and forth, trying to find it. "Go away. You're not real."

But I am. Until I'm not, said the wolf, its foul breath tickling Arthur's earlobe. He screamed, the phone flipping from his hand as he hurled himself away from the wall, not looking. Not wanting to see. "Arthur? Arthur!" Doctor Goodwin, sounding agitated. Angry. "Arthur, it's not real!"

He slunk across the floor, eyes darting left and right. Yes it is. Yes it is. "I-it's not real. It's not real." He said as he picked up the phone, cradling it to his head. "It's not real Doctor Goodwin." Yes it is and its looking at me from the wall with its stupid yellow eyes and pink tongue. And it was. The wolf sat sideways on the wall, looking at him. Watching him. How had it got in his flat? How could it climb walls like a spider?

I'm a special wolf, it said, licking its chops as it stalked down the wall leaving smoking footprints in the wallpaper. I'm a special wolf, with special ins and outs and special hiding places. Doctor Goodwin hung up her end with a final, sympathetic admonishment. Empty words that bolstered the wall in his mind, that barred the door against the wolf as it came towards him, brushy black tail wagging in amusement. I can hear the door slamming Arthur but you can't keep me out, it grunted, sitting in front of him, malformed front paws kneading the carpet. I can come in anytime I want, you know that.

And he did.

"Go away." He whispered, shutting his eyes tightly. "Go away. You're not real."

No.

Not yet.

Stinking breath, smelling of rotten meat and spoiled milk, washed over his face and he could sense it staring at him. Waiting. watching.

Until it wasn't.

He opened his eyes and it was gone, leaving only a whiff of something foul in the air. But it would be back.

It always came back.

He tried to work for the remainder of the day. He worked at home these days. Ever since he'd first seen the wolf. Following him in the street, weaving in and out of the crowd on Saint James Street on a Saturday afternoon, the sound of the ocean pounding in his skull. Brighton was lovely in the summer and Arthur loved it. Until the wolf ruined it. He'd thought it was a dog at first, somebody's mutt allowed to run loose until it brushed past him and looked up at him with those yellow eyes. A shade of yellow that existed on no painter's palette, nor in nature. The color of sickness, of plague. A wolf with eyes the color of disease and its voice rattled in his head like gravel loose in a washing machine. He didn't listen then. He almost wished he had, maybe it would have told him why it was following him. But he hadn't, he ran instead, dropping his groceries, the bags from Somerfield's bursting and littering their contents all over the street, cans of food rupturing and splashing. The wolf loped easily beside him as he ran, its words lost in the babble of human voices, the rauchous cries of seagulls, the sound of cars humming through the narrow streets. It paced him as he blundered through the midday crowd, tongue lolling, eyes blazing as it laughed at him.

It always laughed at him. Quiet, mocking laughter, as if it were aware of some secret joke concerning him.

He couldn't go out of the house without it following him, especially at night. At night it was bigger. Louder. It didn't disappear as quickly, instead content to laugh and pad after him. Pad-pad-pad. He hated that sound. The most horrible sound in the universe, the sound of its rough pads kissing the ground. Hateful sound. He couldn't get it out of his head. It followed him down the street as he ran errands or up and down the aisles of bus and train, toe nails clicking, pads rubbing. He couldn't see it at those times but it was there. It was always there. Even when it wasn't.

He'd quit his job, taken one he could do out of his home. Something with computers. In demand these days. Stopped going out with friends. Stopped talking to people unless he had to because you never knew if the wolf was listening. He'd even gotten a new flat without telling anyone but Doctor Goodwin. He'd thought the wolf couldn't get in, couldn't find him. He was wrong. It watched him from the streets and the rooftops and from his television. From his computer screen. From inside his mirror.

Special ins and special outs and special hiding places. Wasn't that what it said?

No. It hadn't said anything. It wasn't real, that was what Doctor Goodwin said. That was what she always said.

He'd started seeing her after he'd quit his job. It was one of the few times he allowed himself to go outside. She had a tiny office, with a green door on the street and small steps leading up. The smell of the wolf had been thick there the first time he took those stairs, coiling around him, pulling him back down. He hadn't been able to move, to go either up or down. Trapped with the sound of the wolf's laughter and its nails click-clicking on the steps as it climbed towards him.

Doctor Goodwin had found him there, paralyzed and shaking. She'd prescribed anti-psychotics on the spot. Little foul tasting pills that dulled the sharp corners of his mind. That hid him from the wolf. But only if he took enough of them. Sometimes it was hard to tell though. The wolf was getting stronger, like a dog that strains at a leash every day will become stronger.

It even followed him in his dreams now.

He hadn't slept in days.

As the sun began to dip, he gave up on work and made dinner. He was hungry. Always so hungry. The steak curled and turned from red to brown in the pan, its juices boiling away in a hiss of steam and his stomach rebelled at the sight of it. He slid it onto a plate, mouth watering, fingers not working. He dropped his utensils so many times that he eventually gave up on them entirely, eating the cooling meat with his hands. His stomach groaned and his eyes strayed to the clock on the wall, Fritz the Cat's eyes and tail swinging this way and that only it wasn't Fritz it was the wolf and it grinned at him over the rim of the clock it held, bushy tail swinging this way and that, yellow eyes watching him eat as it laughed. A black nail tapped the plastic as his gorge rose in his throat.

You're going to be late. Musn't keep her waiting.

It was after five. Daniski, his eyes never leaving those of the wolf, pushed himself away from the table, chair falling over backwards, unnoticed. He had to get to Doctor Goodwin's. Get more pills. Get some help. Daniski ran out of his flat, trying not to listen to the sound of the wolf's feet following after.

Saint James' Street was crowded and his head pulsed with the sounds of hurrying feet and conversations he didn't quite catch or understand. Some were in other languages or in voices too hushed for him to hear but he still strained, hoping someone would mention the wolf behind him. Following after him. It was a futile hope that someone would see it just as he did. Sometimes he thought that perhaps if someone else saw it, it would leave him alone and follow them. Hunt them. But no one did. And it didn't.

It was always there.

The sidewalk was crowded and Daniski pushed his way through, narrow and stoop shouldered, burdened by the weight of the wolf as it slunk through the crowd, disappearing occasionaly but always reappearing at his side, eyes watching him and laughing.

Run as fast as you like Arthur, but I'll always be here. Right beside you it snarled softly as it nipped at his legs, hurrying him along. You can feel me can't you?

Arthur stumbled as pain shot through his legs and rumbled up through his bowels into his guts, like the meat he'd eaten was trying to climb back out of his throat. Things pushed inside him. It felt as if he'd swallowed a hunk of steel wool. He had to see Doctor Goodwin. She'd help him. She had to.

The stairs were more narrow than he remembered and they seemed to twist and turn upon themselves. He stumbled more than once, and at last resorted to pulling himself up along the wall, the wallpaper seeming to boil and pucker beneath his sweaty fingers. A rough, sandpapery tongue licked his palm and he staggered away from the wall, nearly falling back down the steps. The wolf's skull, its shape bulged beneath the wallpaper and it moved slowly, keeping pace with him as he climbed the stairs, his fearful eyes locked on it. As he rounded a turn he came face to face with Doctor Goodwin who was shutting her door behind herself with brisk, efficient movements. "Doctor Goodwin?"

"Oh. Arthur." She turned, a disapproving set to her features. "I didn't think you'd make it."

"I-I'm sorry. Time slipped away from me."

"It does that a-lot doesn't it Arthur? We've had this discussion before." She tapped her watch, her eyes hard. Then they softened. "Come in Arthur. I think we need to have a talk."

"Yes Doctor Goodwin." Arthur cast a last nervous glance at the stairwell. The wolf was nowhere to be seen. It was hiding. Somewhere.

It was always hiding.

Until it wasn't.

She sat Arthur down on the chair across from hers. Doctor Goodwin didn't believe in couch-therapy. She said it induced false maternal bonding between patient and doctor. Arthur only knew that the high backed faux leather chairs hurt his back. He squirmed in his seat as she settled primly across from him, hands folded neatly on her lap. "Well?"

"Doctor?"

"Arthur. What is the problem? I thought we had settled this before. This wolf of yours is merely and auditory and visual hallucination, one you can control with a proper chemical regimen. The regimen I put you on and which you have evidently failed to keep up."

"I didn't! I-I mean I did! I've been taking the pills just like you said Doctor and it was working. It was!" Arthur toppled in his chair, bending until his forehead almost touched his knees, his hands cradling his face. "But its not anymore. The wolf can see me again. I can see it. It followed me here!" His voice was sharp with anguish and Doctor Goodwin's eyes narrowed in concern. "It followed me here." He whispered, looking up at her, tears rolling down his sallow cheeks. Doctor Goodwin sighed and leaned forward.

"Arthur, the wolf is not real. You know this. It is simply a product of your disordered psyche. A hiccup in your mental processes, one that is easily controlled. You are suffering from a very specific, focused form of schizophrenia. Reality is harder for you to maintain your hold of than the average person. We've discussed this. You need to work harder at it. Discipline yourself."

"I thought so too, but-"

"No buts Arthur. The wolf is not real. Say it with me."

"The wolf is-"

"Isn't real. The wolf isn't real." Doctor Goodwin's voice was calm. Reasonable. It was always reasonable. "The wolf isn't real."

"The wolf isn't real." Arthur stuttered. The office was tiny, barely a closet really. Dimly lit, the noise of Saint James' Street an ever-present rumble of muddled voices and vehicle engines grunting along. She didn't even have a desk. Just a bookshelf and two chairs. Spartan. Efficient. She said she didn't want any distractions. She was a good doctor. "The wolf isn't real."

"Good. Now we can go forward." She nodded and leaned back. "When you see the wolf, what is it doing Arthur?"

"But you said-"

"Yes. I did. And it isn't. But humor me, what is it doing?"

"Watching me. Stalking me."

"Hounding you?"

"Yes. Yes!" Arthur was breathing heavily now. "Its in my head all the time, driving me this way and that. Trying to-trying to..." His voice died away. What was it trying to do? What? He rubbed his brow with both hands, fingertips sweaty and slick over his skin. What was it trying to do? He looked at Doctor Goodwin, who was smiling patiently. She was always smiling, even when she wasn't. Like she was laughing at him. Always laughing.

He never saw her other patients. There was never anyone in her office except her or on the stairwell.

Just the wolf.

The wolf was always there. Except when it wasn't. Hunting him. Driving him forward. Cutting him off from friends. Family.

Wolves. What did wolves do? Wolves drove weaker prey from the herd, circling it until it was tired. Exhausted. Alone. And then they pounced. Something circled in his gut, eating away at him and his hands trembled. It was in his head. The wolf wasn't real. Doctor Goodwin said so. She was a good doctor. He jerked as she said his name.

"Arthur? Arthur are you paying attention?"

"I-yes." It was here. Hiding. Watching. Waiting. He looked around. If he could just spot it... "I was paying attention Doctor."

"No. No you weren't Arthur. You haven't been paying attention for some time. Always too busy looking over your shoulder to see what's right in front of you."

It wasn't Doctor Goodwin's voice. Arthur whipped around and nearly fell from his chair as he stared into the muzzle of the wolf. It grinned at him, licking its chops. It sat in Doctor Goodwin's chair, tail swishing, malformed paws clasped together. "Hello Arthur." The wolf said, teeth clicking together as it spoke.

"H-how? What?" Arthur pushed the chair back, every limb straining as the wolf leaned forward, yellow eyes blazing like the sun. Like the moon. "Doctor Goodwin?"

"Shhh Arthur. No more talking."

"But I'm not alone." He wasn't alone. The wolf wasn't real. It wasn't. "Doctor Goodwin..."

The wolf placed its deformed paws on the armrests of his chair, leaning toward him, hair brushing against him as it grinned at him. Its jaws opened slowly as Arthur watched, teeth so much longer and bigger than he'd thought. Not real. Not realnotrealnotreal. "You're not real..." He whispered, closing his eyes, trying to shrink away from the warm touch of its breath.

"No. I'm not." The wolf said as its jaws closed around his head. "And sometimes, I am."

Doctor Goodwin watched as Arthur Daniski jerked and struggled in his chair his eyes closed, silent screams distorting his features. Then he stiffened and collapsed, falling from the chair onto the floor, limp and dead, without a mark on him. Smoke, thick and foul smelling, rose from his contorted form and rolled across the floor towards her, stretching and shaping itself into a rough lupine shape before dispersing and flowing between her parted lips and wide nostrils.

With a sigh, Goodwin settled back in her chair with a satisfied smile on her face, her pale pink tongue running over her lips, her long teeth flashing for just a moment. So filling. Poor Arthur. She placed her hands over her belly and turned to the window, her eyes peering down at the street below. In the light of the setting sun they would have looked to be the deepest yellow if anyone had been there to see them before they closed.

She would have to go hunting again soon. Right now she was satisfied.

But soon she would be hungry.

She was always hungry.

Until she wasn't.