Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 46314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46314 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 232(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
ARGH!
Alright. Okay. I’ve miscalibrated my bark. It also sounds a little too human. Also, I don’t bark, because I am a wolf. Instead, I fucking howl.
AWOOOO!
There we go. A deep, primal howl emanates from the depths of my wolf-chest. The big, tattooed, ill-intentioned biker takes several quick steps back. The rest of his pack bursts into laughter.
This makes the bad man very, very angry. He turns on Order. “What’s funny, punk?”
Order hasn’t so much as cracked a smile but that doesn’t matter, because bad and stupid go hand in hand. The biker needs more than ever to assert his cruelty, and he thinks Order is an easy target.
I want to eat him. I want to eat him so bad.
Order doesn’t say a word. The pump has finished filling the car, so he slowly and carefully lifts the nozzle from the tank and returns it to the pump station before screwing the fuel cap back on and closing the flap.
This is only serving to piss the biker off. He wants to fight. He does not want to be ignored. Obigor is still shrieking in the wrong direction, and his yaps are riling me too, the claws at the end of my powerful paws putting big scratches in the plastic cladding of the car’s interior. I used to be so proud of this car. Now it’s just a solid object in between me and this asshole’s jugular.
The biker takes a swing at order, and the smell of gross sweat is caught on the breeze as he lifts his arm, big meaty hairy knuckles aiming at Order’s face. Of course Order easily dodges the blow, moving with easy fluidity.
Again, the bikers laugh. The guy trying to fight Order is looking like a real dickhead right now, and he does not enjoy that one bit. So he lunges, closing the distance between him and my master so quickly Order cannot get out of the way.
I snarl and yap,
“What the fuck!?”
Order’s glasses have been knocked off, revealing his eight eyes to all the bikers. Absolutely none of them know what to do with this sight, and they know even less what to do when Order shrugs his jacket off, exposing an extra six arms, all the better to beat biker ass with.
He looks so dangerous, so handsome, so perfectly masterful with his dark hair blowing in the desert breeze, his blue eyes narrowed with sudden predatory intent, and his fangs dropped.
The aggressor doesn’t want to fight anymore, funnily enough. Instead he seeks the safety of his bike. All of the gang are gunning their engines, but they don’t want to go forward toward us. To go backward they have to sort of awkwardly waddle their bikes back one step at a time like overgrown bearded toddlers on plastic toys. I wish I was in my human form so I could laugh at them. Instead I am left howling as they duck waddle away before speeding off in a quick and frightened retreat. In seconds, all that is left in their wake is dust and the lingering scent of cowardice.
“Well,” Order says as he gets back into the car. “That’s a sighting nobody will ever believe.”
He’s grinning as he says it. I think he enjoyed himself just a little bit there.
“Thank you for having my back,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me.
I wish I could say you’re welcome, but I have to content myself with licking the back of his neck instead.
11
I don’t know when I fell asleep in the car, but when I wake up I am naked. Naked. That’s a concept wolves don’t have. I know before I open my eyes that I am back in human form.
“No!” I am not pleased to discover I have lost my lupine powers.
“Good morning,” Order says. “It’s nice to see you again.”
We’re driving along a country road somewhere, going god knows where. Sunlight is streaming into the car. I’ve never felt particularly good or bad about sunny days, but right now I am nearly violently offended by the sunshine. I crave the cloak of night and the form it comes with, the power and the freedom and the simplicity. My mind is immediately assailed with all manner of thoughts and concerns that didn’t begin to enter it when I was a wolf.
“Where are we going? What are we doing? Where’re my clothes? Dude. Where’s my scar?”
I am looking down at myself because of the nudity, and suddenly realizing that the surgical and bullet scars are both gone from my body completely.
“The fuck!?”
I search myself, as if they might have gotten up and moved, which doesn’t seem likely, but it is probably just as likely as turning into a wolf.
“Your scars are gone,” Order says. “Your wounds will have healed. It is impossible to undergo the transformation and not have your body return things to their rightful places and conditions. Your boss gave you quite a gift, as well as a terrible burden.”