Tenderness of Wolves

THE TENDERNESS OF WOLVES

The following story contains sex acts between male teenagers where consent is somewhat ambiguous. While these situations can be really hot in a fantasy, they'd be absolutely dreadful in real life. This story is only a fantasy, and it's not meant to be taken seriously, or to be condoning the idea of forcing people to have sex. If such stories are not legal in your locale, well... you know what you're supposed to do.

There are also some elements that could be triggering for survivors of sexual abuse.

It's a werewolf story. People get killed. Flesh is eaten. If you don't like horror mixed in with your smut, go read Playgirl. If the idea of something primal and savage like a werewolf gets your juices flowing though... Read on. ;)

The Tenderness of Wolves is an awesome musical piece by Coil. This is where the title comes from.

Feedback and encouragement is welcome and appreciated. You can get a hold of me at queer_tribes@yahoo.ca.

Have fun! :)

CHAPTER 7 -- Jules

"Jesus Christ! Where the fuck were ya?!", whispered Jacob. "Dad was worried sick!"

Jules' brother's eyes carried a tinge of pink where they should have been white, and he smelled of weed. Jake had been smoking.

"I slept over at Hector's place."

"Bullshit. I called Hector last night. He ain't seen ya since after you got beat up."

'Here goes my excuse', thought Jules. Dread crept over him. This was going to get complicated.

Jake's friends were sitting around the large fountain -- an assortment of sculpted ephebes horsing around with geese that squirted water -- that marked what used to be the Maisonneuve market. They were lounging around in what most likely qualified as a "misuse of public property". They were peering at the two Haitian brothers, attempting to figure out what was up; there'd be gossiping later. Jake ran a hand in his dreadlocks.

"And you skipped class all mornin'. That ain't like you. You NEVER ditch class."

"I don't care what Dad thinks", said Jules.

"I was worried too. Thought the Wolves got ya."

Jules' right shoulder was stiff. He kept his backpack slung over his other side. He was also quite hungry. It was noon, and he hadn't eaten today. Jake's lower lip quivered.

"You should have called me. What happened? What's goin' on?"

Jules glanced at his feet. What could he tell his brother? He had already been caught in a lie, and Jules had so much to hide. Thoughts ran across his mind.

'I'm gay.' 'Conrad Blackstone is a werewolf.' 'I had sex with Conrad Blackstone, and he bit me, but I swear I didn't know he was a Wolf.' 'I'm a Wolf-fucking whore who begged for Wolf cock, and I got what I deserve.' 'I slept with the werewolf who killed Marco Williams, Max Ballantine, and Terry Hartigan, because he did it for me. And now he bit me, and I'm changing.'

All of there were the truth, and there was no way he couldn't tell his brother most of these things. Yet he needed his brother's help.

"Can we go somewhere private? I need to show you something. You got to swear you won't ask any questions, or how it happened."

Jacob looked at him quizzically.

"Are you in trouble?"

"You got to swear", insisted Jules.

Jake sighed.

"Fine. I swear. Just let me say bye to my buds."

"Okay."

Jacob walked back towards the fountain where he had been loitering. 'Waiting for clients, I guess', assumed Jules. He had more or less figured a few weeks ago that his baby brother had started peddling drugs over the summer. Jake had a new cellphone that he had been trying to hide somewhat unsuccessfully, and he had shown up at home with brand new kicks last week. There was no way it came from their father; Etienne Rodrigue had been jobless for years. He collected his welfare cheque, and did odd jobs here and there that paid for an unsteady supply of food, the occasional activity with his sons, and his booze -- mostly his booze. Jules should have said something when he realized his brother had become a pusher -- drugs were bad, and Jake could get in trouble. But he hadn't found the heart to do so. Neither of them had enjoyed some money in a while, and he couldn't bring himself to spoil a moment of relative abundance in his brother's life. He just hoped Jacob was smart enough to not do anything too dumb.

Jake explained something to his friends who nodded back at him and then proceeded to bid him farewell in a deeply elaborate handshakes. Jules had met most of his brother's friends a few times. They weren't bad kids -- just young teenagers who had grown up in a rough neighbourhood in messed up times. His brother had always been the popular one and had never lacked for company. Jules was more... private. It hurt at times. Was that why his heart had beat faster when Conrad had shown such a keen interest in him?

Jules shut out those thoughts. He didn't want to go there. Conrad was violence and death, and in the end, the werewolf had cared little for what Jules truly wanted. The Wolf had done things to him, things that would lead to irreversible, frightening change within Jules very own body, maybe even his mind -- Jules didn't know for sure. Conrad had made the decisions for him. Grime clung to Jules -- the sort one could not wash away. Jules knew -- he had tried often, whenever his father had touched him. Now his lover has left the same disgust all over him.

Jules remembered the beast lifting him off the ground, entering him, forcing animalistic yelps from him. He remembered the coat of fur running between his fingers. He saw himself kneel in front of the werewolf. Jules could still taste its cock in his mouth.

"Okay, bro. Let's go."

His brother had returned. Jules chased away the persistent memories. They left the square, and crossed the busy Ontario street. It used to be a more pleasant area of the neighbourhood, until the Maisonneuve Market had closed a year prior. The War on Wolves had not been the best thing to happen to the economy. Hochelaga had started doing better for itself in the early 2000s with the income of affluent yuppies willing to invest in new, relatively inexpensive condos. But things went to hell when people began fearing the Wolves. The rich parts of the city simply had much better security than poor areas, and with the economy dwindling... poor became poorer. Jake and Jules walked down Morgan Street, passing an old bathhouse with odd-looking sculptures of young adolescents playing in water -- kids from school frequently made fun of those statues. With those and the Maisonneuve fountain, Jules had come long ago to the conclusion that sculptors were all not-so-secret perverts with an affection for boys.

The brothers kept walking and found a secluded spot between two buildings, in a corridor that was somewhat too narrow to even be described as an alley.

"So what is it? What did you want to show me?"

Jacob stared at Jules expectantly. His eyes were shining with anxious curiosity. Jules drew in a deep breath. His brother would freak out, but he had to give him something. He removed his jacket, and Jake tilted his head, puzzled. He then unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and uncovered his bitten shoulder. It had scabbed over, but the vicious wound was still obvious. Jacob gasped. Jules stood there, part of his torso exposed. His brother's mouth moved as if to say something, but no words came out. Jules pulled his shirt back on his shoulder and buttoned it up, removing the bite from sight.

"Did a Were do that?"

Jules nodded.

"How did it happen?"

"You swore."

"But, but..."

Jules shook his head.

"You promised."

"Are you okay?"

Jules tongue was thick in his mouth.

"I'm fine. I need your help. You need to buy me a knife. And wolfsbane."

Jake glared at him in silence. Or quietly gunned him down with his eyes. One or the other.

"I know you've been selling drugs", said Jules. I'm not stupid. The shoes are a bit obvious. You've got money."

Jake ran a hand through his dreadlocks.

"I ain't buyin' you no knife. No way, bro."

"I'll tell Dad you've become a pusher. He'll tan your hide and ground you for life."

"Aww, come on! You won't tell me what's up with THAT -- he gestured at Jules' shoulder -- and now you blackmail me. It ain't fair."

"I need your help, Jake."

Jules voice trembled as he said the words.

"I need protection."

Jacob sighed. He shook his head. Jules knew he had won.

"Thanks, Jake."

Jules' brother waved a dismissive gesture at him.

"Fuck off. We go after school. And you'll owe me. You gonna ditch class this afternoon too?"

"No, I'll go. I have a math exam on fourth period. Can you call Dad? Let him know I'm still alive."

"Maybe you should call him yourself."

Jules clenched his right fist and stretched his arm. A dull pain throbbed below his collarbone.

"I'll be in enough trouble when I get home tonight. Please call him for me."

Jake reached out and brushed his fingers against Jules' unhurt shoulder.

"I don't think he's mad at you. He was just really worried."

Jules sighed. He licked his parched lips.

"I know. He never really gets mad at me."

"Why are you givin' Dad such a hard time?"

Jake didn't know about what his father did to his older brother. He appeared oblivious to what was going on. Did Jake notice the times his father entered Jules' room at night? Had Jules' father ever done the same things to the younger brother? It never seemed like it.

"We don't get along, that's all. Just call him for me, okay?"

"Fine, bro", sighed Jacob. "I will."

"I'll see you after school."

Jules began walking away.

"Watch out for yourself, bro."

The older brother paused.

"Don't worry. Everything will be fine."

Jules somehow managed to elude getting detention. He had shown up at the office of Mr. Kohlinger -- the vice-principal -- had apologized, and had made a vague mention about problems at home as an excuse. Mr. Kohlinger had let it slide. Being a good student apparently meant you could get away with things at times. The vice-principal had even reminded Jules that he could always go to the counsellor if he needed help. "It'll be fine", Jules had said. Mrs. Gallagher -- the counsellor -- was actually a nice lady. Maybe there had been a time where she could have helped Jules. The teenager had been too small, too scared to go to her back then. Now, it seemed that his problems had just gotten too large for anyone else to fix.

He began making his way to the lockers to pick up his books. He was starving, but he hadn't packed a lunch, and had no money to buy food. He'd have to tough it up. Still, he could have eaten a horse. He hoped his father had bought some groceries. Jules hated coming back home to an empty fridge; it reminded him of how miserable his family was.

In the school's main hall, someone had set up a small memorial to the three victims of the savage murders that had occurred barely two days ago. Many students had left notes, kind words for friends and family, even flowers. Jules hesitated, then stopped at the shrine. There was a pile a coloured paper and pens for people to use to write messages of support. Jules took a sheet of paper that was a deep shade of fuchsia, and wrote on it. 'I'm so sorry.' His handwriting was shaky. He did not sign the note. He picked up a pin and added it to the collection. As he left, he noticed Amelia Hartigan -- Terry's twin sister -- sitting on a bench nearby, with some friends. She looked like someone had taken every tiny bit of joy from her, and forever snuffed it out. Jules walked away in a hurry.

He was reaching the boys' lockers when someone yelled at him.

"Hey, Rodrigue! You got jizz on the side of your mouth!"

It was some tall, hispanic boy Jules didn't know. He somehow misheard the word 'jizz', and reached up to wipe his mouth. By the time he had realized what the other student had really said, it was too late. Other boys burst out laughing. Jules shrank. He hunched his shoulders. He longed to disappear. These cruel jokes happened all the time. He didn't need that, not today, not now.

Suddenly, a sweet scent -- foreign yet titillating -- brushed his nose.

Jules turned his head and locked eyes with one of the laughing boys. It was Ali Wahim, some boy from his math class. The arabic boy was short but stocky -- he played soccer, if Jules recalled well -- with a beautiful round face and long eyelashes. Ali had been chuckling nervously, the kind who laughed because the others laughed, not because he was himself a bad person -- just a weak one. When his eyes met Jules', he quickly lowered his head.

Jules' loins stirred and instinct took over. The mean laughter seemed to fade. He stood taller. He realized he was even forcing a smirk off his face.

Then he realized what had happened. His mouth dried at once. Nausea hit him. He hurried to his locker, the boys laughing behind him.

The "changes" were starting already.

Jules took a hold of his lock and spun the dial to open his locker. His hands were shaking, and he fumbled the combination twice. Once the door was open, he paused to take deep breaths. His stomach was on the edge of his lips -- not having eaten anything since yesterday was probably the only thing that spared him from throwing up. He inspired and began counting his breaths to steady himself. He could deal with this. Conrad had been clear -- he wouldn't turn, not just from the bite. Jules had no idea what other things would be happening to him however. He wished he had at least taken the time to ask Conrad before he ditched him. Not smart.

He picked up a couple of French books and his binder. Class would start soon. The lockers were pretty busy now. Jules waded his way through the packed bodies of other students. He paused a few locker rows later and took a glance at where Conrad Blackstone's locker was located. The punk boy was nowhere to be seen. Jules had no idea how things would go between him and the werewolf in the future, but he wasn't going to leave anything to chance. He doubted the knife would make much of a difference if push ever came to shove, but... He'd feel safer with it. He needed every advantage he could get. Maybe he should write up one of those letters that said 'To be opened in the event of my death' on the envelope, outlining every compromising detail he knew about the Wolf, like in the movies. Maybe. He'd think about it.

He sat down in French, and contrary to his habits he picked a seat near the back of the class. He needed personal space and sitting right in front of Mrs. Mortimer would not cut it. He heard hushed whispers in the class as he did so. Jules Rodrigue was sitting at the back of the class. 'Stupid people', he thought to himself.

He found it nearly impossible to concentrate during Mrs. Mortimer's lecture. Scents from the classroom invaded him. Some he recognized: body odours, deodorants, cigarette smoke, marijuana, even booze -- had somebody come to class drunk? Other scents were a new experience, a discovery, and he would have to learn what they meant. Was that what Conrad picked up all the time? How did he make sense of it all?

He took a glance at Ali, the boy from the lockers. Jules knew what he had smelled back then; his own body's reaction had provided an easy enough answer to this one. He had seen Ali making out with girls many times -- quite visibly at that -- and he always had a bit of a macho attitude. Yet, Jules had known with crystal clarity back then that the other teenager was attracted to him. The revelation, however brief, had been elating.

Ali, probably bored in the middle of their grammar exercises, looked up and peered around. Jules went back to his verb tenses, but he knew Ali's gaze lingered on him. Jules breath shortened. His cock swelled. His cheeks flushed. He had never even thought that jock pretty boy Ali Wahim could have a thing for other guys, even less so for him. Jules found it difficult not to revel at least the slightest bit in the secret knowledge.

The chime marking the end of class resonated, triggering the Pavlovian reflex that urged most students to stand up and leave. Ali did not turn to look at Jules as he departed, but the Haitian boy allowed himself a peek at his ass. Ali wore baggy pants that revealed little, yet it did seem like the garment was hanging over something quite round and prominent. Jules wondered what it'd be like to... enter him. He had never done that before. He pictured Ali whining a bit, moaning his name. 'No, no, Jules, not like that, not like a girl...'

Jules gathered his French books and kept them in front of his crotch to hide his erection. He never allowed himself to be so forward with his sexual thoughts, especially not at school. He bit his lips and looked at the floor as he made his way back to his locker. This was wrong. Everything that was happening to him was wrong.

He was surprised when he saw Hector waiting for him at his locker. His long reddish hair was dishevelled -- Jules couldn't quite tell if it was neglect or if his friend was purposefully cultivating a 'neglige' look. It suited him however.

"Hey, what's up?", said his friend.

Jules managed a faint smile. Hector always made it easier to smile.

"You're here because my brother called you last night, aren't you?"

"Yeah. And you weren't in class this morning. And I have your clothes -- they're clean."

He handed a plastic bag to his Haitian friend. Jules opened his locker and threw it in there along with his books. He didn't want to lie to Hector, and yet there was a lot he couldn't tell.

"Thanks for the clothes. I'm still messed up about what happened the other day."

"I bet. Does your brother know?"

Jules began sifting through his math books, picking those he'd need for class.

"He knows I was beat up. He doesn't need to know the rest."

"By the way, your face looks a lot better today than when you dropped by my place. You're almost pretty."

Jules chuckled in spite of himself.

"Stop that before people think you're hitting on me."

"So what's the big deal? How come Jake was freaking out and you weren't at school this morning?"

Jules scratched the back of his head, taking a moment to appreciate the coarse frizziness of his hair.

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Don't be stupid. You know I can."

That one part was true: Hector knew things about Jules nobody else did, and he had never told a soul about these -- even when things hadn't been at their best between the two boys. Jules inched closer to his friend. Strange smells wafted to his nose, earthy fragrances that were familiar, others that remained an unexplored realm to him.

"I had sex last night", whispered the Haitian boy.

Hector's eyes widened, giving him that deer-caught-in-a-headlight expression that he so often made whenever reality caught up to him.

"For real?"

The events of the previous nights replayed in Jules' mind. It had been a bit too real for comfort.

"Looks like the boxer look helped", said Hector.

Jules cracked a smile.

"Shut up."

"Who's the lucky fella?"

The Haitian boy licked his lips. He hesitated.

"You wouldn't kiss and tell, would you?"

"Aww, c'mon. I told you about Sarah Smith."

Hector had been fond of her for a while, and they had dated briefly last year. It had resulted in Hector's first blowjob, but also in a bit of a broken heart when she had left him for some gangsta bad boy.

"I think he'd rather I kept it a secret", replied Jules.

Secrets. Again. Although Conrad probably didn't care if other people found out about his sex life -- he had much bigger secrets than that. Still, what Hector didn't know couldn't hurt him.

There was a moment of silence between the boys. Hector seemed like he was about to say something, but he held back. It's at that moment that Jules' "instincts" - dare he call them that? - homed in on something in Hector's odour. Jules' heart slowed, and everything became sharp, precise. He saw Hector's chest rise and fall, he noticed him swallow. The scent left an indelible mark in the young Haitian's brain. It was faint, an emotion Hector struggled to hide -- and had been struggling to conceal for some time already, leaving him worn out. Fear.

"Hector? Are you alright?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

Jules frowned. The scent had become more pronounced. Things were not alright.

"You were a bit weird when I was at your place. And now... I don't know. You're not like you usually are."

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

The school's chime played. It was time to go to class, once again.

"Math exam?", asked Hector.

"Yeah."

They began walking in the same direction. They went to different classes, but in the same wing of the school.

"It's a bitch, I can't stand algebra."

Jules shrugged.

"It's no big deal, it's just logic."

"Did you get to study with your late-night adventures?"

"No, but I'll do fine."

Hector paused in front of Mrs. Mortimer's homeroom. He had French on fourth.

"Here's my stop. Good luck with the exam."

"I'm kick ass at math", replied Jules. "I don't need luck."

"Bastard."

Hector raised his fist and gave Jules a playful bump on his right shoulder. The Haitian winced and hissed.

"Dear Lord, Jules, I didn't hit you that hard."

"It's okay... I pulled a muscle last night."

Hector giggled.

"Looks like someone gave you a run for your money."

"You have no idea."

The red-haired boy glanced at the floor. Jules caught the scent again, impossible to ignore.

"You know, Jules, we should hang out soon. Proper hang out. It's been a while."

It had been a long time since Hector had offered such a thing.

"What about Saturday?", asked Jules.

"I... I don't think it'll work out this week-end."

The sour yet crisp scent made its way to Jules once again.

"Okay...", replied the Haitian. "We'll figure something out next week."

"Sure. You should head to class, you'll be late."

Jules fist-bumped his friend.

"You take care."

"You too."

The scent faded as Jules walked away, yet he couldn't shake off the feeling in his gut -- like a metal hook gashing at his intestines -- that something was horribly wrong with Hector.

The trip to the store had taken longer than expected, and the sun was already low in the sky. The two brothers were strolling along the sidewalk of one of Hochelaga's numerous residential streets, on their way home. The weather was pleasant, but Jules' heart was numb in his chest. It had been an excruciating day, yet the worst was to come: he had to face his father. He did his best to keep his mind off the coming ordeal.

"I can't believe you actually bought the knife for drugs", said Jules.

"Hey, he's a regular. He smokes the stuff to deal with his pain. He used to be in the anti-werewolf squads, 'til he got mauled in a raid."

Jules glanced at his brother.

"He's a cop?"

"Former cop. Chill out, bro, he ain't gonna rat me out. He needs the stuff, and I've known him for a while. I'd always go and check out the spiffy gear in his shop when I was a kid."

"You're still a kid, twerp."

Jacob giggled.

"I'm fillin' out, ya know. And I got a business now."

"How did you end up doing that, anyway?"

Jake twirled the end of one of his dreadlocks.

"I talk to people, bro. It's all about who you know. You'd know, if you talked to people."

"People hate me."

"I don't hate you, bro."

Jules threw an arm around his brother's shoulders and drew him close in a quick hug.

"I know. You don't."

He was noticing the subtleties in his brother's smell. He realized the blend of not quite mature sweat, soap, and marijuana comforted him. Jacob had been the most important person in his life ever since their mother had died.

"I know I promised not to ask, but you ain't gonna tell me how the bite happened, ain't ya?"

Jules recognized the aroma of fear. Of course, Jake was scared. He was doing a mighty fine job of hiding it, but Jules supposed that your scent never lied. He patted Jacob's matted hair.

"It's big brother stuff, Jake."

"You're just two years older."

"I'll always be two years older. Sometimes big bros need to keep secrets to protect their little bros."

Jacob gently removed himself from Jules' embrace. He stared at his brother with those concerned eyes of his, a beautiful valley of brown.

"You're in trouble. I can tell."

"It's... It's not as bad as it looks. It just want to be cautious, that's all."

Jacob looked at his feet.

"You ain't gonna turn, ain't ya?"

The odour of fear intensified. Jules wished it would just go away.

"You know it doesn't work like that. It's a genetic anomaly, not something you can catch. Your friend's uncle got bitten last year, didn't he? He's fine now."

"Yeah... It's just -- ya know."

Jules reached up and rubbed his stiff shoulder.

"It'll be alright."

They kept walking in silence, passing an old church that was now a community kitchen for "disadvantaged" families in the borough. As they reached the intersection of the street, however, a group of five armed boys suddenly turned the corner -- one of the many self-appointed neighbourhood militias. The brothers came face to face with them.

"Look what we got here", said one of the boys.

Like his comrades, he kept a shaved head and wore a purple bomber jacket with a patch stitched to its shoulder. The patch displayed a bloody hand print. A thin scar ran below the young man's left eye. He must have been no more than 20 years old. He carried a loaded crossbow -- like most of his companions -- that he pointed at the Haitian boys.

Jacob took a step back, but the vigilantes moved quickly to surround them.

"Is there a problem?", asked Jules.

The odd calm that inhabited him at the moment surprised him. Many smells were coming to him, but none threatened him.

"Just makin' sure no suspicious individuals are botherin' no one", said one of the militiamen.

Jules knew from scent alone that Jacob was panicking. His brother darted looks back and forth around him like a frightened animal. Jules put a reassuring hand on Jake's arm.

"It's okay, bro. They're just making sure our neighbourhood is safe from werewolves."

Jules heard his brother take a slow breath. He could tell on some instinctive level that Jacob was going to keep it together somehow. The skinheads shoved the brothers against the rough brick wall that lined the sidewalk on that corner, and they began giving them a heavy-handed pat-down. For a moment, Jules wondered if they got off on groping other boys like that. Then he gritted his teeth when the guy with the scar handled his injured shoulder.

"What? You a wee bit of a fragile lad?"

Jules answered nothing. The skinhead slid his hand in the Haitian's jacket, where he had put the knife they'd just bought.

"See you packin' some steel."

Jake looked at his brother in alarm. Jules took in a deep inspiration, then slowly released the air from his lungs. The skinhead searched his pocket and took out the knife. Jacob had picked a sturdy hunting blade. The handle had a hidden compartment for concealing a vial of concentrated aconite extract.

"That's one sweet knife you got there. You got taste."

The boy tossed it from one hand to the other, checking its balance. Jules noticed Jacob biting his lower lip.

"It's for protection", said Jules. "With all the Wolves around..."

A couple of the gang members chuckled -- the Haitian pictured a pack of hyenas. One of the taller boys waved his loaded crossbow in Jules direction.

"Your steak knife isn't gonna do a lot of good. You wanna keep a bit of distance between you and those wolf-fuckers."

'Wolf-fucker... I'm a wolf-fucker now', thought Jules. Another one of the skinheads spoke.

"We've got ourselves two niggers, one with a concealed weapon. What do we do?"

Jules sensed the muscles contracting in his brother's body, readying themselves for a fight or a beating. Yet an uncanny calm still surrounded the older brother.

"What about you give me back my knife, and we'll both be on our way?"

The boys burst out laughing.

Jules, who had been staring at the rust-coloured bricks of the wall, turned his head and met the eyes of the boy with the scar. They gauged each other for a few seconds.

"I think I like you", said the boy.

"You gonna ask him out on a date, Dustin?", teased the militiaman who had used the N-word.

The guy named Dustin ignored him and gave the blade back to Jules, handle first.

"Your brother's a bit of a pussy though", he said, giving Jacob a shove that was a notch too rough to be called "playful".

Dustin spat on the sidewalk.

"Just stay out of trouble."

The armed teenagers walked away, leaving the brothers alone. Jacob adjusted his coat.

"Racist, wolf-fucking wannabe cops. Hate those guys."

"Language."

Jake sighed.

"Really?"

"Mom didn't raise us to talk like that."

The younger brother looked down at the pavement. He fiddled with the minuscule gold cross he always wore around his neck -- a memento from their deceased mother.

"Let's go", said Jules.

He began walking towards their home.

"You... you were pretty cool back there, bro. Thought they was gonna mug us for sure."

Jules was used to being shoved around. He had learned a long time ago that the stoic approach worked best -- thugs thrived on beholding fear, and making a fuss only excited them further. Yet Jules wasn't usually so good at hiding how scared he was. Then realization dawned on him: the skinheads had not frightened him in the least. Jules swallowed.

"Good thing they didn't find the drugs on you", he said.

He wanted to focus on anything but how he had felt during the encounter. Jake shook his head.

"Dumb luck. Gave all that I had left on me to Mitchell at the store."

The store owner had been called Mitchell.

"Let's just get home. I want this day to end."

Two blocks later, they reached the ancient triplex that housed their family's run-down apartment. Jules and Jacob climbed up the iron-wrought staircase the led to their home. Jake had called their father earlier. He had seemed relieved at the news that his eldest son was still alive. Still, Jules apprehended facing him.

"Was he drunk when you called?"

"Nah, I don't think he's been doing no drinkin' today", replied Jacob in a hushed voice. "He got really scared about you, you know."

Jules snickered.

"Maybe I should scare him more often. That'd keep him away from the bottle."

"Don't say that, bro."

Unknown fragrances again. It reminded Jules of paprika. He assumed he would learn in time to tell people's subtle emotions by scent. The thought of these new senses becoming a permanent aspect of his life was queer.

Jake pushed open the door and walked into the apartment. Jules followed him. He paid close attention to how the familiar smells of his home had become richer, more complex. The prickling touch of dust; Jacob's spray-on deodorant that saturated the air each morning; old, stale beer; the sour blend of their own body odours that had impregnated the furniture over the years.

Home. Dreadful, fucking home.

Jules smelled food seasonings from the kitchen. Curry. Coriander. Had their father been cooking? Etienne Rodrigue rarely took care of meals anymore. The boys -- mostly Jules -- had taken over housekeeping after their mother's death.

"Dad, we're home", shouted Jake.

Jules heard steps coming down the hallway, and his father appeared. He had never been a tall man, and the years had shown little kindness to him. He was 36 years old but looked a decade older. Pouches hung below his eyes. He kept his hair short, not unlike Jules, but he had been greying at the temples for some time already. Jules noticed had shaved, which was unusual. Wafts of aftershave reached his nose, mixed in with spices and other emotional fragrances.

"Hello, Jacob. Hello, Jules. Supper is ready."

Jules attempted to decode the smells. Fatigue. Something else that would be the scent of spoiled honey, if such a thing existed. Another odour that was not unlike fear, but different at the same time. Jules was pretty much certain there was no anger there.

He clenched his fist, and his shoulder throbbed in retaliation. His father sickened him. He just wanted the man to get angry. He wanted him to yell, or even slap him across the face, or shove him brutally into the wall -- to act like a man, like a father.

Instead, Etienne Rodrigue would be nice and would try to make everything better.

"Hi, Dad", said Jake.

"How was your day, son?"

Jacob shrugged.

"Alright. The usual."

He dumped his backpack on the floor. Etienne turned to his eldest son.

"What about you, Jules?"

Was he just going to ignore the whole incident? Jules avoided his father's gaze.

"It was alright", he mumbled. "The usual."

"I made curry. We can all have supper together."

Jake glanced at Jules then looked back at this father.

"Sure, Dad. Be there in a minute."

"I'm not hungry", said Jules.

"But... I made it for you guys--"

Jules shot straight past his father, down the hallway, and across the small, untidy kitchen. He walked into his room and closed the door behind him. He wished he had a lock; he would have sealed the door shut and refused to open it ever again. There were no locks however in the Rodrigue household. Jules hadn't eaten anything today, and starvation tore at his stomach. Yet he wasn't about to indulge his father with his deranged fantasy of the happy little family.

The scent of his own room -- of old, yellowed paper and of his own musky aroma, he realized -- provided him with a minuscule ounce of comfort. Jules had little money, but when it did come his way, he made the most out of it, shopping for used books, DVDs, and video games for the ancient Playstation 2 he owned. Most of his tiny room consisted of shelves holding these treasured possessions, and whatever space remained on the wall was covered with worn out posters from some of his favourite films: A Clockwork Orange, Akira, and Mysterious Skin. He stared at the youthful, forlorn face of Joseph Gordon-Levitt. He couldn't help but think of Conrad. He sat down on his single bed. He could hear Jacob and his father chatting in the kitchen, and the sound of utensils clanking on plates. They were going to have food without him.

'Good', he thought. His stomach grunted a dry sound in reply.

The Haitian teenager took out the knife from his coat. The blade was protected by a sheath made of black leather. Jacob was the one with a fondness for weapons, and despite his initial objections to buying the knife, he had shopped for the blade with childlike glee. He had run Jules through the various models, obviously enjoying putting his knowledge on display for his older brother.

Jules drew the blade and weighed it in his hand. Its heft was comforting. The thought of owning a weapon disturbed him, yet he had to admit his brother had picked a knife he liked: no frills, but with all the appearances of a reliable tool. The Haitian boy ran his fingertip along the sharp edge. It sliced his soft epidermis open ever so slightly. Jules unscrewed the cap at the end of the handle and withdrew the vial of wolfsbane extract. The store owner had assured him there was enough poison to kill a werewolf -- even in the dreaded bestial form. It would also kill a human many times over.

The thought of suicide crossed Jules' mind. He had a knife. He had poison. He just had to make his pick. It could be the end of all this mess that he called his life. His consciousness would cease to be, and there'd be no more pain -- just dreamless sleep.

He sighed. It was not the first time the desire to die had haunted him. He had resisted the urge on each occasion though, and he would do so once again. He was not about to do such a horrible thing to his brother -- not after they had already lost their mother. Besides, he would NEVER abandon Jacob to his father.

Jules opened the diminutive bottle of wolfsbane. The cap contained a small brush for applying the lethal substance -- skin contact alone could be dangerous. He took great care in coating the blade with it. The store owner had explained that the poison could remain on the knife a long time, especially when stored in its sheath. When Jules was finished, he slid the weapon back in its protective sleeve. He pondered where to put it for a moment and decided to hide it under his pillow. He could very well need it in the middle of the night.

He went to his TV set -- an antique box that was possibly older than him -- and put on the evening news. Jules liked to keep himself up to date with politics and current events. He grabbed a book from his shelf -- Cat's Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut -- and sat in bed to read. Vonnegut's bleak sense of humour and sad take on the human condition was not devoid of warmth. There was also something funny about reading an aging book on the prospect of global destruction when in real life werewolves were sowing chaos all over the planet. Jules listened to the newscast from one ear as he read. He hoped the book and the news would be a winning combination to distract him from his woes and his empty stomach.

"...Conrad Blackstone, a 15-year-old student at Maisonneuve Secondary School, is wanted for questioning for his involvement in the werewolf attack that occurred in downtown Montreal this afternoon in broad daylight..."

Jules put down the book immediately. A picture of Conrad's face was displayed on TV. Vertigo hit Jules. He saw CCTV footage showing two fully transformed Wolves chasing down a person that looked just like Conrad on Sainte-Catherine Street.

"...a skirmish apparently ensued after that in a nearby alley. The police arrived shortly afterwards to discover the corpses of two werewolves, presumably the ones shown in the footage. There was no sign of the young man attacked by the beasts. Police suspects Blackstone might be involved in lycanthrope terrorism and could possibly be one of the creatures himself. The population is advised to contact the Montreal Police Department with any information they might have on the whereabouts of the fugitive and to avoid direct contact with him..."

'Are they going to connect this back to me?' It was Jules first thought, and his entrails tightened. Nobody really knew what had been up between Conrad and him though. Jules was suddenly glad he had not given Hector any details about his lover's identity. Jules picked up a half-empty glass of water that had been lying around on his night stand, and he downed it. The water was lukewarm and tasted stale.

What had happened? Did Conrad have werewolf enemies? Where was he now? Had he managed to escape?

Jules slid his hand under the collar of his shirt, and he ran his fingers on the bite. There were rough, nasty scabs, but when he pressed on them, there was barely any pain at all. He was aware of the unnatural pace at which the injury was healing. Soon it'd be gone. Jules hoped it wouldn't leave any scar that would prompt uneasy explanations. Somehow he doubted there'd be any trace of the bite left; he hadn't noticed any on Conrad's naked body.

The Wolf was a fugitive now. Jules was pretty much certain that "wanted for questioning" was a gross understatement for torture and summary execution. Authorities didn't take chances with suspected werewolves -- this was a war, albeit an unofficial one against an elusive, faceless enemy.

Jules muted the TV and turned off the light in his room. He lied down in his bed. He doubted he would ever seen Conrad Blackstone again. If the punk boy managed to escape the police, he would surely meet up with his pack and run away with them. He had no reason to come back to Jules. He no longer had loose ends to tie now that he was known publicly has a potential Wolf, and it's certainly not like he would turn to Jules for help.

Ambivalence clawed at Jules' heart. It's not how he had expected things to go. In a sense, he was relieved to know he would not have to see the Wolf each day in school anymore. The diffuse menace that he represented was more or less gone. Yet it was a premature end, one that left Jules without much closure. He wouldn't hear Conrad's snarky, barytone voice again, nor meet that stare of his that could strip Jules naked and see him without any false pretence. The werewolf knew his dirtiest secrets -- at least most of them. Jules was aware that the the Wolf's presence -- however brief -- had become ingrained in his life and had carved its own space. Now that gap was empty. Moreover, Jules' lifeline to the lycanthrope universe had just been cut off at a time when his body was mutating because of the bite. He somehow believed Conrad when he said he would not fully turn from the injury, yet he had no idea what kind of transformation to expect. He could guess, but not knowing made the whole process even more frightening. This was hardly puberty he was going through.

'Don't get mad. You'll like it. It's just to give you a taste of the power you could have if you ever chose to become one of us.' The words Conrad had said this morning echoed in Jules' head.

He was exhausted. He had slept badly the previous night, dipping into slumber then emerging into wakefulness when his wound chose to whine or scream, or when the Wolf moved in his sleep. Yet another sort of fatigue was on him, the sort that haunted the body after spending hours in the cold of winter, the sort that could also weigh down the soul with weariness. Jules rested his eyes a moment, the light of the TV flickering through his eyelids. He could hear his father and Jacob in the kitchen, eating in silence yet managing to be noisy anyway. He let his thoughts stray for a while.

He was in the abandoned warehouse. It seemed to stretch endlessly. Hector was there. His friend made a joke -- he could never had said what it had been -- and they laughed. Hector was painting a vast mural with spray paint and brushes. Jules didn't know Hector could paint. There was something written on the mural. 'Artichokes.' For some reason, Jules looked away. The moon shone in the sky, heavy, a woman's breast ripe with milk. 'That's no moon. It's...' He remembered his friend was painting a mural, and he looked again. The writing had changed. It read--

'Hold on. I'm dreaming. I'm having a dream', realized Jules.

It was not his first experience with lucid dreams -- dreams where becoming aware allowed the dreamer to control the dream. He focused on Hector who was standing there, glancing at him quizzically, and Jules decided -- almost sheepishly -- to have some fun. He was untying his friend's pants now.

"Oh. That", said Hector.

Jules pulled down the garment. He wrapped his fingers around the hard cock of his red-headed friend. It's perfect girth filled his hand, and it throbbed at his touch. 'I wonder if he's red down there.' He was, although it was a timid bush. Jules stroked, and the flesh responded, twitching, leaking. Tingles ran through his own groin.

"Fuck me", said Conrad.

The Wolf climbed on top of him, forcing Jules' thick erection into his hidden heat. The warm, tight cavity swallowed him whole, milking him, trying to steal his seed from him. He--

'Wait, this isn't supposed to be Conrad. This is supposed to be...'

Slumberland became a blur and evaporated. Jules opened his eyes. Someone was in the room. It was dark except for the dancing lights of the television, but he knew who it was. Even the scent his nose had picked up was unnecessary. He didn't need it to know his father had entered his bedroom.

Etienne Rodrigue took a couple of tentative steps towards his son's bed. A boozy stench wafted to Jules' nostrils. If his father had been sober when the brothers had come home, he had now gone back to the bottle. Jules glanced at the crimson digits on his alarm clock. It was after 10 at night. He had passed out for a while.

His father sat on the bed, and the springs of the mattress complained. Jules kept still.

"I was really worried, you know."

There was a slur to Etienne's voice.

"With all those damn Wolves out there, you can't give your poor father a fright like that."

His father shook his head, although in the dark what Jules saw was mostly just a moving silhouette. Darkness concealed Etienne's face. He could see his eyes however. They were hollow with lassitude.

"I've already lost your mother. I can't lose you or your brother. It'd kill me."

Jules thought of the knife concealed under his pillow.

"Why won't you talk to me, Jules?"

Etienne placed his hand on his son's stomach. The flesh was clammy. Jules closed his eyes.

"You have your mother's face, you know... You always took more after her than Jacob."

The terrible banality of the scene weighed on Jules. How many times had he heard this soliloquy or a variant of it? It was a script, some deranged play that had been played over and over again. This was Jules' "normal". This was his life.

"You're my favourite, you know?", said his father.

"Just shut up, Dad. You're drunk."

"That's your fault. That's because you scared me. I thought I'd lost you."

'You lost me long ago', thought Jules.

"My beautiful angel."

His Dad began unbuttoning Jules' shirt, running his fingers along the teenager's chest. The Haitian boy took both of his father's hand, removed them from his torso, and placed them on his crotch instead. He didn't want Etienne to notice the bite. His father unfastened Jules' belt instead.

The touching had started a few months after their mother Estelle has passed away. Etienne had ended up finding comfort in his oldest son's arms. It had confused Jules had first, although his father was telling him nice things, and the way he was touching him had been pleasurable. It had been weird that it was with his penis, the part of his body he peed with. He had been grossed out the first time his father had put it in his mouth. That had been seven years ago. Jules learned shortly after that what sexual abuse was, in school. His father was touching him in a bad way. It was a very odd thing to have the teacher bring it up as a hypothetical situation while Jules realized he was that one boy in the class to whom it was happening. Jules should have said something. He should have told someone, but his father would have gone to jail. There'd be no one to take care of him and Jacob. They had no other family, not in Canada. So Jules had said nothing, and had let the bad touching go on. He understood it better as he aged, but the more he understood it, the more his father made him want to throw up. He had hoped Etienne would stop someday, maybe when Jules would be older. He hadn't.

His father was using his mouth to get him hard. Jules tried to think of something to chase away his disgust and bring on an erection. He wanted this to be done quickly, and the faster his body responded, the sooner his father would leave him alone. Jules made sure to keep Hector and Conrad out of his thoughts; his memories and his fantasies belonged to him, and he refused to allow his father to soil them. Ali crossed his mind, but Jules forced that image out also. Instead, he shoved in his brain filthy, pornographic pictures. He imagined a woman on all four in front of him, and he was fucking her hard. She made obscene, exaggerated noises. The lurid mental image gave Jules what he needed. Blood was flooding to his nether regions.

He heard the sucking sounds his Dad made, but dared not look. He focused on picturing the woman instead, to get himself off as fast as he could. He would give Etienne what he wanted, and it would be over soon. The slurping mouth made him want to retch and the nauseating scent -- a rotten sweetness, really -- of his father's arousal assaulted him. Jules wished he could melt away or dissolve into nothingness to escape his father's grasp. He had to ignore whatever crawled under his skin at the moment however. 'Bear with it. Come on, you're almost there. He'll go when you're done.' The woman in his brain was gyrating her hips around his cock and moaned louder.

Jules winced when he came. That was always the worst part, that moment when his body betrayed him and his Dad won.

Etienne stood back up.

"Remember", he mumbled, "I love you. Good night, Jules."

He walked out of the room. Jules grabbed the first stray piece of clothing he could find on the floor, and he scrubbed down whatever blend of spit and semen his father had left on him. His motions were a frantic blur of rage. He wished he could shower and lose himself under the scalding water. He couldn't however -- the noise might wake up Jacob. His brother could never find out. Washing off the slime off his being would have to wait.

He took off his shirt. He couldn't help but pause to examine his shoulder. The scabs didn't even look that messy anymore. They had crumbled in spots, and Jules could make out hints of paler flesh. He brought up his fingers and touched the wound. There was no pain, and the skin was soft where it had healed. Jules picked up a folded t-shirt from his drawer and clean underwear, and he put them on. He never slept naked. Last night had been an exception.

His father's touch clung to him like some ghastly ectoplasm, but the fresh clothes appeased the revulsion it inspired. Jules reached for the television set and switched it off. His room became darkness. Outside, some hooker was screaming at her pimp -- it was just Hochelaga background noise to him. He returned to his bed and slid under the sheets. They were heavy and smelled of him, Jules Rodrigue, complete fuck-up. He turned to his side and curled up into a ball, doing his best to disappear under the blankets. He wouldn't cry -- he hadn't cried since his mother had died. He stayed there, thinking instead of Conrad's form enveloping him, claiming him as his possession. He remembered the thick fur; the hard muscles of the beast; the erect cock protruding against his backside; the wet tongue cleaning his wound, causing a tinge of pain with each lap. Jules' bed felt so empty. He reached under the pillow, and clutched the knife. It would be his sole companion through the night.

He was alone.

TO BE CONTINUED.