THE TENDERNESS OF WOLVES
In loving memory of my friend Benoit. I don't know if you would have had much interest in queer werewolf porn, but your rebellious spirit along with your gorgeous looks were one of the many things that inspired this. I know you are now at peace.
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 8 -- Jules
It had been three days since Hector had gone missing. He had left school for the weekend but had never returned, leaving Jules to obsess over his ghastly absence. The Haitian boy had tried calling his friend's cellphone, but there had been no reply. The official news were that his family had temporarily left town because of a "personal emergency" - Hector's mother had called to say so. Yet Jules did not believe a single word of it. The thought lingered at the back of the boy's mind that Conrad might have something to do with this, that it could have been a way of getting back to the Haitian. Yet it seemed unlikely: Conrad was on the run and besides, something had been wrong with Hector for quite some time already. Jules was certain of it.
He inserted the key in the lock of the door leading to his best friend's place. He turned it – the bolt gave in. In a sense, that key was a token of the friendship that bound him to Hector. The red-headed boy had entrusted him years ago with the key to his home. Jules' heart was heavy that he was violating this trust by breaking into the place right now, but he knew with burning certainty something terrible had happened. He pushed open the door.
It had been days already since the bite. The young Haitian was growing more accustomed to the realm of scents he had entered since his transformation had begun, although unease clung to him about the change. He hoped in this case his heightened sense of smell would be of use. Drafts of something moldy came to him; food had been left out. Jules was ever so slightly relieved that he recognized none of the odours of blood or death. The air was dusty. Just like during his last visit, the place was uncharacteristically messy.
"Hello?", he spoke, his voice breaching the silence. "It's Jules. Is anybody home?"
He had hesitated before saying the words. What if there was danger lurking? The fridge engine started, and its quiet rumble was Jules' only reply. He closed the door behind him. He walked across the living room: dirty glasses and open video game cases littered the coffee table. The rug was specked with dust and food crumbs; it had not been vacuumed in a while. Jules made it to the kitchen. Dirty dishes had piled up, and filthy, greasy dishwater filled a tub in the sink. Jules peered inside the fridge. It was not empty, but many leftover dishes had reached an advanced stage in their putrefaction cycle. They were perhaps at this point capable of sentient thought and independent movement.
Jules reached the master's bedroom. Its door was ajar, and he noticed that unlike most of the home, it was in good order: the bed was made; no piece of clothing was lying around; no object were strewn across the dresser. Jules took a few steps into the room. He walked to a nearby lamp and ran a finger along its shade; it was dusty. It seemed the master's bedroom had been unused in a while. Jules bit his lower lip. He knew what this looked like, all of this. Jules had always been the tidy one, while his best friend had always created a trail of disorder in his wake. The home looked just like Hector had been left alone in charge for weeks. He had been living on his own for a while.
Jules could be horribly wrong. Maybe Hector, his mother, and his father would walk in at this very moment. That would make an utter fool of him, and he would have some very tough explaining to do if it happened. Jules wondered if what he was doing counted as breaking and entering. It's not like he had broken anything to get in – he even had the key. He shook his head. At this point, worrying about getting caught was silly. He had participated in far worse things; he had allowed himself to become an accomplice in the slaughter of Williams, Ballantine, and Hartigan. Their screams would not leave him be, and in a sense, he perhaps deserved it.
He exited the master's bedroom and walked quietly to Hector's room. Jules treaded quietly as if he feared disturbing the place, as if he was violating a tomb. He pushed open the door to his best friend's sanctuary. Hector adored music, and the walls to his room were covered with posters from bands and musicians – genre mattered little. Dirty laundry was scattered across the floor and on the back of the desk chair. The bed was unmade. Hector's school backpack was slumped in a corner. His Macbook was on the desk, powered down but the lid open; he had not taken it wherever he had gone. His smartphone was also there, plugged in the computer. Jules picked up the phone. Dozens of text messages were unread. Hooks sank into Jules' heart and began tearing it apart. What he dreaded was materializing. Hector was gone. He would never have left for any length of time without his laptop and even less so without is phone.
Jules closed his eyes. He forced some clarity into his thoughts; a measure of calm returned more easily to him than he would have believed possible. The room smelled of his friend, and Jules had always found the scent soothing – now he could envelop himself in it better than he ever could, in that soft blanket of subtle sweat, of the almond-tinged shampoo Hector used to wash his flowing mane, of that classy cologne his best friend fancied. It helped. The paralyzing terror receded. Still, the young Haitian had become increasingly aware in the past few days of another change in him. Fear no longer held quite the same hold ever since Conrad had bitten him. Hadn't the werewolf said something about Wolves being unable to fear? Jules pictured whatever disease coursed through his veins, mutating him, eating away at what made him human. He opened his eyes.
He stepped across the room with purpose, all the way to Hector's bookshelf. Both boys shared a fascination with reading; they had spent hours together, sitting in silence yet enjoying each other's presence, each submerged in their favourite read of the moment. Jules had always been about science-fiction and fantasy, but Hector had a fondness for classics: Camus, Burroughs, Sartre, Hemmingway. Hector, however, was also the writer of the two. Jules reached up and plucked a thick leatherbound notebook. It was a present he had given Hector for his fourteenth birthday. It had become his diary.
Jules hesitated. He knew he had no choice. The diary in all likelihood held vital answers, and Hector's life was possibly at stake. Yet these were his closest friend's innermost thoughts and feelings, a part of his experience he expected no one else would see. The Haitian boy was also keenly aware that some of it would be about him – including what Hector had written after Jules had so clumsily confessed his love to him last winter. There were things jotted down on these pages that could break his heart, but that would also be a trespass of Hector's privacy that would be impossible to repair.
Jules sat down on the bed with the book. He would start from the end. Hopefully, there'd be no need to go back any further than necessary. He opened the diary.
An hour later, he closed the notebook. His hands were shaking. He stood up and became dizzy with vertigo; he had to hold on to the bedpost to steady himself. He swallowed.
No one else could ever read this diary. Jules stuffed it in his own bag. He would need to burn it; the evidence it contained was damning beyond repair. He then walked to the desk. He took the laptop and stuffed it into his own backpack. The phone was a problem though; he needed to remove the battery to ensure it couldn't be tracked, but iPhones required special tools. He silently cursed Hector for being such a Mac-head. He shut down the device and pocketed it. It would hopefully be enough.
The Haitian took in a deep breath. What he had uncovered was sheer insanity – Hector was in so deep! Jules had no idea how to get him out of this mess. Going to the police was absolutely out of question. Yet he couldn't help his friend on his own – alone, Jules was powerless. He squeezed his fist shut.
"Fuck."
He paced around the room.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."
Swearing helped somehow. But he hated what he had to do. He had to find Conrad.
Joey Whitman and Fred Fillmore, they were called. They were the two boys who had usually hung out with Conrad. In the light of "new evidence", the Wolf's situation had escalated, and he was now wanted as a "suspected lycanthrope". This pretty much equated to a death sentence – or far worse if he was caught alive, especially considering the arrogant punk was indeed guilty of being a cannibalistic monster. Everybody assumed the authorities subjected captured werewolves to the most torturous of experiments, although the government argued the beasts were always put to death. Cases of mistaken identity also happened, and more than one innocent had died at the hands of the Wolf-hunting squads. Reports of such news always emphasized how strangely the suspects had behaved, how they would not have been targeted if they had managed to blend in normally, to not stir a fuss. It was a bad time to be singled out, and Joey and Fred were becoming grievously acquainted with this reality.
The police had made a very visible show of coming to the school and of interrogating whoever was known to associate with the fugitive. Through some miracle, Jules' name had not been brought to the cops' attention. They had however questioned Whitman and Fillmore for hours. The boys had walked out of those interrogations visibly shaken, their faces pale and their limbs trembling. Fred had left school after that and had not been back. That had been three days ago; he had called in sick ever since. Joey, on the other hand, had bravely decided to face his fellow students.
Jules' situation as a local nerdy target for all the vicious kids put him very low in the school's social pecking order. Yet no one had ever suspected him of being a murderous predator. Joey and Fred had become associated with the accusations, and their status had sunk to the level of absolute pariah. Blackstone, Whitman, and Fillmore had become the objects of the nastiest rumours. All three of them were obviously responsible for the unspeakable murders of three of the school's most beloved students (though there was some truth in that case when it came to Conrad). Jules had heard horrible things about Fred. He had also seen the no one would approach Joey.
In science class, two students had snapped at Whitman. Jules had witnessed it – he shared that class with Conrad's friend. It had been ugly. They had stood up and yelled at Joey to leave. One had even thrown a pencil at the boy, although it had missed its mark. Mrs. Anderson had not dared intervene. Yet Joey had held his ground.
"I'm not a werewolf. And I'll be taking my classes with everyone of you until the end of my high school. Deal with it."
"You're a Wolf-fucker! A fucking traitor to your own race!"
Joey had rolled his eyes, and had continued in the same calm but implacable voice.
"It's called a species, not a race, you dumb fuck. And for the record, Connie's innocent."
Then he turned to the teacher and pointed an accusing finger at her.
"And YOU should be doing something about this. I have as much a right to be here as anybody else."
Mrs. Anderson's lip had curled into that rather unique shape that it assumed when she was angry.
"You'd better watch your attitude, Mr. Whitman. I don't tolerate that kind of disrespect in class."
Joey Whitman had held her gaze for interminable seconds. Jules had almost expected him to storm out of the class, or to throw a fit. Instead, he had sat back down.
"Let's get on with class, what do you say?", he had simply replied.
Jules had secretly admired the boy for his courage. He had wished for a second that he could show the same steel. Instead, he had learned many years ago to just roll with the blows.
No one had dared challenge openly Joey after that, but the ostracism endured. People would keep their distances in the hallways. No one would sit at his table during lunch nor at the table next to his. In a mere 48 hours, nasty graffiti had crept up on his locker. None of them had been particularly original however, and by the second day, Joey himself had spraypainted "PROPERTY OF THE WOLF-FUCKING FAGGOT WHORE. ADD INSULTS HERE.", along with an arrow pointing at the ventilation slit on the door. Jules had been in the lockers when Joey had done it. One of the armed police officers whose regular beat was to supposedly keep the school safe had seen him too. Joey had been promptly – and roughly - escorted to the principal's office. Jules knew nothing of what had happened there, but Joey had been back for class later in the day.
At least, no one had actually tried to beat Joey up nor attack him. One of the perks of people believing you to be a werewolf seemed to be that no one was brave enough to corner you alone in a dark alley. In that respect, Joey's situation was marginally better than Jules'.
The Haitian boy had not dared approach Whitman during school. The last thing he needed was to be associated with the whole mess surrounding Conrad. But Jules made sure to leave school as quickly as possible to catch Joey on his way home. It was a long shot, really: the sullen punk boy who had been Conrad's companion probably didn't know anything compromising, and even if he did, the Wolf was in all likelihood long gone, or hidden where the authorities would not find him. But it was Jules' only lead.
He came across Joey as the boy was about to turn the corner of Morgan street.
"Hey, Joey..."
Conrad's friend turned and stared in silence at Jules. He blinked, twice. A heavy scent came from him, a mix of an emotion the young Haitian could not quite identify along with the heavy fragrance of not having showered in a few days.
"It's about Connie, isn't it?"
This took Jules aback.
"How... how did you know?"
"The two of you had a thing going on, didn't you? He talked about you."
Jules' heart began thrumming in his chest. Instinct urged him to run away and never talk to Whitman again.
"Chill, man. I haven't told the cops. And I'm not gonna tell anyone."
"I... I didn't know he'd talked about it."
"He likes to brag. He was quite happy with himself when you told him you'd go out with him after school, right before this whole mess happened. Said he was gonna score some Haitian ass."
Jules bit his lip. Something dark welled up in his gut.
"Don't get all flustered", said Joey, noticing his pained expression. "I think he actually likes you. Connie likes to play it cool and be all vulgar and stuff, but I could tell he was excited about it. In a good way. The other dudes he's done, he didn't care about any more than his morning wank."
Despite Joey's best efforts, Jules couldn't get rid of the bitterness in his mouth. He needed to find Conrad – he saw no other way to help Hector – but the lingering impression that he had been nothing more than the Wolf's plaything remained.
"I need to find him. It's important. Do you know where he is?"
Joey pulled out a cigarette. He held still a moment, thinking, then offered one to Jules. The Haitian declined with a wave of the hand.
"Let's go sit in the park", proposed Joey.
They walked south, Joey kicking along fallen maple leaves as they went. There was a manner of urgency to his smoking. He appeared to be sucking out every dab of nicotine from the thin tube, taking little time to enjoy it. The boys crossed Sainte-Catherine, or to be exact, Joey jaywalked across the busy street while Jules waited for the traffic light to go green. Minutes later, they reached Morgan park, a pleasant enclosure of trees and grass in the midst of the bricks and stenches of Hochelaga. There was a lookout carved out of grey stone in the middle of it all. Joey climbed the stairs leading to it and leaned against the balustrade, gazing off into the distance. Jules chose to imitate him.
"You understand in how much shit he's in?", asked Joey.
Jules nodded.
"I still have to find him. It's important."
"That must have been one hell of a good fuck, for you to want to see him again that bad."
The Haitian glared at Joey. The Whitman boy ignored his indignation. He threw away the butt of his smoke.
"I don't know where Connie is", he admitted.
Jules closed his eyes. Disappointment washed over him. Joey had been his best bet, and now it turned out this was a dead end. Maybe he could find Fred. Maybe the other boy knew something--
"Don't look so down. I don't know where he is, but I've been to his cousin's place, once. They looked really close. Maybe she knows where he's hiding."
Jules perked up at this mention of Conrad's "cousin". The Wolf had said nothing of family relations, but this girl could be... a pack mate?
"I remember the address. She lives in the Mile-End. I can give it to you. I don't know if she'll tell you anything though. Maybe she doesn't know shit."
Jules had to remind himself to breathe. There were so many ways this could go wrong. He had hoped Joey would know something, but now that the trail was warming up, the prospect of chasing after Conrad to ask him a favour was not so appealing.
Joey pulled out a pen and scribbled the address on the cardboard tab of his cigarette pack. He tore the tab and handed it to Jules. The handwriting was barely legible. Then Whitman drew in a deep breath, steeling himself for his next words.
"Rodrigue... Do you know if he's really...? You know..."
Something melted in Jules' stomach. The urge to confess everything became overwhelming, a titanic mass of black bile that demanded to be let out. Secrets had plagued him every bit of the way, and yet here was this boy who was Conrad's friend, this boy who knew Jules was Conrad's lover. All he was asking for was the truth, a truth that he deserved, a truth that could liberate Jules. All the Haitian had to do was say the words, and he would be free. The one human who would maybe understand, maybe accept, stood in front of him.
Jules looked at Joey straight in the eyes.
"Of course not", he lied. "I'd be dead if he was."
Joey nodded in silence. The odours that came from him were indecipherable.
"Thanks for the tip, Joey. I mean it."
The black teenager turned around and started jogging down the stone steps.
"Wait!"
Jules paused.
"If you find him... Tell him he's my best friend."
"Okay. I will."
Jules ran off.
The Mile-End was an odd beast, an eccentric blend of immigrants, artists, Hassidic Jews who had inhabited Montreal for decades, hipsters, and crack heads. Things were made even stranger by the fact passers-by were always mere blocks away from Outremont, one of the poshest boroughs in Montreal. The essence of Outremont was cleanliness, order, and elegance. The Mile-End was instead a "bric-a-brac" that smelled of exotic foods and students who shunned perfume and deodorant, and it was a den of would-be anarchists and radicals. It held the crass honesty of the street. As Jules strolled down Park Avenue, he decided he liked it. He had decided to get off the bus early: Montreal was a ghoulish hell of perpetual roadworks, and the Mile-End had won the lottery in this regard that year. Walking at this point was just faster than being immobilized in a motorist trap. The world might have been at war with lycanthropes, but it seemed the City of Montreal always had money and manpower to spare when it came to tearing apart a street that had seemingly been repaired four years prior. Everybody suspected this had more to do with getting the government's wealthy friends wealthier, but everybody was too busy being frightened by werewolves to actually do something about it.
As Jules reached Bernard Street – the side street that crossed Park Avenue on which was the address Joey had given him – his resolve began faltering. There were many risks. This girl (she was called Catherine) might be a genuine human relative of Conrad who had absolutely nothing to do with is Wolf life. If that was the case, she would have been utterly ignorant of her cousin's true nature until it made the evening news. That would make Jules' visit and questions quite awkward – to say the least. Yet the other possibility – that she was Conrad's pack mate and a Wolf herself – could be even more dangerous. Jules held knowledge of things he wasn't meant to know. Without Conrad around to grant some protection, his inquiry could lead to a sudden and bloody death. Jules' lover had been clear on one thing: Wolves liked their secrets to stay buried.
The Haitian boy reached into his jacket and felt the reassuring presence of the knife. Maybe the skinheads who had roughed him up a few days back were right – the diminutive blade would probably make little difference in the end. But at least he had a weapon to protect himself. Jules might be only human, but he could bite too.
He finally reached the place. It was one of those strange apartment buildings that marred Montreal, with five or six units and doors scattered all over the facade on two different floors. The door number that was scrawled on the cardboard fragment Jules held matched one of the upstairs apartments. The building hardly evoked the lair of murderous, gruesome creatures. It seemed more like quarters bohemian university students would enjoy.
Jules climbed upstairs slowly, each step a deliberate move that took him closer to what could be a crossroad in his destiny – or a dead end. He didn't want to do this. The snarky remarks Conrad would make already resounded in his head. 'Told you you'd be back.' The mental image of a ravenous beast rending him apart limb by limb also made its way there. That, or that of the anti-werewolf squad hauling his black ass to some death camp in the middle of nowhere.
He thought of Hector. He had to do it for Hector. Only a Wolf could find him, and Conrad was the only Wolf who might help.
Jules reached for the door, raised his hand and rang the doorbell. He waited.
Nothing.
He rang again. Then he knocked – maybe the doorbell wasn't working.
No answer.
He fidgeted a moment in front of the door. 'Well, that's rather anti-climatic', he thought to himself. Yet part of him experienced relief, the pressure around his gut loosening a bit.
Then he heard noise below him, footsteps banging on the metal staircase he had just climbed. Someone else was coming up. Jules turned and looked. Two people were marching up the stairs.
The first was a stocky young man with a round face and a skin that held a deep tan; he looked native. His silhouette was pudgy yet there was grace in his stride, a relaxed manner with which he carried himself. He was buried in a thick, tawny hoodie, but Jules could see his head was shaved and his face was devoid of any hair. It was hard to tell his age; he appeared young but he carried himself with a confident gravity. He was climbing the steps at a measured pace and his grey eyes were set on the Haitian.
Right behind him was a young woman in her early twenties. She was white and her maroon hair was long; it cascaded down her back. There were freckles on her cheeks, and her face was clear of make-up; she seemed to care little for appearances. She wore a beat-down, brown leather jacket that came down to her thighs; it looked oddly familiar to Jules, somehow. She stopped halfway through the stairs as her companion kept going up, and she examined Jules, her head cocked to the side, her eyes filled with curiosity.
"Are you looking for someone?", asked the young man.
His voice was calm yet belied annoyance. His scent – something like pungent sandalwood, but that had nothing to do with incense – made Jules fidget nervously in place; his newfound "instincts" hated it, wanted the Haitian boy to flee.
"Err... I'm looking for Catherine", he said with a thick voice. "Do you know her?"
Jules glanced at the girl. Her lips were drawn into an amused grin.
"I'm Catherine. Friends don't call me that though."
"What do you want?", demanded the native guy.
Impatience had made its way to his voice. Jules' primitive reptilian brain was screaming for him to jump down the balcony and run away; he did his best to ignore it.
"I'm looking for Conrad."
The woman's smile vanished from her face. The young man with the shaved head took a menacing step forward, and his gaze bored all the way through Jules' skull.
"Get the fuck out of here", said the guy. "Now."
It took a few seconds for Jules to react. He forced away the urge to run down the stairs and forever leave without even looking behind.
"I'm looking for Conrad", he repeated. "It's important."
The native guy squinted. The scent that emanated from him was death. The woman – Catherine – came right behind him. Yet she put a hand on his shoulder, and he seemed to ease down – barely.
"What's your name?", she asked.
Her hazel eyes probed the young Haitian.
"Jules."
She nodded.
"Connie's gone. If you know what's good for you, you'll forget about him. Scary people are after him."
Jules wanted to speak, to talk his way through this, to persuade them to give him something – anything. Hector's life was at stake. The right words eluded him however.
"Go now", said the guy with the shaved head. "Or we'll call the cops and tell them you came asking for him."
Somehow, that last threat appeared less convincing. If they were indeed Wolves – and the man was either the scariest human he had ever met, or one of the predators in the flesh – they'd be in no rush to have to police involved. Still, whatever hope he had of finding help for Hector was running out. He could not go to the cops. Connie was gone. Possibilities were running out, like the last of a handful of sand sifting through his fingers. Jules looked at his feet.
"Connie bit me", he whispered.
He thought he saw the native guy lick his lips from the corner of his eyes. The woman felt very still. The weight of their gaze bore down on him. He dared not look up.
"You have to help me."
Jules' voice was but a murmur. He was casting his fate – and Hector's – to the winds. If they were human, they could betray him – although he doubted that as his senses were telling him otherwise. If they were Wolf, maybe they would feel some kinship – or maybe they would murder him to be rid of any loose ends.
The two beings stood in the staircase, immobile. They stared in silence at the helpless Haitian boy. They stared at him for a very long time.
TO BE CONTINUED.