PitW Book 1 Chapter 2 Part 1

Well, I lost two days to a sinus infection and a third to restock order work, so I still owe you another update this week, in addition to this one, to fulfill my promises.

Time to meet the 'rents.

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Chapter 2

You humans have some weird legends about weres in general and werewolves especially. One of them is this idea that we werewolves are solitary, lonely creatures, and... well, that’s just dumb. There’s NEVER just one werewolf. In fact, werewolves are the LEAST solitary were type. We organize for mutual support, boosting each other’s businesses, making connections to open doors among humans on the quiet, covering up for the occasional... okay, in my case frequent incidents... anyway, stuff like that. In fact, other were types tend to rely on werewolves for organizing things, at least in areas where packs exist.

Somehow or other Hollywood got the idea not long back that werewolves have packs, and they ran with it, making stories about monsters gathering at night, changing into cannibal beasts and slaughtering anybody dumb enough to be out in the woods at night.

That’s still wrong, and not just because we aren’t at war with vampires. (No, vampires don’t exist. That’s why we’re not at war with them.)

As a general rule, when weres get together outside their own families, they do it in human form- NEVER in wolf form. Why? Because even a grown, fully trained werewolf still has much stronger instincts in wolf form than in human form. It doesn’t take much for a werewolf to say, “fuck it,” let the human mind shut down, and let the wolf take over. That means any meeting between two or more wolves in the fur is about two steps away from a brawl and three from an orgy. Either way, that’s a recipe for massive trouble.

Don’t ask me how I know. If you can’t already guess, you’ll figure it out as you keep reading.

The one exception to this is the Howl- the meeting most packs have on the full moon, where everybody gets together, re-establishes community ties, conducts pack business and settles disagreements.

Now, you’d think the full moon, when the wolf and all the wild instincts are at their strongest, would be the WORST time to do anything important or to bring large numbers of weres together. That’s sure what I thought. Then Jean explained it to me, as her parents explained it to her: that’s exactly why we do it on the full moon. The main purpose of the Howl isn’t to have fun or to vote on some fundraiser or something; it’s to keep an eye on the weres who might run wild if left to themselves.

That’s the reason why everyone in our pack is supposed to show at every Howl unless they have some really good reason. (I thought I had a good reason- getting with my girlfriend again- but, as I’ve been told often enough, I’m stupid.)

So, who enforces the rules? Well, up until a couple years ago it was our pack alpha. That’s what we call the leaders of a pack- the top male and female (usually mated). But our pack alpha stepped down a couple years ago and implemented a new system- the pack elder council, which is the alphas and the strongest weres in the pack.

On this particular night the elder council consisted of six weres.

First, there was Constantine Nero, or as everyone in town knew him, “Uncle Con.” He’d been pack alpha for over thirty years... and sheriff for nearly as long. He appeared at all the schools for safety events and other things several times a year, so absolutely everyone knew his smiling face and his gigantic sideburns. What they don’t know is that he became alpha by killing the previous alpha- my granddad, Franklin Stubbe, who decided the alpha should have all the women, including Con’s wife. And he held his position as alpha by fighting off a lot of challenges after that. So yeah, nobody with a brain messed with him.

Then there’s my parents. You know what I said about nobody with a brain? Dad challenged Con for leadership four different times. He thinks he’s the pack’s Big Bad Wolf, but he got his ass handed to him every single time. Unlike a lot of other weres, Dad did at least have the sense to give up when he was beaten, which is why he’s still around. That said, Dad is either the second or third strongest were in the entire pack, so I guess Con found him useful for things that don’t require thinking.

Mom- Sally Wald Stubbe- is the strongest female werewolf in the pack... or was, before Sarah. She’s also a lot smarter than Dad, and when she gives an order, he backs down. Her granddad was the alpha between Granddad and Great-Grandad. In fact, the Stubbes and the Walds were pack leaders before that as far back as anyone remembers. When I was young she talked about that stuff a lot, but as I got older she stopped even mentioning it.

Jean’s parents are also on the council. In fact, her parents are the current alphas. Her dad is Jack Goodwin, who edits the town newspaper, and he’s the first alpha in at least fifty years to get the position by election. (His main opponent was Dad. Dad got five votes; Jack, thirty-one.) Jean’s mom is Carla Whitetail Goodwin, whose family comes from the Ojibwa tribes around here. Her great-grandparents opened a pharmacy ages ago, and today she owns three locations. Neither of them is particularly big or strong- Jack’s only about half a foot taller than me in wolf form- but they’re cool people, so almost everybody likes them.

Everybody, that is, except Gus Cramer. He’s Butch Cramer’s dad, and he’s where she gets all her crazy. He scares me even more than Becca does, and that’s saying a LOT. He challenged Con pretty much the day he came to town, about twenty-five years ago. Con let him live and gave him a job at the sheriff’s department so he could, I guess, try to tame him or something. It really did not work. He’s always talking about how weres should rule humans- kinda ignoring that you humans outnumber us something like a thousand to one. He ran in the same election for alpha on that platform, and not only did nobody vote for him, but there was actually a vote afterwards on whether or not he was too dangerous to be allowed to live.

Gus is still breathing on a two-vote majority... and he acts like it was a twenty vote majority. Once I asked Con why he let Gus live, and he said, “Sometimes it’s better to have them inside pissing out than outside pissing on you.” And that sounds smart, but every time I have to hide from Gus, I think it doesn’t work in his case.

Anyway, that’s the six of them. Six werewolves basically running things for about fifty to sixty weres in town and out in the surrounding countryside. And at the moment Jean and I were meeting the new economy-sized Sarah, the six of them were gathering near the barbecue pits in the camping area at Del Ray Park, talking about us...

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Weather permitting, it was the same site every month- Camping Area B, in the back of Del Ray Park. The site contained several welcome facilities- public restrooms, picnic tables, several communal barbecue pits, and ample parking- but it had been mainly chosen because of the quarter mile of curving drive leading in, with a bridge crossing a small but deep ravine and a lockable gate at the end of the bridge.

The campsite was, above all, private- not in the legal sense, but in the sense of security. If the gate or the sign reading CLOSED FOR FAMILY EVENT failed, the intruders would still give plenty of warning to those in the campground. As for sneaking in through the woods, such an intruder would have to walk not less than a mile to get around the ravine and its spring-fed creek. And, of course, if someone really was that determined, it didn’t hurt that all the people in the campground had superb hearing and literally superhuman senses of smell.

Privacy was important, because it was a gathering of werewolves on the first night of the full moon. And, being that it was the full moon, it was “fur optional,” which because of the difference in size between the werewolf’s two forms also made it “clothing optional.” Things like silk panties or tailored suits just didn’t work when you suddenly gained a foot of height and a couple hundred pounds of muscle, bone and attitude.

Not that every were present was naked down to the fur. There were a couple of wolves working the grills, wearing aprons for safety, as did the three or four matrons watching over the potluck dishes on the picnic tables. A couple of pups ran around, on twos or fours, wearing shirts but no pants, being chased by parents in mixed states of undress.

But most of the females were completely nude, and most of the males wore nothing but a pair of sweatpants or, in a couple of cases, a loincloth. And all of them- every last one- had a coat of various shades of fur, large pointed ears, and a muzzle full of decidedly carnivorous teeth that, were an outsider to see them, would be much more embarrassing and harder to explain than a bare butt or loose nipple.

This was the way it had always been in the Peterstown pack, for as long as anybody could remember, and so nobody questioned it.

What hadn’t always been the way in the Peterstown pack was the cluster of werewolves gathered between the parking lot and the picnic tables, within sight of one of the barbecue pits. Rule by a elected council instead of an alpha couple was still new, even after two years. But, since the old pack alpha was still on the council, the rest of the pack figured it would be all right and didn’t think much about it.

“Moon’s up, Jack,” the old alpha said. Con Nero was on the short and stocky side as a werewolf and still fit in his sheriff’s uniform pants. He’d taken off the rest of his uniform, revealing an array of scars on his chest and arms- scars no other were in the pack possessed. His light gray fur blended into the darker gray hair on the back of his scalp and in his massive sideburns. “How ‘bout we get this show on the road? You know, while the pot of dumplings is still full and the bushes are still empty?”

A growl erupted from a red-furred male standing next to Con. The blonde hair on top of his head was trimmed and waxed into a rigid flat-top, but his sideburns grew out wider and wilder than even Con’s. Unlike every other male werewolf at the meeting, he wore no clothing whatever. “We’re still waiting on Goodwin’s brat and that runt of Stubbe’s,” Gus Gramer said. “Any of you know where they are?”

Rebecca Cramer, still in the outfit from before, knelt on the ground next to Gus, head lowered, eyes turned away from her sire. She said nothing.

The tallest were in the group- and in the whole pack- cracked his knuckles and rumbled, “When I get my hands on that boy...” Walt Stubbe stood out among the other werewolves not just because of his sheer size but also because, unlike the vast majority of werewolves, he didn’t retain his human hairdo in wolf form. Instead he wore a huge shaggy mane that blended almost seamlessly into his gray pelt.

Yeah, and Dad is really sensitive about that, too. Don’t EVER mention it to his face.

The female standing next to him, smiling like an angel, grabbed the waistband of his badly stretched sweat pants, yanked, and twisted, making Walt squeak for a moment. “Behave, dear,” Sally Stubbe said, her smile never slipping an inch. Having made her point, she resumed the pose that practically screamed “good little wifey,” if a 1950’s housewife stood seven feet tall, cared to go naked before the world, and had a thick tuft of russet-orange fur fluffed up between her breasts.

Across from Con and Gus, two smaller weres kicked back in camping chairs. The male, his coat a solid grey not far from black, hadn’t done more than undo his belt and unbutton his dress shirt. Jack Goodwin leaned back a little farther, stretched his hands back behind his head, and drawled, “Eh, we know Peter and Jeannie. Peter doesn’t start trouble, it just finds him. And Jean wouldn’t let him start trouble even if he wanted to!”

His wife, brown with white underpatches right up to her muzzle, sat next to him, smirking a smug, silent smirk. Carla Goodwin knew perfectly well that Jean was more than willing to start trouble if it amused her, but she wasn’t going to give Gus Cramer the satisfaction of admitting he had a point. And besides, Jean knew where to draw the line. And if she was off somewhere with Peter- as she probably was- then they didn’t need to worry.

“So,” Jack said, sitting back forward and pushing his hat away from his eyes, “I suppose we could just get-”

The sound wasn’t loud, but even as soft as it was, it silenced every were in the campground instantly. Ears literally pricked up, twitching to find where it came from. It came soft, deep, much deeper than anything they would ever have imagined... but it was, unmistakably, a wolf howl.

Which meant, since coyotes didn’t sound like that and no natural wolves existed in this part of the state, a werewolf howl.

And it went on and on, paused, and then repeated, for close to a minute before it ceased.

Then, after a second of silence, every wolf at the Howl began talking at once, including the council group.

“My hearing ain’t what it used to be...” Con muttered.

“That wasn’t anyone here!” Jack said, jumping to his feet.

“That wasn’t Jean, either!” said Carla.

“Or Peter!” Sally added.

“That was from across town,” Walt said, a touch of awe in his voice.

“Cut the bullshit, Stubbe,” Gus snapped, looking away from the lights of town through the trees and glaring at Walt. “Across town? Impossible! Howls carry, but not through city noise!”

“It came from that direction,” Walt snarled, bristling back at Gus, “and a long way off! You heard how deep and distorted it was!”

“Of course you’d say something stupid like that, Stubbe.”

Walt’s lip curled up, revealing his fangs. “Are you callin’ me a liar, Cramer?” he snarled.

“I’m saying you’re trying to cover for your pup, Stubbe,” Cramer sneered. “Whatever that howl is, that runt’s going to be involved, along with that spoiled brat of Goodwin’s.” He turned his glare on Jack and Carla as he added, “You people need to learn how to raise pups. Isn’t that right, Becky?”

He looked down, but Rebecca was gone, with nothing but a last rustling of leaves at the far side of the campground, and a younger male with a frisbee staring into the trees, left to show her trail.