Men of the Otherworld (6 page)

I bent to sniff it. A piece of cooked meat. I gulped it before I could have second thoughts. A second piece flew into the thicket with equally perfect aim. I ate that one, and the next, and the next. He threw each to my feet, not trying to entice me out of my hiding spot.

At last, the meat stopped coming. I waited patiently. Nothing happened. I poked my head out of the thicket and looked at him. He said something, turned the bag upside down and shook it.

My nose twitched, catching the lingering hints of meat in the air. My stomach growled. He got to his feet. I darted back into the thicket.

Minutes passed. When I peeked out again, he was still by the tree, standing now, hands in pockets. He murmured something under his breath, turned and vanished into the forest.

Once he was gone, I crept to the crumpled bag and tore it apart, frustrated by the scent of meat permeating the paper. I licked the scraps, but only got enough of a taste to make my stomach start growling again. Reluctantly, I left the bag in tatters and went to hunt.

I barely had time to pick up another mouse trail when a sharp crack of undergrowth startled me. I spun to see a form emerge from the trees. Though it was in the shadows, I could see the outline of a large dog.

I was about to bolt when it stepped into the moonlight. It was a wolf—a tall, rangy black wolf. My leg muscles seized, riveting me to the ground. Instead of walking toward me, though, the wolf loped to the east, circling me while coming closer. There was something in his mouth, but he was too far away for me to see it.

A light breeze blew through the trees and his scent fluttered down to me. With a start, I recognized it as the man from the clearing. I don't know why it surprised me to realize he was a werewolf, but it did.

Staying upwind, he moved a few steps closer. Then he drew back his head and threw whatever was in his mouth. His aim and distance weren't nearly as good as when he'd been a man and it landed about five feet northwest of me.

I stayed still, watching. He backed up, then lay down, putting his muzzle on his paws. Now a second smell shifted to me in the wind. Freshly killed rabbit.

My stomach overrode my fear and I raced forward, finding the rabbit where he'd thrown it. It was larger than anything I could ever catch. The throat had been ripped open, but he hadn't fed. I lowered my head and ate.

When I finished eating, my brain reminded me that I should escape, but the warning was buried under the weight of the food in my belly. With the black wolf still lying less than ten feet away, I stretched out and fell asleep.

The next morning he was gone. He reappeared around noon, in human form, again bearing food. I ate it, then crept back into the woods. He didn't follow. That night, he returned with more food.

With that, a pattern was established. Each day, he brought food, and he talked to me, sometimes changed form and hunted for me, but always kept his distance, never following when I grew nervous or bored and wandered away.

Gradually his patience wore down my fear. Although I still didn't trust him, I learned to tolerate his presence—especially since it was always paired with generous helpings of food.

About ten days later, after lunch, while he dozed against a tree, I screwed up the courage to approach him. I was in wolf form and he wasn't, which fortified my nerve. I circled around behind the tree, then crept forward, ears perked and straining for any change in his breathing.

Finally, I was behind the tree. I craned my neck and sniffed the back of his shoulder. He didn't move. Inching forward, I sniffed his arm and shirt sleeve, then his side and hip.

He had a rich natural smell mingled with human smells— soap, fabric, car exhaust, processed food and scores more. I sniffed him thoroughly and was about to retreat when I noticed a bag at his side. He'd already fed me and the empty food bag was lying in the middle of the clearing.

I eyed the new bag. Something bulged within it. More food? Was he holding out on me? Gingerly, I snagged the corner of the paper bag with my teeth, then dragged it to a safer spot behind the tree. It didn't smell like food. But it had to be. What else was a bag for?

Grabbing one corner, I jerked my head up and dumped the bag. A shower of fabric fell to the ground. I tossed the bag aside and pounced on a piece before it could escape. I snuffled through the pile.

As the fabric spread out, it revealed its true nature. Clothing. A small pair of jeans, a shirt and sneakers. I tore through the clothing looking for the hidden food. It wasn't there.

Behind me, the bag tumbled away in the breeze. I raced after it and caught it just as a gust of wind was lifting it into the air. Tipping it onto its side, I thrust my head inside, hoping to find the missing food. There was nothing there, not even the tempting scent of meat soaked into the paper.

I pulled back. The bag stuck behind my ears. I shook myself. It stayed on. I tried backing away from it and tripped, tumbling head over ass to the ground. It was then that I heard it. Laughter. Not a dry chuckle or a quiet laugh, but a tremendous whoop of choking laughter.

I caught the bag under my paw and yanked my head out. He stood there, arms crossed over his chest, trying to stop himself from laughing and failing miserably. I glared at him, salvaged my last shreds of dignity and stalked off into the woods.

The next day he brought extra food, so I decided, after much contemplation, to forgive him.

Each day following, the clothes reappeared in a fresh bag. I ignored them. On the third day, I was in human form when he brought my lunch. He fed me just enough to stop the gnawing in my gut, then produced the bag of clothing.

Lifting each piece, he pointed at the corresponding article of clothing on his own body, then pantomimed putting it on. I fixed him with a cool stare and curled my lip. I knew perfectly well what clothing was and what was supposed to be done with it. I wasn't an idiot. And I certainly wasn't stupid enough to put them on, which seemed to be the end goal of this little demonstration.

I laid down in my patch of sunlight and closed my eyes. Then I heard the crinkle of paper and a smell I knew all too well. Food. I opened an eye.

The man held out both hands, a cooked hamburger patty in
one and the shirt in the other. He arched one eyebrow. I closed my eyes.

The scent of the meat wafted over. My mouth watered. I peeked again. The hamburger was still there. So was the shirt.

With an annoyed growl, I got to my feet, marched over, grabbed the shirt and tugged it on, first trying to pull the arm-hole over my head, but eventually remembering the proper sequence. Then I held out my hand. He gave me the meat patty. I ate it, yanked off the shirt and threw it back. Unperturbed, he reached down for the jeans and a second meat patty and we started again.

By the third day of playing this game, I surrendered. It was an uneven match. His patience seemed endless. Mine wore out in five seconds. Besides, I was curious to see what this clothing business portended.

I put on the whole outfit, then followed him out of the bayou. On the edge of the woods was a parking lot for weekend fishermen. He walked over to the only car in the lot, opened the passenger door and turned to say something to me. The tail end of his words floated into the night as I plunged back into the forest.

The next day, he brought fresh clothes. He also brought extra food, so once again, I forgave him. To show that I didn't bear a grudge, I even played the clothing game again. This time, once I was dressed, he led me not to the parking lot, but on a longer walk, right to the outskirts of the city.

Backing onto the bayou was a run-down motel. He walked to the door closest to the woods and opened it. I tensed, ready to bolt. Instead of calling to me, though, he just walked inside, leaving the door open.

I hovered on the forest's edge for at least thirty minutes. When he didn't reappear, I crept forward. A car roared into the parking lot. I dove for cover behind a bush. Two people stumbled from the car, voices too loud, laughter too harsh. Drunk. I knew what that sounded like.

I watched them go into a room farther down, then slunk out from the bush and started toward the open door again. When I got close, I circled wide, keeping my distance.

A blast of hot air billowed from the room. I paused, letting it chase some of the night chill from my bones. Then I scooted around to the far side and peered through the open doorway. The man was inside, lying on a bed, ankles crossed, reading a newspaper. He glanced around the edge at me, nodded and kept reading.

I inched toward the door, testing how close I'd need to get to feel that glorious warmth again. I was just close enough to feel the tugging tendrils of heat when the newspaper crackled. My nerve snapped and I bolted for the safety of the woods.

I didn't go back to my den though. It was getting late and morning would be coming. Morning meant breakfast. I dimly remembered breakfast. Maybe if I stuck around, I'd get more than the two meals a day he'd been providing so far. So I crawled under a bush and fell asleep.

Late that night, I woke up shivering. Louisiana was suffering through a cold snap that winter and even the clothing the man had provided didn't help much. I remembered that burst of heat from the motel room.

For a long time, I lay there, shivering, fear warring with discomfort. Finally, I leapt up and dashed for the motel. The door was still open. Inside, the man was asleep on the bed. I curled up in the doorway and went to sleep.

And so I let myself be domesticated. In the end, like any stray, I was conquered by the promise of continued food and shelter. Trust would take longer.

For at least a week I slept in the doorway, not letting him close the door no matter how cold the night got. One day, another man came by. While I hid in the bushes outside, the other man yelled at my man, motioning at the door. Money changed hands and the other man left. That was the first of many such exchanges I'd see in my life—cash buying tolerance for my idiosyncrasies.

After a few days, with the right amount of food for coaxing, the man convinced me to come inside the room. He left the door open, so this seemed safe.

By the bed was a huge mirror with a web of tiny cracks down one side. I glanced into it by accident and startled myself so badly I dove under the bed, provoking a spate of laughter from the man.

Pretending that I'd simply fallen under the bed, I pulled myself back up and looked into the mirror. Staring back at me was a puny runt of a kid. Disgust filled me. If I'd seen myself somewhere else, my first reaction would have been “easy pickings.” Definitely not the dangerous predator I liked to imagine myself.

I was skinny and filthy, from my ragged mop of yellow curls to my bare feet with gnarled toenails. Scabs and bruises covered my face and bare arms. The clothing—my third set so far—was already torn and dirty. I glared at my reflection, sniffed and stalked from the room.

When I came back that night, the man had covered the mirror with a sheet. The next day, he introduced me to soap, shampoo,
scissors and nail clippers, along with a huge bowl of steaming jambalaya. I deigned to let him do what he wanted with the soap and scissors while I ate.

When he finished, he smiled and made a move to pull the sheet from the mirror. My growl stopped him. As long as I was in the room, that sheet was staying up. No amount of personal grooming was going to make me anything but a scrawny little kid, and I preferred to keep my illusions unshattered.

During this time at the motel, I was also reintroduced to language. Since it was more a matter of remembering than learning, it didn't take long for me to pick up the basics. Soon I knew enough nouns and verbs to understand the gist of simple sentences. Saying the words was harder.

After two years of being asked to do nothing more than growl and yip, my voice box complained at the strain of speech. I preferred to listen and spoke only grudgingly. During one of our first lessons, I volunteered to speak just once and only because I recognized the information was too important to withhold.

We were sitting on the floor near the door, before the time when I'd come farther into the room. The man was pointing to furniture and naming it. When I refused to repeat the words, he changed tactics and would instead say a word and I'd point to the appropriate object.

After exhausting every item in sight, he started opening drawers, looking for more things. I pointed at him. He paused and lifted his eyebrows. I jabbed my finger toward him, rolling my eyes when he didn't catch on immediately.

After a second, he pointed at himself and said “Jeremy” hesitantly, as if unsure this was what I wanted. I recognized the word as a name and nodded. He smiled. Then he pointed at me.

I opened my mouth and nothing came out. A surge of panic raced through me. I couldn't remember the answer. Quickly, he turned and started naming the items in the room, trying to change the subject. It didn't help. My brain spun frantically. I had to know this. I had to. Finally, the answer bubbled up from my subconscious and came out before I even realized I was speaking.

“Clayton,” I said. I jabbed my chest. “Clayton.”

He stopped. A slow smile spread across his face, lighting up his eyes. He reached out, as if to touch me, then caught himself and pulled back.

“Clayton,” he said.

I nodded. He smiled again, hesitated, then resumed checking the drawers for more items to name.

While the motel room seemed like a perfectly good shelter to me, it eventually became apparent that it wasn't Jeremy's home. His home was far away, and he planned to take me there.

Figuring this out was a long, involved process. While I knew perfectly well what a house was, the concept of home was too abstract. For me, home meant shelter and shelter could mean a house, den, bush or any convenient place. Since this motel was as convenient as any, I couldn't understand why Jeremy wanted us to go somewhere else. On the other hand, since I felt no particular tie to this motel room or this city or this bayou, I had no compunction about leaving. I'd follow the supplier of food and provider of shelter wherever he wished to take me.