Chapter Four #2
Whenever I discover poaching, I tip off the rangers. In the old days, we’d take matters into our own hands, but that’s how we created problems for ourselves and how all the rumors of crazed monsters came about.
By the time it’s well past noon, I’ve covered the section closest to home, and have circled back until I’m almost at my cave.
Tonight I’ll start on the eastern side, which will likely take all night, and retrieve my truck afterward.
Then I’ll need a few more days to completely finish my inspection.
But at least I’ll have it out of the way for the month.
While I can travel fast on paw, it’s a lot of square miles.
I reach a parking spot a bit off-road that I frequently use. Once I’ve made my way deeper into the forest, I’ll be able to shift unobserved.
However, before I continue my inspection, I need to revel in some outdoor solitude with the soft breeze against my fur and the sounds of birds chirping their distinctive songs.
As soon as I step out of my truck, I’m enveloped by the squawk of the jays, the trills of the chickadees, and the gentle coos of the mourning doves. Their music is like a balm to my soul.
I scent the air as I remove my clothes. It’s such a hassle to do the shift with them on. Even though I’ve almost perfected the skill of magically transforming with them on, something always comes back a little off-kilter.
I scent the air once more, verifying that human witnesses aren’t nearby, then mentally tune in to the ancient beings of the forests and mountains, those who direct what exists behind the veil of the third dimension.
I give thanks, as I always do, for being blessed with the gift of a dual form and a spirit connection to all living things.
My body fills out, muscles rippling and frame thickening as my fur sprouts from my skin. My fangs elongate, my nails becoming sharp, curling claws that could rip the most formidable foe.
Then there’s the worst part of the shift as horns punch through my skull. Pain isn’t the issue—there’s none to speak of. But I’ve never become accustomed to the pressure in my head as they emerge from the bone.
I allow myself to settle into my changed form, taking a few moments to adjust. My sight is keener, although much more impressive in the dark.
I have excellent night vision. My eyes tend to glow red, which is how Howlers have been busted by human campers and hunters over the decades.
Of course, the shrieking sex noises when coupling with another Howler in the woods has gained an even larger reputation.
But that’s rarely a concern anymore. Not since I’m the only Howler who hasn’t abandoned the woods for the city. I often wonder how they manage to get away with shifting in populated areas.
My buddy Hoyt, who I grew up with before his family took off, comes back to visit on occasion.
He’s spent the last ten years or so in Denver and claims he loves it there.
His girlfriend is also a Howler, and they’ve established their own secluded spot in the Rockies for such activity.
When winter hits, they remain in their human form to avoid scaring the shit out of their neighbors.
I cross the creek, splashing through the frigid waters.
My fur shields me from the cold, and anyway, I’m better off not attempting to navigate my way across rocks.
Howlers are bipeds, and between my enormous feet and heavy horns, my dubious center of balance doesn’t allow for rocks that are on the smallish side.
As soon as I cross over the water, the distinctive caterwaul of a mountain lion reaches my ears. I grit my teeth.
What the hell?
I know all the mountain cats within a twenty-mile radius, and they know better than to be in this territory.
Even if they’re only traveling through, I’ve established strict rules.
Nothing discourages tourism more than cougar or bear sightings.
A city camper automatically assumes death and destruction when they spot a giant predator.
Either that, or they try to pet bear cubs or take selfies with a fanged kitty cat in the background.
Even the most well-behaved animal loses their shit if someone messes with their offspring.
And bears are worse in other ways. How can they resist the temptation of free eats?
If the occasional arm gets ripped off or a car door peeled away like it was a sardine can, that’s the price that’s paid.
But all these possibilities add up to a disruption in the order of things. These are my mountains now that I’m the Howler in charge. And I don’t put up with any nonsense. Order needs to be maintained.
I cut through the crowded trees and bushes, stepping on the mashed, rotting leaves still damp from the rain and snowmelt.
I keep my crashing through the woods to a minimum, but I’m not exactly stealthy.
More than once, my ample girth breaks off a tree branch with a snap that echoes through the woods.
Hey, I have to work with what I’ve got. I’m built for brute strength, not graceful exploration.
As I reach the section of the creek rushing around a group of boulders that creates a small waterfall, I hear the cougar again. Hissing, snarling sounds come from the falls, the roar of the water almost drowning them out.
I slow my pace, doing my best to creep up on the big cat so I can take its measure.
The moment I catch a glimpse of his grizzled gray coat, still scruffy from post-winter shedding, I realize the little bastard is none of the cats I know.
He swishes his black-tipped tail, his lips pulled back in a fierce grimace that shows off his long, pointy fangs.
I bare my own teeth. He’s got a lot of nerve passing through this territory without checking in with me. All the predatory newcomers are given the rundown when they move to the park. Either he’s newly arrived and hasn’t had a chance to connect with me, or he’s an asshole.
He lets out a high-pitched scream, his stance indicating that he’s fixed on something nearby. Prey or fellow predator, I can’t be sure. I move past the tree to my right for a better view. My heart jumps into my throat.
Darien.
I stretch my claws and bare my fangs, my body tensing as I prepare to charge the beast who dares to threaten Darien. I leap forward, my charge more sluggish than the cat’s will be, but he has a leaner frame that’s built for pouncing.
He slams into my solid body before I’ve reached him and bounces off me like a paddle ball. He skids across the ground, rolling a few times before landing closer to Darien than I would’ve liked. But I’ve seriously pissed him off, and he’s no longer fixated on Darien.
Shaking his head, he scrambles back to his paws, hissing. I grunt. His vocal warnings don’t impress me.
We slam into each other again, and this time it’s on.
He swipes bared claws, and I swipe back.
My fur is thicker than his, and my size and strength outdo his by a good measure.
He bares his fangs and lunges for my throat, but I grab him by the scruff and hold him up in the air as if he were a tiny kitten.
I let out an ear-splitting, wailing shriek of a howl as the cougar thrashes helplessly in the air.
His attempts to slice through my fur with his claws fall short as I hold him away from me.
I spot poor Darien on the ground in my peripheral vision, obviously terrified, and I’ve had enough of this irritating cat.
I toss him aside, and he rolls in the dirt again. With no small effort, I tamp down the rage that was unleashed when I spotted the cougar threatening Darien. I have no idea if Darien’s been hurt by it, but I doubt he’ll let me as a Howler come to his aid.
I gaze down at him, trying to work out what I should do next, and he lets out a scream that rivals one of my own. I briefly freeze, but it’s enough time for Darien to take off like a shot.
The mountain lion chooses this moment to regain his footing.
Even though he’s clearly worn out from our battle, he looks as though he’s about to have another go at me.
I seriously don’t have time for this bullshit.
I do a bluff charge, let out another bellowing howl, and with one last roar, he takes off.
I bolt in the direction Darien went, desperate to catch up to him before he gets hurt. He could fall or get lost in the woods because of his panic. I’d be devastated if he was harmed because I couldn’t catch up to him in time.
Even though I can’t see him, my keen Howler sense of smell picks up his scent. Thankfully, he’s not too far ahead of me, and I won’t have a problem reaching him. My stride is much longer than his.
Alarm hits me as I realize Darien is headed right in the direction of my cave. The protective veil is up, of course, but he’s tearing through the woods at such a frenzied speed, he’ll probably smash right into it.
If humans are repelled by simply strolling by the wards, what will happen if they slam into them?