Chapter 2
The Misfortune of the Werewolf
Isaac
Ahowl quavered through the bayou. Saul was out of sight, but I could sense him prowling the edge of my property. He knew I was about to disappear, and he was making his unhappiness known.
This was our routine, and it had been for more years than I wanted to count.
Routine was comforting. There were no unknowns. Chaos was blessedly elusive. The worst thing the Barbeaux brothers experienced was an argument, usually between Saul and Eli. I didn’t like to argue.
I didn’t like to do much anymore.
Because routine was comfortable and comfortable was suffocating. More and more I was questioning the point of living so many years when all of them were wasted on monotony. The emptiness beneath my ribs was a gnawing pain. This was the burden of our kind.
The misfortune of the werewolf.
I jogged down a game trail, weaving between cypress trees and leaping over pockets of water until my home was in sight.
Compared to my brothers, I lived in luxury. I liked it that way. If I was doomed to live on a sweltering bayou for the rest of my enduring life, then I might as well make it tasteful.
In seconds, I shifted from beast to human, trudging down the gravel path to the back of my house and punching the button for the outdoor shower.
Icy water rained down on me. It wasn’t a warm night but letting the monster out always made my blood hot.
The jarring temperature helped me come back to my senses.
My human senses.
Still naked, I marched to my truck. There was a clean pair of jeans and a button-up in the driver’s seat. I put both on and used a bottle of gel to fix my hair. By now I’d done it so many times that I didn’t need a mirror.
For my brother, the hunt was over. For me, it had only begun.
There was one real bar in Port O’Henry—not one of those tourist trap bar/grill combos with overpriced food—and it was so dank and disgusting that even a lot of the locals didn’t visit.
Saul would be in a tizzy if he knew I was fraternizing with locals.
Saul was a grumpy prick, though, and there was no need to let him spoil what little fun I could find.
I should be going to meet a woman whose inhibitions were lowered just enough to give me a good time and receive one in return.
In the busy season I would find a city slicker tourist that wanted a walk on the wild side with a small town redneck.
There were plenty of local men to go around but most of them were roughnecks from offshore rigs or laborers at the plastic plant, dressed in faded jeans and filthy t-shirts.
City women didn’t want the real deal.
They wanted me. Wrapped in snug, clean jeans with polished cowboy boots. I was the perfect combination of well-dressed and ill-mannered. A devil in disguise. My persona was practiced to perfection. No one rejected me.
But walking into The Anchor after parking my truck in the last spot, I knew I wouldn’t find a woman. I wasn’t even looking for one, despite the designer jeans, shiny boots, and sleek hair. That was just part of my mask. After so many years, I felt exposed without it.
Besides, it made the locals turn their noses up at me and that was what I wanted. When I inevitably goaded one—or three—of them into throwing a drunk punch, it would be because they thought I was some superior asshole.
I was superior. I had more money, better looks, and endless years to enjoy them.
If only I had a heart to round it all out.
The truth was that I was empty. Drained.
My brothers thought I was spending every night with a new woman and I let them believe that because it kept them from seeing the harsh reality of my spiraling state.
Deep inside me was a black hole, wending through muscle and bone, devouring all the good things inside of me.
I could keep it at bay with my vices—sex, drinks, and violence—but less so all the time. I was a deviant, escalating into the most unholy behaviors. Soon the quiet desolation of Port O’Henry wouldn’t contain me.
Country music poured from the open door and for a moment I wanted to turn back. Human noises and scents were too much for someone with my senses, but this was where they flocked to binge drink and make stupid choices and I was ready to make some stupid choices too.
This was my first time coming directly after a run, and though the beast was sated, my senses were still heightened, my skin tingling from the change. Last call was only a few hours away and the crowd would probably be thinner than I liked.
But I needed…something. Deep down that hollow gnawed at me, hungry for an unknown desire. My insides crackled the way the air did before a storm. Pressure building. Tense in anticipation.
As soon as I walked through the door, I knew tonight would be different. Was it the energy in the air or just my overstimulated brain, aware of every drop of sweat and muttered voice?
A small crowd of men lingered at the end of the bar and my eyes were drawn there, scanning the commotion. There were two roughnecks—their leathery skin and wrecked hands always gave it away—and a wannabe cowboy sipping beer and sitting too close to an unfamiliar woman.
The woman was laughing, blonde hair spilling over her shoulder, and catching the light above her. For a heartbeat her attention flitted my way and her light eyes sparkled with tipsy flirtation.
Warmth enveloped me. My vision shifted. The beast was there, watching through my gaze in complete and utter stillness.
I took a half-step back, startled by his sudden presence. He was always there, right under the surface. Watching for me to stumble, to lose my grip for even a moment. That grip was iron-clad. I never fumbled. Not in decades.
He wasn’t fighting me now. For the first time in my life, he felt like—like a passenger. Content to stay where he was. To observe this newcomer.
I swallowed, forcing myself onto a barstool. I angled my body to keep her in my sight, catching her in my peripherals.
She was cut differently than the type who wandered in here.
Classy and well-groomed, her shoulders lifted in a poised posture.
Though her breasts were on display, I could see by her outfit that it wasn’t intentional.
Her clothing was modest, the designer logos too expensive for a bar perched between a sleazy motel and a boat launch.
Shifting away, I waved to the bartender and ordered a drink. A little competition made the chase more fun, but I wasn’t about to step between three other men just to snag her attention. Desperation was beneath me.
Unfortunately, she was the only woman in the entire bar, so the others were too distracted by the chance for female company to pay me any mind.
My eyes kept migrating her way over the top of my whiskey glass. Her cheeks were rosy, her skin so lustrous it glowed. It was a struggle not to stare at her, especially when she glanced my way with a playful smile.
I sipped my drink, swallowing my displeasure with it when she got to her feet and accepted a roughneck’s hand. He tugged her onto the dance floor, grinding against her.
My skin went taut. The beast was no longer satisfied with observation.
Jealousy was no stranger to me. I was territorial in all aspects of my life, even when I didn’t want to be. From the outside, my pursuit of real estate appeared to others to be smart business decisions.
The reality was that this place once belonged to me. The land many of these new vacation homes were built on was part of the Barbeaux homestead before my father sold it off in his final hateful act toward my brothers and me.
And when I pursued a woman despite the man seated beside her at the bar, it was because I’d already decided what I wanted, and I was at the mercy of that desire.
That was what made these late-night excursions so risky. Some nights, it was just good fun. A distraction. Others, I was on the edge of violence, gritting my teeth to hold myself together.
The risk didn’t stop me. Maybe it should have tonight.
Clearly, coming here after letting the beast run was a bad idea. I dropped my drink on the bar with a fifty and moved to leave. I’d been standing next to my empty bar stool for longer than I realized and when I allowed myself one more look, the woman was gone.
Deep inside of me, the beast unfurled. The hunt wasn’t over yet.
My prey was quick-stepping to the hallway that led to the restrooms, an eager roughneck on her heels. A growl escaped despite my tight hold on the beast, so vicious that a man three seats down whipped his head in my direction.
Control evaded me as I marched after the vanishing couple, ready to tear the roughneck’s head from his body in a completely insane and unexplainable rage.
Somehow I managed to halt myself just outside the door, cooling the molten fury in my veins long enough to think logically. This woman was none of my business—
I growled again and my insides jolted the way they did before I became the monster that haunted my every waking moment.
The beast was finally fighting me.
That was nothing new. He fought me constantly. Even in my sleep, I would wake with a start, skin feeling too tight as the opportunistic monster tried to take my place.
He hated me, and how powerful I was. The feeling was mutual.
This was different than his usual fury. It felt more directed. Focused.
What the hell was happening to me?
I twisted the handle on the bathroom door so hard the lock snapped. It banged against the wall as I kicked it in. Instead of finding a couple passionately entangled, I saw the blonde leaning up against the sink, her eyes softening with relief.
My vicious intentions must have shown on my face. The woman rushed to explain, “I told him I was going to use the restroom. He misunderstood.”
The drunk roughneck was pissed, his shoulders tense, glare aimed at me.
It was a challenge if I’d ever seen one and I was ready to accept. The beast wanted blood.
“I know you roughnecks don’t know how to read, but I thought for sure you understood plain and simple English. The lady said she’s not interested.”
“Mind your own damn business, Barbeaux pretty boy.”
“No, I think I like minding your business just fine.”
Before I could make a move, my true quarry passed me, carrying with her a bursting floral scent that made my mouth water.
She hurried down the dim hall and to the back exit, pushing open the door and disappearing into the night.
I abandoned the roughneck to his drunk grumbling, my feet guided by an unconscious force.
The hunt was on.