The scent of blood drove him mad. He rolled off the bed, body convulsing, more froth coming from his mouth. He reached for me, his claws digging into the floor as he crawled towards me, desperate to reach the blood. I shouted for the Baron to help me, but there was no answer. Again I called for him—or the guards I’d seen outside—anyone who could help me.
And then he just stopped. He was still, curled up in the fetal position, eyes closed, hands in tight, bleeding fists. Dead still. Bleeding because his nails were cutting into his palms and he didn’t realize it, didn’t stop.
I approached him carefully and knelt down to see if by some chance he was still breathing. At first I thought he wasn’t, and I was relieved his suffering was over…but then I saw the veins in his hands and arms pulsing, twice as fast as mine, even under the circumstances. I could almost hear the blood pumping through him. It was moving too fast, too hot.
I knew what would happen next, and that I needed to escape before it did.
I rushed to the door. I yelled that I needed help. But alas, nothing. I glanced back at the boy, and his eyes snapped open. Suddenly yellow with huge black pupils, wide open, no expression. Not human. His skull changed then too: his jaw grew into a wolf’s long pointed muzzle, his eyeteeth turned to fangs. Then his limbs contorted with wet snapping sounds, stretching out in unnatural positions, bones growing and breaking and growing again as he changed from human to animal. And with these new limbs and claws he rolled on the floor in agony and tore his skin away piece by piece until it was replaced by thick gray fur. During the transformation he had grown as well, and when he stood up he was nearly my height. And all things human about him were gone.
The werewolf stood upright, licking the blood from his hands, which were now like elongated paws. I grabbed the doorknob in hopes I could rattle the lock free—or at least get the attention of someone downstairs. But then suddenly he was on all fours, and with one powerful leap he’d crossed the room. Fangs bared, arms out in front of him, he threw me against the bedpost. As we tumbled backwards I grabbed his fur and swung him away from me. I didn’t know what else to do, but I didn’t have the power to destroy or cure him.
I had one goal, only one: to save myself. I was no longer concerned with helping him or what the outcome may be if I killed him. There is no cure for Lycanthropy, and with every transformation he would become less and less human until ultimately he would never be able to change back.
There was no way out. I ran back to the door, but he was snarling and clawing at me as I held him back. When I took hold of the door-handle, he had nearly bitten my bleeding hand. The warmth of his breath passed over my skin. Maybe he did bite me. I didn’t know. His mouth grazed me as I threw him backwards into the candelabra. As it crashed down and the molten tallow spread across the floor, so did the fire, and within seconds the curtains and bedding erupted in flames.
April 13, 2012
Why I love writing about werewolves – (excerpt)
This entry was posted on Friday, April 13th, 2012 at 2:57 am and tagged with book, fantasy, kindle, novel, sorcery, vampire, werewolves, writing and posted in Author. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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