Wolverton by Julie Steimle (sites to read books for free .TXT) 📖

brought back neatly-washed strawberries and a jar of honey.

“Ooh, yuck,” Luko said, pushing the honey jar away and cringing.

“Well, maybe he wants some.” Kurt gingerly picked it up and set it in front of Rick.

Rick stared at the jar and cringed. “Actually, I’m allergic. Do you have jam?”

Susi shared a look with her brother then promptly grabbed the jar of blueberry jam, handing it to him. “I like this one.”

“Me too! Me too!” Luko called out.

Kurt was smirking, though, watching Rick help himself to some toast. He then peered over at the covered ceramic bowl in the center of the table. He peeked to his mother who gently set a silver butter knife next to the smooth lump of butter on the table. She then went back for the eggs and more bacon.

“How about a more savory spread? Mom likes this garlic butter on her toast. She says it keeps the vampires away.” Chuckling, Kurt nudged the bowl towards Rick, then took off the lid.

Three things happened at once.

Luko started to yowl.

Susi held her breath and swatted her brother’s arm.

And Rick inhaled the pungent aroma of garlic-infused butter, and immediately sneezed. He clutched his hands over his nose.

“Sorry,” he said through his hand, leaning away from the garlic odor. “I know this sounds stupid, but I am also allergic.”

Kurt put the lid down. Luko immediately hopped out of his seat and started hitting his older brother with little fists, calling him stupid. Susi was also glowering at him, wiping her watering eyes.

“Pungent, isn’t it,” Kurt coughed, laughing.

His mother, however stepped over to the table and nudged the butter tray toward Rick. “Then how about just some butter. We churn it ourselves.”

Rick’s eyes settled on the butter, then the silver knife next to it. He lifted his eyes to the woman, swallowed, and asked, “Do… um, do you always use that knife with that butter?”

She looked pained when he asked that. Lifting the knife from the tray, she replied, “No. We never do. It is a special knife, the last of my wedding set. I just bring it out for guests.”

“Let me guess,” Kurt asked, “You’re allergic to silver also?”

Stiffening, Rick slowly looked at him. His instincts were screaming for him to run now—and yet, he could see no malice in Kurt’s gaze. Or for that matter, in anyone’s gaze in that room. The mother looked sad, though. Sorry for him, rather.

“Yes,” Rick finally said.

“Do you have any other allergies?” the mother asked. “Gluten? Peanuts? Strawberries?”

Rick shook his head. His eyes fixed on her holding the silver knife. He then looked to Kurt and realized something. Kurt was keeping his distance, not from Rick, but the silver knife.

Immediately everything added up.

“Oh.” Rick set a hand to his forehead. “Last night…”

Kurt nodded, his smirk widening into a full on smile.

Rising from his seat, Rick bowed to them all. “I did not mean to enter into your territory. I had no idea a pack of wolves existed in Alabama.”

The woman stepped back from him, eyes wide and surprised that he had added things up that far.

“Bravo!” Kurt clapped his hands together. “Get that, Mother. He figured it out.”

Susi was cheering, and so was Luko.

Yet Rick looked to the mother. “How many people here are…?”

She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “I am not at liberty to disclose that.” She then looked to Kurt. “You should take him to the pack elders.”

But Rick stepped up to her, going around the table, watching how she held that silver knife. “My mother was human too. As was my grandmother. I am sure this must be pretty frightening for you, but I wouldn’t mind hearing your story.”

Her gaze softened. Yet she glanced warily to her son and said, “Don’t worry. The pack is generous. But you will need to pay respects to the elders. It is custom.”

“If anything, to get your shirt back.” Kurt laughed. He patted Rick on his bare back, snorting while also nudging to Rick to the door.

Whipping his eyes to Kurt, Rick stared. “They have my shirt?”

“And your pants and wallet,” Kurt said. With a laugh, he added, “You had a lot of money in there.”

Rick rolled his eyes, going. “Don’t say that in past tense. It better be have money in there, as theft is still theft.”

“Finders keepers, my friend.” Kurt then nudged Rick out toward the door.

“Can’t I finish breakfast first?” Rick looked back at the mother, resisting.

Susi hopped up and grabbed the three pieces of toast from his plate, and a handful of strawberries, wrapping them in a napkin.

“Bacon would be nice,” he said when he saw her do that.

Luko climbed up and grabbed a fistful of bacon, chasing after him. They shoved it into his hands and then pushed him out to go with Kurt. They went to the door.

Susi whispered into Rick’s ear, pulling his head down so only he could hear. “Be silent when the elders speak. They don’t like backtalk.”

Moaning, Rick nodded. No pack elder ever did.

The Elders of Wolverton

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

Werewolf packs.

They weren’t exactly natural, Rick thought as Kurt led him through the town. Werewolves were individually made and keenly hunted by those who feared and hated them. They did not successfully congregate without some kind of human-like organization that protected them. Rick’s father and grandfather had met various packs in their lifetimes, and each pack had their problems. This pack’s problem, from what he could see of the rundown community, was probably a stifled, almost hillbilly inbredness and ignorance. Werewolf packs were naturally reclusive and therefore were infamous inbreeders—which was definitely a problem.

He did not belong to a pack. Rick and his father were lone wolves, and therefore more endangered. But his family’s favorite pack to visit was in Colorado because they were new wolves aware of the true origins of werewolves. They didn’t fool themselves into thinking they were some kind of gods as a lot of werewolf packs did. The Colorado pack also raised the animals which they hunted on a monthly basis and lived in a human community where they kept everything strictly above board. They were good citizens, basically. Which was why the Deacon family protected them and did business with them.

Their least favorite pack was in Germany who were unapologetic man-eaters who deified themselves while considering human beings as ignorant cattle. This Alabama pack didn’t seem like the Germans, thankfully. Kurt’s mother was proof. She was human. The German werewolf pack would never have ever chosen a human mate. But then, neither did the French werewolves—the Loup Garou—who were the most successful pack he had ever seen. The Loup Garou were civilized to the extreme, headquartered in Paris, France with strong influence around the European Union. But they were also manipulative bullies to their pack members, a bit like the mafia.

The most bothersome thing about nearly all wolf packs, Rick mused as he went along, was the one thing they had in common. Though outsiders were looked upon with suspicion, and lone wolves like him and his father were simultaneously loved and hated, werewolf packs were cultish in their behavior. They grabbed at the opportunity to get a lone wolf to join them to improve their gene pool, but they also tended to create almost fanatical religions rationalizing their curse and need to monthly hunt. Those cults often included moon worship. And the hunt was seen as a holy sacrament. He had seen it before with the French. They worshipped the Roman goddess Diana and called all those who didn’t believe a heretic. And the same with the Germans, he was sure. His father had made him read the novel Blood and Chocolate to help him understand pack mentality. Rick wondered what these particular wolves believed. It really depended on how far removed they were from the inception of the curse that created their ancestor.

That was their true origins. A witch’s curse—a witch transforming a wolf into a human to create an assassin. Descendants far removed from their cursed wolf ancestor merely forgot or rejected that knowledge.

So, thinking all this, walking from the house through the town, munching on bacon and strawberries, Rick followed Kurt barefoot all the way to their singular paved road where they crossed. A lot of the folk in town they passed looked like the residents of a Great Depression shanty town which he had seen in old photographs—only no so unhappy. Just dirt poor. They all stared at him—especially at him being in only his boxer shorts, though also at the huge claw mark which Susi had asked about. Kurt also decided to ask him about it.

“This?” Rick pointed at it to make sure they were talking about the right set of scars. “Oh, that was… uh…” He remembered the last time he tried to explain to someone from a pack werewolves about that particular scar. It didn’t exactly go well. “It was kind of a bear.”

“Kind of?” Kurt laughed, shaking his head at him. “Was it a bear or not?”

“No. It actually wasn’t a bear,” Rick said, getting annoyed. He didn’t want an argument over his scars.

“So…” Kurt gestured for him to continue. “What was it? A bigger wolf?”

Shaking his head, Rick sighed. He decided to go for it and tell the truth—in a roundabout way. “Do you believe in demons?”

Kurt laughed shaking his head, pointing at him. “You’re funny.”

And that answered his question. He didn’t. Most werewolves didn’t believe in anything but themselves and vampires, whom they hated. It was almost impossible trying to talk to them about demons, elves, witches, and all other things of the larger supernatural world. But it had been a demon who had given Rick those scars. He counted himself lucky to be alive.

“So what is it really?” Kurt asked.

Shaking his head, Rick said, “If you don’t believe in demons then you won’t believe when I tell you.”

Kurt stared, halting. “Really?”

Holy cow. He believed. Truly surprised, Rick stared. Most pack wolves were so closed-minded. He replied, earnestly. “Yeah. It was…” he gestured on tip toes, lifting up his hand to show how high, “…this tall. And it was a shape shifter. My friend Tom said it was boogieman, but our friend Chen called it a New Year’s demon. It was Chinese, and it was hunting my friend Chen at the time.”

Kurt stared more. “No kidding? Is Chen a werewolf?”

Rick shook his head. “No. He was a spirit warrior—a shapeshifter.”

Kurt looked incredulous this time.

But Rick kept explaining. “He could turn into every form of every single animal in the Chinese zodiac, including a dragon.”

Laughing, Kurt shook his head. “You’re pulling my leg.”

Rick shook his head. “Nope. You should step out of the pack sometime. The world is a lot bigger and fuller than you can imagine.”

Wincing, Kurt glanced in the direction they were going. “Nah… The elders wouldn’t allow it. They hate losing wolves in the pack.”

That was the most honest, most direct response Rick had ever been given by a pack wolf. But then again, these were American werewolves. They didn’t mince words.

“But, you know,” Kurt gazed wistfully skyward, “I would love to travel and see the world. I don’t wanna be stuck in Alabama forever.”

“You’re not concerned about staying safe from hunters?” Rick asked, surprised at Kurt’s courage. Most pack