Chapter 1

Chapter1

Decades later…

Woe is me.

Baptiste trudged head down through the forest, shivering in his ragged clothes as the first snowflakes began to fall. Winter had arrived and he had no shelter—which was as it should be. He didn’t deserve even a barebones doghouse. He’d committed a grievous crime and deserved to be punished.

But would his previous friends do him a favor and tie him to a cross for lashings?

No.

Would they stake him to the ground by a fire ant mound, drizzle him with honey, and leave him to scream?

Again, no.

He had terrible friends who kept looking for him and shouting they loved him, cared for him, and wanted to help him.

Assholes.

You should have been an actor because you are nailing the whole mopey Eeyore routine. That comment came from his inner beast, a piece of the wolf god, Garou, that inhabited his body and always had a smart-ass remark for everything.

“Fuck off,” he muttered.

You get better results when you fuck on.

Baptiste tuned out Garou and went back to his lament. What did a man have to do to get some well-deserved discipline? Why would no one put him out of his misery?

Speaking of misery, he shivered with cold.

A fire would be nice, Garou remarked.

He didn’t deserve to be warm.

Then think about me, his beast growled.

“You don’t deserve it either,” he muttered. “We’re both guilty.” Guilty of murder.

How much longer are you going to whine about it?

“Until I die.”

Rather not. And Garou meant it. Garou had been foiling Baptiste’s attempts to take his own life, pushing past his usual control to make sure he didn’t step in front of a train or off the edge of a cliff.

Damned bossy beast.

Gonna get bossier if you don’t do something about the cold. Don’t make me take over again.

The last time Garou had shifted and taken control, Baptiste woke naked in a dumpster, covered in pasta sauce. He got chastised by the goblins living in it because they didn’t want to share.

“Fine. You want fire, I’ll give you a fucking fire.”

Baptiste pulled a lighter from his pocket and headed for the splintered stump of a large tree. The base of it, with its inside hollowed from rot, made a great place to dump the dry branches he snapped from the fallen trunk. Once he had a pile, he lit it. Fire shot up from the stump, the warmth easing the trembling in his limbs. He held out his hands to the blaze and sighed. If only he didn’t feel guilty at enjoying such a simple pleasure. The woman he’d killed would never feel anything ever again.

Here we go on the pity-me merry-go-round.

Once upon a time, Baptiste was a good guy. He worked as the muscle for the Cryptid Authority, assigned to a division known as the Special Monsters Unit—SMU for short. He’d been friends with his coworkers to the point they shared most meals and hung out when the workday was done. A good son, he visited his mom a few times a week. Fuck, how he missed her spicy chickpea, potato, and faux bacon crumble casserole. He missed his mom’s hugs even more. He knew he could show up now, dirty and pathetic, and she’d drag him inside, instantly forgiving.

Like your mom. We should visit.

Even his Pack—werewolves like him—would have taken him back. He was their Garou, a rarity with his kind, ranked higher than an Alpha because he was thought to be imbued with the spirit of their wolf god.

We are blessed.

More like cursed. It had been his wolfman shape that had torn his fiancée apart. He might not have loved Diandra—their marriage had been arranged—but he’d liked her. She didn’t deserve what happened.

She wasn’t the one. Garou had been clear on that from the beginning.

“Neither was Ruby.” The woman Garou had fixated on. A redhead with a power to cancel magic, she’d come to work for SMU. His first meeting with her, he’d thought she was okay. By the second, he was instantly smitten.

Bad magic. Should have never eaten that donut.

Someone had placed an intense love spell on his honey cruller. It made him shirk his obligation, chase after Ruby, and, in the end, it made him snap. Poor Diandra died because of it.

Unlike others, he wouldn’t blame the curse he’d been under. He should have had better control. What was the point of being the avatar of a god if he was susceptible to malicious spells?

Gonna learn to play the violin if you keep whining.

Garou felt no guilt. No remorse. And he was annoying as fuck.

Love you, too, asshole.

Baptiste sat on the ground and rested his back against the fallen trunk of the tree. He missed his big, comfy bed. Missed his apartment. His shower. Food. Foraging in the woods just didn’t satisfy.

Berries and nuts are for prey. I want meat.

His beast side was all carnivore in direct contrast to the man who’d gone vegetarian a while ago. It pissed off his wolf side something fierce.

“I’ll find us something in the morning,” Baptiste promised.

Your liver is looking awfully tasty.

“How many times have I said that isn’t funny?” He should have never watched that movie, Venom. Ever since, Garou had been reciting some of his favorite parts and being a general pain in his ass.

Full moon is soon. Good thing. We’re getting weak.

The reminder brought a grimace. On the full moon, he would shift. He’d have no choice. And if it was like previous times, he’d wake to his belly full of whatever Garou hunted, the blood left on his lips and tongue tasting more delicious than it should.

Meat is life!

“Killing is wrong,” he muttered.

Pussy. Speaking of which, been a while since we munched on any.

“Whoa. Way inappropriate.”

A wolf has needs.

“I’m not in the mood.”

I swear, I will mount a dog next full moon. Maybe that cute mastiff who lives behind that pizza place.

“Don’t you dare hump anything!”

I don’t take orders from you.

“Why me?” Baptiste groaned.

Because you are blessed.

Funny, because it didn’t feel that way, a thought that followed him into a restless sleep.

He woke at dawn, stiff and cold, the fire down to just embers. Time to get moving. With winter coming, food would be getting scarce. Soon a campfire wouldn’t be enough as the deep chill moved in. Then what?

I have a task for you. The feminine voice in his head wasn’t Garou but his inner beast answered, Fuck yeah.

Baptiste shook his head. “Can we not get excited about disembodied voices?” As if he needed more evidence he slowly lost his mind. He rose and glanced around. He saw no one but was reminded of the rumors that this section of the forest was haunted.

As he stomped off, Garou whined. Why must you ruin all my fun?

Because fun was for people who didn’t murder their fiancées.

* * *

As the manand beast wandered away, he missed the sharp wind that shifted the embers in the trunk. The ash stirred and rose, clouding the inside of the charred remains of the tree. When it settled, a very large kernel could be seen. The seed, the size of a beanbag chair, rocked, its motions violent enough it cracked. The sides split apart, revealing a bent form that untangled and rose, the shape very womanly. Her hair, long and white. As she stretched and sighed, in a scratchy whisper like that of a branch rubbing a branch she said, “At last. I’m free.”