One of Us

One of Us

By JM Snyder

Conner Allen stood in the men’s room of Sylvia’s Grill and watched himself in the mirror as he pulled back the dressing on his neck. In the harsh glare of the single light bulb overhead, he frowned at the wound beneath the gauze. It wasn’t very big, and two days ago, Conner would’ve sworn it was almost gone, finally. It was taking forever to heal. But this morning, he had woken to a dull pain in his shoulder, and the wound was back to looking infected again. It was a bite, no doubt about it. There were two large puncture holes that looked like fangs had torn into him, though he’d be damned if he could remember what happened. A ring of teeth

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marks connected the holes to form a mouth-shaped bruise on the tender skin at the base of his neck. An animal bite, definitely, and Conner had already spent so much time trying to backtrack in his mind. He thought he would've known if something just came up and bit him. The most he could recall was cutting through the woods about a month ago on his way home from work. It had been, like, one in the morning and raining when he left the restaurant. Water had been coming down in sheets, cold and cutting, and the thought of trooping through the downpour and the puddles along Wolfried Road, his normal route, had been simply too much. So he'd ducked into the woods, they were safe enough, and the trees overhead had kept him mostly dry. He couldn’t seem to remember much of the walk, but it had been a mess of a night and, God knows, he'd just stripped off his wet clothes and collapsed into his bed once he'd gotten home. The next morning, the wound had been there, fresh and bloody. Conner remembered feeling feverish for a day or two, nothing serious, and after a while, it had looked like the wound was beginning to close up. Until now. Someone banged on the bathroom door behind him. “Just a minute!” Conner called. He smoothed the bandage back in place and tugged his t-shirt up around his neck to cover it a bit. Then he washed his hands, reached for a paper towel and found the dispenser empty, and rubbed his hands down the front of his jeans to wipe them dry. A quick look in the mirror -- the bandage wasn’t that noticeable -- and he pulled open the door. His boss, Sylvia, stood in the doorway with one hand on her hip, the other raised to knock again. She was a crass, older woman who didn’t take shit from anyone, but there was something about Conner that she liked enough to let him squeak by, from time to time. When he saw the stern look on her face, Conner teased, “The ladies” room is next door.” Unamused, Sylvia handed him an apron. “You know you ain’t hiding from me. What’s with the bandage?” Conner touched his neck, and she rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you got another tattoo. Does your mother know?” “I’m eighteen--” Conner started. Sylvia wouldn’t hear it. “And late for work,” she said, steering him into the restaurant’s dining room. “It’s Friday and there’s supposed to be a full moon out tonight, so you know this place is going to be whack. You’re waiting tables and you’ve got two already seated. Get busy.” It was only quarter to five -- still afternoon, really -- but the restaurant was already a sea of people, each one louder than the next. Conner found an order pad and pencil in the pocket of his apron and followed Sylvia’s pointing finger to his first table. As he approached, he almost groaned. Seated in a corner booth were a bunch of guys he knew from high school, a year or two older than he was and all of them popular. He knew who they were by sight -- two of them, Brett

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Branson and Price Hewitt, used to play football for the high school team, and Rand Davis had been Macon High’s first Mohawk-haired punk, though now he sported a ponytail halfway down his back instead. Dreading what they might say when they recognized him, Conner started, “Hey guys--” “Dead man walking!” Brett called out. The others laughed when he did, and half the restaurant turned at the sound. Conner wanted to sink into the floor and vanish, but when Brett held out a hand, he slapped it amicably enough. “Conner, kid. How’s the family business going?” With a shrug, Conner told him, “You know how it is -- people are just dying to get in.” That earned him more laughs. Conner’s family ran the local funeral parlor, a fact that had earned him quite a few odd looks during the course of his life. When he'd graduated last spring, the last thing he had wanted to do was follow in the footsteps of his three older brothers, who studied Funeral Services at the local community college. This job at Sylvia’s was a way out, but Macon was a small town and people knew who he was. Some of them, mostly guys he’d gone to school with, liked to rag on him about it. Unconsciously, Conner scratched at the bandage on his neck and asked, “So you all want drinks or something?” “No,” Rand said in his soft, smoked-out voice. “We came to see you.” Conner’s heart leaped into his throat. He couldn’t imagine anyone coming to see him at work, least of all these three. “Really?” But Price laughed, shattering the moment. “He’s just joshing you, kid,” he said, slapping Rand on the shoulder. He raised his voice and bellowed out, “We came to eat!” Conner grinned self-consciously, but Rand didn’t drop his gaze and there was something in those dark eyes that suggested he was more serious than his friend believed. They ordered burgers and beer. As Conner distributed the frosted mugs, Rand nodded at the bandage. “What happened to you?” Remembering Sylvia’s question, Conner said, “Got a new tattoo.” With the piercings in his eyebrow and lower lip, and a snake tattooed around his left bicep, it wasn’t hard to pretend that the bandage covered another work of art. Before they could ask, he added, “I’m a free bleeder, so it’s still healing. I gotta keep it covered at work.” “So we can’t see it?” Brett asked. He guzzled his beer in one long swallow and held the empty mug out to Conner. “Gimme another. What’s it of?” Conner glanced around the table, mind racing. When he looked at Rand, the guy was still staring at him, and something about his expression made Conner answer, “A wolf.” As Conner turned to leave, Rand gave him a quick grin, as if they shared some secret that the others didn’t know. For the first time, Conner wondered if the guy was hitting on him. They were

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only a few years apart, and Rand wasn’t unattractive. A smattering of fine scars across his nose enhanced his looks -- made him less perfect and more real, worlds more than Brett or Price, who still looked like rugged jocks. Conner had heard that the scars came from a car accident, but no one seemed to know the details. More scars crisscrossed Rand’s fingers, whitening across his knuckles as he gripped his beer mug in both hands. At the doorway to the kitchen, Conner looked back, wondering if a guy like Rand would ever think of getting with a guy like him. From across the crowded dining room, Rand stared after him. Conner hurried into the kitchen, blood racing, a stupid smile already playing across his face. *** Sylvia came up to Conner while he leaned against the prep counter, sneaking French fries off of Rand’s plate as he waited for the burgers to be ready. Her disapproving look made him wipe his greasy fingers on his apron guiltily, but instead of reprimanding him, she waved a hand in front of his face and asked, “Are you feeling all right?” With a start, Conner frowned at her. “I’m fine,” he said. Grabbing a pair of tongs, he began to refill Rand’s plate with more fries from the basket over the fryer. “Why do you ask? Don’t I look all right?” Sylvia peered into his face, concerned. “You look a little pale. Are you feverish?” Conner pulled away from the hand that tried to press against his forehead. “I’m fine,” he said, but now that she mentioned it, he did feel a little... odd. His blood sang through his veins, his heart pounded in his chest and groin, his hands were damp and sweaty, and his whole body seemed to be trembling for some reason he couldn’t quite pin down. He wasn’t usually this bad about a guy but then again, this was Rand. The guy was still the epitome of cool in Conner’s eyes. A drop of sweat seeped beneath the bandage on his neck to sting his wound and suddenly, his vision blurred. Conner shook his head, trying to clear it, but lost his balance and staggered against the counter. “You don’t look fine,” Sylvia said, reaching out to steady him. Her hand burned on his arm and Conner almost fell when he tried to pull away. The kitchen spun around him. Closing his eyes against sudden nausea, Conner leaned heavily on the counter, head in his hand. Vaguely he wondered about rabies, then thought maybe too much time had passed since he got the bite to worry about that now. Somewhere far away he heard Sylvia calling his name. Then a cold, wet rag covered his face. Conner felt one of Sylvia’s strong hands behind it, the other on the back of his neck. The cool cloth snapped him back into the moment. “My God,” his boss said, lowering the rag to peer at him. “You’re burning up.” “Give me a minute,” Conner murmured. The room no longer swayed around him, but he still felt sick deep in the pit of his stomach and a dull ache that spread across his lower back. Wrapping one arm around himself, Conner folded over and groaned.

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“That time of the month, eh?” Sylvia joked. She rubbed the damp rag in his hair and said, “Tell you what, Conner. Take a little break and I’ll see what I can do about getting these plates out to your tables.” He nodded weakly, and Sylvia added, “Go get some fresh air, you hear?” Conner stood up carefully, afraid to trigger another wave of pain, but except for a prickling of the wound at his neck, nothing came. He took a deep breath, in, out, then held it and waited. Someone filled a glass of water from the sink, which Sylvia handed to him. As he drank it down, he thought maybe he already felt a little better. It was just a spell or something -- his mother got them all the time. But slipping outside for a moment or two during the hectic dinner rush sounded great. With a dubious glance at his customers' plates, Conner asked, “You sure you don’t mind?” “Go on,” Sylvia said again. She patted his shoulder, her touch still hot enough to make Conner shrink away. With each breath he took, the dizziness dissipated, leaving him shaky in its wake. Before she could change her mind about that break, Conner headed through the doorway into the dining room. His gaze drifted to Rand’s table automatically, but the guys were laughing over their drinks and Conner looked away before they noticed him. Off the dining room was the dim hallway that led to the bathrooms, and at the end of the hall was the back door. When Conner pushed it open, the cool breeze that drifted in made him shiver. Outside, the sky was just beginning to darken, but the halogen light above the employee parking lot was already on, its glare holding back the dusk. Conner stepped out onto the wrought-iron porch and kicked the small wooden block they used as a doorstop into place before letting the door swing shut. Then he leaned against the railing, the thin metal cold beneath his heated hands, and breathed in the coming night. *** The pain came again, twisting his stomach into knots that strangled Conner’s insides and left him gasping. Almost as soon as it started, though, the sickness passed. Conner leaned against the railing, his heart hammering in the back of his throat, each beat a nail driven deep into the wound at his neck. Beyond him, the evening air seemed to vibrate with the drone of a million insects, but the parking lot was empty and the woods behind Sylvia’s silent. Conner shook his head and wondered if maybe he shouldn’t try to leave work early. He stared out past the perimeter of light into the dense trees, considering his options. Call it a day, head on home, fall into bed and try to sleep this strange, painful ache away. Or go back to work... the thought made him queasy; he didn’t want to go back inside. Something in him reveled at being out in the dusk -- he felt the siren call of the night in his blood, and his body wanted to leap from the porch, hit the ground running, tear off into the darkness and get lost in the woods. He pictured himself growling among the leaves -- where did that image come from? A hunger rose in his bones, followed by a sudden desire to chase down the moon. He rocked back on his heels and wondered if the railing would hold his weight. He wanted to climb up, stand on the thin line of metal, and jump off into the night. He felt his blood

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surge within his veins, coaxing him, encouraging. He stepped up on the bottom rail and stood on it, testing his weight. It might hold-Behind him, rusty hinges squealed as someone pushed open the back door. Conner stepped off the railing and waited to hear Sylvia’s bossy voice telling him time was up. Instead, it was Rand who spoke, surprising Conner. “There you are,” he said, letting the door swing shut. “Rand.” Conner turned and leaned back against the railing. “What are you doing out here?” Crossing the small porch, Rand leaned on the railing beside Conner. “I could ask you the same thing,” he purred. “I’m on break,” Conner replied. This close, Rand’s skin looked almost white, his eyes dark like bruises, his lips and nostrils ashy. Faint scars stood out like claw marks on his neck and arms, and suddenly Connor wondered if the guy was a cutter. “You’re not supposed to be here.” Rand shrugged like he didn’t care. “The door was open. I saw you and came out to talk to a friend. What’s wrong with that?” Besides the fact that we’re not friends? Conner thought, but he didn’t say it out loud. Sure, he knew who Rand was, but he didn’t know the guy, and if his family didn’t own the funeral parlor, he was pretty sure Rand wouldn’t bother to remember his name. “It’s nice out here,” Rand said, breaking into Conner’s thoughts. “Moon’s coming up, finally. Any plans tonight?” “I have to work,” Conner reminded him. His stomach clenched like a fist and he closed his eyes until it loosened again. Softly, he admitted, “I’m not feeling real well at the moment.” Rand turned towards him, then stepped closer, his hip pressing against Conner’s hand on the rail. Gentle fingers touched his face to trace his jaw line. “I’m sorry,” Rand whispered. Before Conner could say it wasn’t his fault, nothing to be sorry about, Rand added, “It’s always bad the first time, I know. But it gets better. I promise.” “What are you talking about?” Conner asked. With one finger, Rand traced a path down Conner’s neck, over his Adam’s apple and into the hollow of his throat, to pick at the medical tape holding down his bandage. Lowering his voice, Rand leaned in closer, until his breath stirred the hair at Conner’s temple. He tapped the bandage lightly. “This isn’t a tattoo.” Conner watched Rand with wide eyes, not daring to lie when they were only inches apart, not daring to speak with Rand leaning against him, touching him. God, please, he prayed, as Rand’s hand toyed with the neck of Conner’s T-shirt before easing down his chest to finger the apron strings knotted at his waist. The last thing he needed was another bout of nausea to hit him now. Conner’s stomach tightened beneath Rand’s touch, and he swallowed back the sick feeling that lingered in his throat. Please don’t let me mess this up.

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Rand picked at the apron strings as if trying to untie them. His gaze never left Conner’s face. “It’s a bite,” he whispered. Conner started in surprise, and Rand added, “A werewolf bite.” For a moment, Conner couldn’t breathe. Then he laughed and stepped away, putting some much needed space between them. “You’re shitting me,” he said. Rand’s faint smile faltered. Conner spun around, sure that Brett and Price were somewhere nearby... “This is a joke, right?” he asked, scanning the empty parking lot, but they were alone, and he couldn’t hear any muffled giggles or scuffling sneakers out of sight. An arm came up around his waist and Conner pushed it away, angry at Rand for pulling this stunt, angrier at himself for falling for it. The closeness, the touching... the fact that his bandage really did hide a nasty bite pissed him off even more. Turning on Rand, Conner warned, “This isn’t funny.” “Am I laughing?” Rand wanted to know. Conner shook his head but when Rand moved towards him, he crossed his arms protectively in front of his chest and backed away. “Listen to me,” Rand started. Conner felt the railing bump against his back -- Rand had him in the corner. “I’m not some stupid kid,” he growled. “Werewolves? Please.” Rand reached out and Conner thought he’d grab him, shake him, yell... but instead he gripped the railing on either side of Conner’s hips and hunched down so that they were eye to eye. “Listen. Werewolf bites don’t heal. They start to get better and you might even think they go away, but every month when the moon is full, the bruises return and the bite reopens. It never completely heals. I know--” “How?” Conner challenged. Straightening, Rand unbuttoned the flannel shirt he wore. He stopped halfway down his chest and opened the shirt to reveal a white tank top underneath. Conner watched as he pulled the left armhole of the tank top over, exposing one dark nipple that stood up in the chilly air. Rand held the flannel shirt open and pointed to a spot just below his armpit, where a dark bruise blossomed around the torn edges of a bite. The wound looked so much like Conner’s own that his hand strayed to the bandage on his neck. “How’d you get that?” he whispered. Rand rebuttoned his shirt. “I was like twelve or so,” he said. “Hanging out late with some friends down by the woods behind those apartments Brett used to live in. Over on Branders Bridge?” Conner nodded -- he knew where they were. Once Rand’s shirt was settled into place, he put his hands on the railing again, trapping Conner within the span of his arms. “I don’t really remember what actually happened,” he said, his voice low and intimate. He took a step closer and his shoe bumped against Conner’s. He nudged the foot aside to open a space between Conner’s legs and came closer, standing between Conner’s feet. The heavy weight of his groin pressed against Conner’s crotch. Rand moved his hips once, grinding into Conner, whose dick stiffened between them. Rand’s wolf-like grin leered in front of Conner’s face. “What about you?” he wanted to know.

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“I…I don’t remember either,” Conner stuttered. At the moment, with Rand’s body so snugly fit against his own? Conner had trouble remembering what they were talking about, let alone what happened over a month ago. All he could think of was the hardness he felt in Rand’s jeans where they rubbed against his own and the strong arms that hemmed him in. This close, Rand was intoxicating. There was something wild and free about him, something unbound, that made Conner want to wrap his arms around the guy’s neck and pull him in for a long, heated kiss. But he didn’t dare -- part of him was still angry, though he wasn’t sure why anymore, and part of him feared this might all be one elaborate joke to leave him blue-balled and hurt. He settled for resting his hands on Rand’s arms, his fingers massaging thin muscles. “I was coming home from work--” “Last month,” Rand reminded him. His hands shifted on the railing, moving together behind Conner, almost drawing him into an embrace. Conner had to look up into Rand’s face, and this close, he could count the small scars on Rand’s nose and cheeks. Were they really from a car accident? Before he could ask, Rand continued. “It was raining and you decided to cut through the woods on your way home, right? Only someone followed you. Someone who took advantage of the dark and the storm and the full moon to give you this.” He nodded at Conner’s neck and murmured, “Usually they attack to kill, but the only way to become a werewolf is to survive the bite.” Leaning closer, he nipped at the air above Conner’s bandage playfully. Deep in his throat, he growled. The sound was so realistic that Conner’s arms pimpled into goose bumps. “Whoever gave you this didn’t want to kill you. He wanted to make you one of us.” One of us. Conner whispered, “But who was he?” In reply, Rand pressed his mouth against Conner’s. His tongue licked between Conner’s lips, tasting him, testing him, and Conner closed his eyes as he gave into rough, brief kiss. Then Rand pulled away. When Conner opened his eyes, he was gone. *** Back in the dining room, Conner expected to see Rand sitting with his friends but the corner booth was empty, the table already bussed. Brett stood at the register, paying the bill, and when he saw Conner, he waved. “Dude, you okay? You look out of it.” Conner ran a hand through his hair. “I’m fine. Where’s Rand?” With a laugh, Brett asked, “Didn’t you hear? He got sick halfway through his burger and left. I mean really sick. Ran into the bathroom puking, almost.” Nudging Conner, he winked. “You didn’t poison him, did you? Business at home too slow?” Conner shook his head. “I think there’s something going around,” he said as his stomach roiled. He covered it with one hand and waited for the nausea to pass. So Rand was sick too? Maybe he’s right, Conner thought. Maybe I was bitten by a werewolf, and now what, my body’s changing? Didn’t Sylvia say something about a full moon tonight? Weakly, Conner murmured, “Oh, God.”

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Brett peered at him with concern. “What, you too? Geez, this is the last time I’m eating here.” Conner’s mind raced as he tried to remember anything he’d heard or read about werewolves, but all he came up with were jumbled bits of superstition. Something about pentagrams appearing in a victim’s palm... or was that only in the movies? Crosses, holy water, garlic -- no, those were for vampires, not werewolves. Silver bullets, that sounded right, and Conner felt the skin around his piercings begin to tingle as his pulse quickened. Did that mean any silver in his body? Or just on an open wound? Why couldn’t he be into gold instead? As if seeing Brett for the first time, Conner asked, “Where’s Rand again?” “Went home,” Brett said. “You should, too. You look like death warmed over, kid, and I’m not just saying that because you live at a morgue.” “Funeral parlor,” Conner corrected absently. If Rand was serious about the bite -- and the way Conner’s body was fighting him right now, twisting with odd pains and making him sick, he thought there might be something to Rand’s story after all -- then Conner needed to find him, now. He had too many questions that needed answers. If the only way to become a werewolf was to survive the bite, and Conner hadn’t died from the wound on his neck yet, chances were he was going to... change, or something. Into a wolf? When the moon rose, or when he saw it, how did that work exactly? How much longer did he have before he became some ravaging monster tearing through Sylvia’s Grill-He had to leave. Now, before it was too late. He had to get home and— No, not home. His family was there, and more than likely there was a service being held in the viewing room. He had to go someplace where he wouldn’t run into anyone, where he wouldn’t hurt anyone, because if there was even a remote possibility that Rand was right... He had to go. *** “Sylvia.” Conner stumbled around the prep counter, still holding his stomach. The pain rolled in faster now, like the incoming tide. Conner wanted to tear the clothes off his skin, then tear the skin from his bones, anything to stop the ache that throbbed in every pore of his being. How much longer did he have? Was it always going to be like this, every month? He heard Rand’s voice in his mind, It’s always bad the first time. A few feet away, his boss dressed burger buns for incoming orders. “Sylvia,” Conner said again. When she glanced at him, he added, “I gotta go. I feel like shit.” “You look like shit,” she answered. She wiped her hands on the towel hanging from her apron and started to place a hand on his cheek, but thought better of it. “Go on,” she said. “I don’t want you spreading whatever it is you’ve got around to everyone else.”

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Conner winced at the stabbing in his abdomen. “Thanks,” he sighed. With the hand not fisted over his stomach, Conner removed his apron and tossed it into the clothes bin by the trashcan. He wanted to stop and wash up but didn’t dare -- the clock over the register read five thirty. This late in October, before Daylight Savings, it got dark early, and Conner again wondered when night officially began. When the moon rose? When the sun set? He didn’t know. Damn Rand for doing this to him, getting him all worked up, probably over nothing. But what if he’s right? Conner’s mind whispered. He pushed the thought away and hurried to the back door again. The chilly evening air revived him, cooling his brow and fluttering through his shirt as he took the steps two at a time down to the parking lot. He started for the front of the restaurant, where Wolfried Road stretched in either direction, but the sound of leaves rustling in the scant breeze made him stop. He glanced at the woods behind Sylvia’s, at the darkness between the trees, the silver undersides of leaves flickering in the wind, the gaping maw that marked the beginning of a path. Above, the sky was a deep indigo like spilled ink, and shadows spread across the parking lot like words written on a page. When Conner looked into the endless night around him, he felt a surge in his blood that told him the moon was on the rise. The woods seemed the safer choice, if Rand was right, than walking home on a busy street in the dark. If he should change... He didn’t want to think of that, he wouldn’t. If Rand wasn’t right, then a walk in the woods would just get him home that much quicker. That’s all. Without giving it a second thought, Conner turned on his heel and headed for the forest path and the dark beyond. *** The light from the parking lot didn’t stretch far down the path before the darkness swallowed it. Conner stumbled over an unseen sapling and prayed that it was past poison ivy season. Outside in the growing night, the pain in his body subsided. His senses seemed heightened -- he could smell the stench from the dumpster behind Sylvia’s, the earthy odor of the woods and dirt path, the fresh evening beyond. Now that he was among the trees, he wanted to race through them like... like a wolf, his mind whispered. Yes, like a wolf. He wanted to feel the wind against his face and through his hair. He wanted to feel the earth beneath his hands and feet, dig into the soft ground and roll in the grass. He wanted to howl out all his dreams and frustrations at the moon above, and wait for an answering call to beckon to him. Where were these thoughts coming from? His hands shook against the strange desires flooding through him and Conner fisted them both in the front of his shirt, pressing hard into his stomach to keep the pain at bay and ground him in the present. His feet followed the path blindly, heading in the direction of his home because he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. A few yards into the forest, a shadow detached itself from those around it and Rand stepped out onto the path. Anger and relief warred within Conner. “Where the hell'd you go?” he asked. Rand waited as Conner approached, then fell into step beside him. “Right here,” he replied, as if Conner should’ve known that. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.”

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“You didn’t exactly tell me you were waiting.” Conner stopped and took a deep, shuddery breath, trying to will away a stitch in his side. He felt winded and tired. “Is it like this every time?” Rand touched his arm and back, then pulled him close, cradling him. “First time’s the worst,” he said softly. One hand rubbed down the length of Conner’s arm and over his stomach, and the other circled around behind his shoulders to hug him back against Rand’s warm chest. Rand’s voice was a whisper in Conner’s ear. “You get used to it, believe me. What you’re feeling now is your body getting ready to change.” With a shaky laugh, Conner said, “Like puberty all over again.” He leaned into Rand’s embrace, savoring it. This moment, Conner thought, was worth the cramps and nausea and pain. A sudden fear crossed his mind, and he half-turned in Rand’s arms to ask, “Are you going to stay with me? When... it happens?” Rand laughed. “That’s sort of the point of me being here,” he said. Concerned, Conner asked, “Do you change, too?” “Every month,” Rand assured him. When he smiled, his teeth gleamed in the darkness like a Cheshire cat grin. “Don’t worry so much, Conner. It’ll be okay.” At the unsure look on Conner’s face, he added, “Just relax. Stressing over it only makes it worse.” “Relax,” Conner scoffed. “Like I can.” Rand grinned wolfishly. “What you need is a distraction,” he said. “Take your mind off everything for the next fifteen minutes or so, until it’s over.” “Fifteen minutes?” Conner asked. It’ll take that long? A sliver of fear trickled through him and he wondered, So soon? He shook his head. “It’s kind of hard to take your mind off something like this...” Rand’s lips touched Conner’s ear, barely there, then his tongue licked out to rim the soft earlobe. Conner’s words dissolved as he shuddered with pleasure and, below his belt, his dick hardened immediately. “Oh, God,” he sighed, laying his head back on Rand’s shoulder. His knees felt weak, and if Rand weren’t holding him up, Conner was sure he’d melt to the ground. The ardent mouth closed around his earlobe, the wet tongue behind his ear now, Rand’s breath filling his world. Lower, the hand on his stomach trailed to his waist, fingers fumbled to unbutton his jeans, then his zipper slid down and Rand cupped Conner’s erection through his thin briefs. Conner thrust into the strong hand, rubbing his hard cock into Rand’s palm. He sighed, his words a breathless mix of Rand’s name, and God’s, and oh, yes. Rand kissed his way around Conner’s jaw, then covered Conner’s mouth with his own, this kiss gentle compared to the one earlier. Conner opened to him, eager for the taste of soft tongue, damp lips. He turned towards Rand, his hands smoothing over Rand’s chest to bunch in the

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collar of his flannel shirt, pulling him closer, further, in. Lower, Rand rubbed at Conner’s stomach, fingers tickling up beneath his shirt until he found the band of Conner’s underwear, and then his hand slipped inside, pushing the briefs down to grasp at Conner’s hard length. Conner’s stomach fluttered, but whether from Rand’s touch or the cursed sickness, he didn’t know. At this moment, he couldn’t possibly care. A growl deep in Rand’s throat made Conner pull away. Then he realized the sound came from his own throat, not Rand’s, but when he stepped back, his foot caught in the folds of his fallen jeans to trip him up. Rand’s shirt slid through Conner’s fingers as he fell unceremoniously to the ground. He landed with a sore ass amid the crunch of dead leaves, slightly dazed from the kiss. His dick jutted from his groin at a hard angle to poke his navel. Above him, Rand laughed. “You’re classic,” he said, but before Conner could ask if that was good or bad, Rand shrugged out of his shirt and tugged the tank top under it off. His chest was smooth and hairless, unmarked except for the bruised bite beneath his left arm. He unzipped his jeans, pushed them and his underwear down, and stepped out of both. Naked, he stood over Conner for a second, his body glorious in the shadows and sporting an erection, as well. Then he lay down over Conner to claim another kiss. The fact that they were mere inches apart made Conner raise up his hips to touch his dick to Rand’s. He did it a second time, and Rand caught both cocks in one fist, pressing them together. Rand nibbled Conner’s lower lip and squeezed their erections with a gentle, steady rhythm. Then he trailed tiny kisses over Conner’s chin and down his neck, his tongue tickling in the hollow of Conner’s throat. As he bit at the collar of Conner’s shirt, Conner buried his nose in Rand’s hair, breathing deep the clean, dry scent. His lips found the top of Rand’s ear and he licked the folds of skin, hoping it felt as sexy to Rand as it had to him a few moments ago. Judging by the way Rand thrust against him, Conner thought maybe it did. This time, the growl came from Rand, and it set Conner’s blood aflame. “Take this off,” Rand told him, picking at the front of Conner’s shirt with his teeth. Conner hurried to comply. The moment the fabric uncovered his chest, Rand’s tongue was there, circling Conner’s hard nipples and licking a path down his navel over the faint line of hair that led to his pubes. Rand moved down, releasing his own dick, but holding fast to Conner’s. When that hot, wet mouth touched the tip of Conner’s cock, he almost spasmed in release at the sensation. His shirt tangled once he got it up over his head and he struggled to free himself as Rand went down on him. With practiced ease, Rand took Conner’s length in completely, his tongue and cheeks working as he sucked the hard shaft. Then he let it slip partway out, took it in again, released everything but the tip and sucked only the swollen head while Conner bucked beneath him. The shirt suffocated him, adding a sense of danger to the moment, and not being able to watch Rand as he worked turned Conner on something fierce. He no longer felt any pain in his body -- all he knew was Rand’s willing mouth on him, bringing him closer to climax. Rand’s growls mingled with Conner’s own, sexy sounds that spurred him on.

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A few seconds later and Conner got the shirt off, finally. He saw Rand crouched between his spread legs, the hair on his head longer now, wild and thick, his eyes narrowed and faintly golden. The fingers wrapped around Conner’s dick sprouted dark tufts of hair from each knuckle. As he watched, his own legs erupted in long, dark hairs that pushed through his skin to cover his knees and thighs. When Conner opened his mouth to say Rand’s name, a lusty howl escaped his throat. The sound was so animalistic, so primal, that it made Conner come in short, quick spurts that beaded in the sudden hair on Rand’s cheeks. Now Conner felt the changes in his body. He felt the hair growing from his skin to cover him like a carpet. He felt his limbs lengthening, his fingers and toes curling into paws, his nails sharpening like claws. He howled again simply because he loved the sound of it, and between his knees, Rand matched his call. Conner’s thighs bent into haunches, his legs shortening until his back paws were free from the confines of his jeans. Suddenly, his vision changed and the night around him deepened, each shadow taking on a million different contours and layers, a million different possibilities. His legs itched to run. A rough tongue began to clean the fur between his legs. Conner relaxed back against the ground, spread-eagle, savoring the impromptu grooming. His spent erection wilted and pulled up tight against his belly, but the tongue cleaned his balls and the long hair on his haunches and his tail. Tail... Conner felt it wagging like a puppy’s beneath Rand’s ministrations. It thumped on the ground happily and tickled between Rand’s hind legs. When a cold nose nuzzled Conner’s lower belly, he yapped and rolled away. Growling, Rand caught Conner’s shoulder between powerful jaws. His bandage fell away, exposing the bite. Conner lay on his side, still, as Rand began to clean the wound. As Rand's eager tongue flicked along, Conner’s leg scratched at the air, wanting to scratch behind his ear. His paw found Rand’s stomach and he tried to push the older werewolf away without success. He settled for his leg against Rand’s lower belly, his unsheathed claws barely resting against the tender fur, and he turned to lick his own juices from Rand’s face. Rand gave off a delicious scent, one Conner wanted to chase down and pounce on, pin beneath his paws, roll around in until it covered his own smell completely. He looked in Rand’s golden eyes and saw himself mirrored back, his blue eyes staring from short, black fur that matched his black hair. Rand’s shading was lighter, like the ponytail he favored in human form, and his hair hung in shaggy lengths. Rand’s tongue lolled from his mouth in a rapid pant. He watched Conner closely, anxious to see how the change affected him. Conner woofed softly. The pain was gone, and after Rand’s amazing ‘distraction,’ he couldn’t imagine feeling better. Little brother. It was Rand’s voice but not spoken out loud. Conner heard it in his head, and understood his meaning beyond the use of modern words. It was an ancient language, a shared dreamworld of senses, sight and sound and smell. For the briefest moment, their wet noses touched, and Rand stuck out the tip of his tongue to taste Conner’s canine lips. His bright eyes held a promise that excited Conner. I have so much to show you.

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One of Us Copyright © 2007 by JM Snyder All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680 Printed in the United States of America. Torquere Press, Inc.: Sips electronic edition / October 2008 Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680

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