Read Online The Children Of The Mist by Jenny Brigalow - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jenny Brigalow
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jumped and rolled and climbed. Faster and faster. Higher and higher. He bayed at the moon and bade her welcome. In his broad chest his heart beat slower and slower. Chemicals, long suppressed, began to ooze into his blood. His senses tingled and sizzled with anticipation. Muscles swelled and stretched. Numbed parts of his brain began to waken. Seeing, smelling, feeling, wanting, questing. Zest exalted in his power and tried not to think too much. With too much thought came a madness. The thing was just to be. To be all that he was. To beâ¦werewolf. Like his fatherâs father. But unlike them, he was alive. Sovery goddamn alive. More alive than even the most dynamic human ever born. Released from a long sleep, his hunger for life was insatiable. All consuming. Insanely delicious. Like the best moment ever dipped in chocolate and served on a golden skate board.
The game lasted all the way to the top of the mountain. The half-grown dogs were puffed and needed a moment. Not even winded, Zest took stock of the geography. At its peak the mountain was flat. As if a great slice had been cut off the top with a giant blade. A few trees huddled together in the centre and huge rocks were casually strewn around, as if they had been caste down by giant hands. The pack halted and milled around, travelling slowly around the mountain top. As they moved, each dog wandered close to Zest, brushing softly up against his legs. It made him belong. Made him one of the pack. Wanted and welcome.
Wind blew from the east. Zest could smell the salt of the distant sea caught up in the stronger scents of eucalypt, car fumes, smoke and something chemical that he couldnât quite place. Beside him a young bitch lifted her muzzle and tasted the air. She too tried to decipher the strange aroma. Pungent and harsh.
Zestâs stomach rumbled. He was hungry. His last meal with Morven seemed a lifetime ago. Just her name sent him into a spiral of emotional angst. Without the subduing effect of the herbs, the metamorphosis he was experiencing was not just physical. Along with his enhanced physical strength and ultrasensitive nervous system came an emotional state of equal proportion. He felt a burst of anger. She should be here with him. By his side, sharing with him this profound adventure. Why wasnât she here? And fear followed with heavy footsteps. Because she was ill. A stomach bug? Right. Morven wasnât sick. She was Becoming. Soon she would be Vampyre. If she survived.
Afraid of his thoughts he looked for a distraction. Donât think. Donât think. Just do. Just be. Wolfman. A soft sound caught his attention. It seemed to have come from the base of a smaller mountain to the west. He froze, listening. And there it was again. And then he knew what the smell was. Cattle dip. The soft sound was the cough of a cow. Beef on the hoof. Dinner. His mouth filled with saliva and his body twitched with sensuous happiness. He made a small growl deep in his chest. Without further ado he leapt down the mountain side. The pack rallied and fell in behind.
The cattle were cunning. But the pack was more cunning still. Splitting up, they feathered away and carefully encircled the small herd. To Zestâs eyes they all looked like prime eating. The calf was just a few days old, leggy and hungry for motherâs milk. Tender, toothsome and tasty. But something held him back. Some remote sense of his other self insinuated itself into his conscious brain. It was a baby. Brand new and strangely beguiling. Frustrated, but unable to argue with himself, he cast his gaze over the rest of the mob. Seconds later he made up his mind. The steer. Still young. Bigger. Better. Or so he reasoned.
With a flick of his hand he made known his intention. As he swooped silently into the small glade the dozing herd burst into flight. With a scream of primeval triumph Zest fell upon the beast, stabbing with his knife. Aided and abetted by the pack, the hunt was over in
The game lasted all the way to the top of the mountain. The half-grown dogs were puffed and needed a moment. Not even winded, Zest took stock of the geography. At its peak the mountain was flat. As if a great slice had been cut off the top with a giant blade. A few trees huddled together in the centre and huge rocks were casually strewn around, as if they had been caste down by giant hands. The pack halted and milled around, travelling slowly around the mountain top. As they moved, each dog wandered close to Zest, brushing softly up against his legs. It made him belong. Made him one of the pack. Wanted and welcome.
Wind blew from the east. Zest could smell the salt of the distant sea caught up in the stronger scents of eucalypt, car fumes, smoke and something chemical that he couldnât quite place. Beside him a young bitch lifted her muzzle and tasted the air. She too tried to decipher the strange aroma. Pungent and harsh.
Zestâs stomach rumbled. He was hungry. His last meal with Morven seemed a lifetime ago. Just her name sent him into a spiral of emotional angst. Without the subduing effect of the herbs, the metamorphosis he was experiencing was not just physical. Along with his enhanced physical strength and ultrasensitive nervous system came an emotional state of equal proportion. He felt a burst of anger. She should be here with him. By his side, sharing with him this profound adventure. Why wasnât she here? And fear followed with heavy footsteps. Because she was ill. A stomach bug? Right. Morven wasnât sick. She was Becoming. Soon she would be Vampyre. If she survived.
Afraid of his thoughts he looked for a distraction. Donât think. Donât think. Just do. Just be. Wolfman. A soft sound caught his attention. It seemed to have come from the base of a smaller mountain to the west. He froze, listening. And there it was again. And then he knew what the smell was. Cattle dip. The soft sound was the cough of a cow. Beef on the hoof. Dinner. His mouth filled with saliva and his body twitched with sensuous happiness. He made a small growl deep in his chest. Without further ado he leapt down the mountain side. The pack rallied and fell in behind.
The cattle were cunning. But the pack was more cunning still. Splitting up, they feathered away and carefully encircled the small herd. To Zestâs eyes they all looked like prime eating. The calf was just a few days old, leggy and hungry for motherâs milk. Tender, toothsome and tasty. But something held him back. Some remote sense of his other self insinuated itself into his conscious brain. It was a baby. Brand new and strangely beguiling. Frustrated, but unable to argue with himself, he cast his gaze over the rest of the mob. Seconds later he made up his mind. The steer. Still young. Bigger. Better. Or so he reasoned.
With a flick of his hand he made known his intention. As he swooped silently into the small glade the dozing herd burst into flight. With a scream of primeval triumph Zest fell upon the beast, stabbing with his knife. Aided and abetted by the pack, the hunt was over in
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