Wolf Omega: Lykanos Chronicles 2

I smelled death in the cellar—not just fresh blood but also the subtle smell of decay from months of rot.

A single lit candle stood on a small table near the far corner. Beside the table was a crude mattress atop a simple wooden bed frame. On the bed laid the naked body of a young boy, no more than ten years old. Rough rope bound his small wrists together, which were tied to the bed frame above his head.

I could sense the boy’s remains were still warm, and I smelled the man’s scent upon him, mixed with blood and feces and semen. The child’s dead eyes, still open, seemed to stare forward toward the candle beside him.

I was too late.

I heard a terrible commotion from behind me and turned to see Duccio climbing up the cellar stairs. He had seen the dead child’s injuries through my mind, and in return, I felt the furious rage that moved him. He meant to slaughter the man.

“Stop!” I screamed and flew up the stairs after him.

Duccio’s talons were already around the man’s throat when I returned to the main level. I ran to place my hands around his face, bent on breaking his focus long enough to thwart him.

Duccio shook his massive head with agitation at the hindrance and glared at me, outraged that I would dare try to stop him. He growled savagely at us both, but I had tempered Duccio long enough to stay the man’s execution.

“Please stop,” I begged. “Please.”

All that came from Duccio were blazing thoughts of the night he’d slaughtered the fiend who’d paid to rape a young Dionisio. His mind couldn’t hide from me the desperate tears of the abused boy who would become his son.

Watching the child’s suffering had broken Duccio to his core. Finding the damaged corpse below us had triggered nothing less than a vengeful demon from my alpha.

I placed my hand on Duccio’s talons, still tight around the neck of the boy’s murderer, and begged quietly for him to stop.

Please, I must know first. We must know who that boy is.

Duccio’s angry glare softened, but his grip relaxed only after I carefully pulled it away from the man’s neck.

Nothing but a soft trance came from the rapist’s eyes, and he didn’t offer the slightest resistance or acknowledgment that two monstrous werewolves stood before him.

I couldn’t have said why I thought I could do what I meant to, except that I knew I could. Part of me understood what Sempronio had done to me the first day we met.

I took the man’s head in my hands and closed my eyes. The surface of the man’s mind was entirely flexible, and I entered through it as if placing my hand into a basin of still water. Stepping past the soothing visions of a fountain that trickled in a garden courtyard, I could soon see more imagery.

There were dozens of incongruous memories: working in an office writing letters; coupling with a young woman in the privacy of an old shed; wishing his father would return; arguing with his mother about finishing a chore; the smell of paint that wafted in from a window; the grating barking of the neighbor’s dog; speaking to a group of boys in the parish schoolyard.

I latched onto the last memory, letting it play again and again before my eyes. Each time I saw the conversation, the memory expanded in length and depth, and I pushed forward to follow where it led.

The boys were playing, and I asked them who was winning. They argued over what was the truthful answer, and I laughed at their loud debate. I looked about the yard, nodding at the priest who refereed their game of kickball. Against the wall stood a blonde boy who seemed to have separated himself from the others. He didn’t want to play and looked anxiously as the other boys swarmed after the ball. I stepped around the yard and spoke to him about how rotten the players were. He avoided me, but I laughed and smiled to catch his eyes.

“Do you enjoy sweets?” I asked.

I pulled a small bag of candied almonds and handed it to him, watching his eyes light up upon seeing the bright confetti colors. He tasted one without a single word.

“They’re delicious, aren’t they?”

The boy smiled and nodded, unsure if he could have more.

“You go ahead and keep those if you like. I will bring you more the next time I’m passing by. What’s your name?”

“I’m Daniello. Thank you, signore,” he beamed at me.

I walked away and didn’t look back, my mind alight with how beautiful he was.

Days later, I approached him again while the other boys played loudly in the same parish schoolyard. He lit up when he saw me calling his name.

“Did you bring anymore treats, signore?” he asked.

“Of course,” I answered and handed over another small bag to his delight.

Days later, I did the same.

And then, again.

With each bag, Daniello told me more about himself: how he loved his teacher, who allowed him to skip naps after lunch and help prepare lessons; how he was an only child; how his mother let him keep a small dog who was his best friend; how their house was only a few blocks away.

The next time I saw him, I frowned and said that I forgot to bring his usual bag of candied almonds. Daniello’s eyes faltered, and he went silent.

“The candy sits on the front table at my house, just near the door,” I explained. “It’s only two blocks from here, almost in the same direction you walk home. Why don’t you stop by to pick it up after you finish your lessons? It will cost you only a couple extra minutes’ journey.”

Daniello’s eyes lit up again, and I pointed right where to go.

“The house is made of piled brownstones with a light green door. It’s right on the corner. You can’t miss it. Just knock when you find it. I’ll have your candy ready for you.”

Daniello nodded to me as the priest announced the end of recess and called the other boys inside to continue.

I smiled back and went home to prepare.

Stop! Duccio commanded me. That isn’t the child downstairs.

I fell back to the present and looked to my alpha with confusion.

The dead boy below our feet; his hair is black, not golden blond like the child in the rapist’s memories.

The truth stunned me, and I returned to the man’s mind, racing in to find the boy I sought. And then I saw them. With a stark rush of flashes, I saw the boys’ eyes staring at me, terrified as I slapped them each into submission. I heard their voices as I dragged them downstairs, where no one could hear their screams through the massive stone cellar walls. My mind raced as I tied them to the bed, gagged their little mouths, and spread their legs to penetrate them. I raped them long after they fainted from the pain. Then I strangled them; squeezed the last bit of life left in them.

I withdrew from the nameless man in agony, releasing his head and staggering back. It was too much. The last thing I saw was how he’d moved the cellar floor stones to bury the children’s bodies after he’d finished with them.

I couldn’t continue to look. The jumbled horrors so overwhelmed me that I couldn’t stop the barrage of memories or slow them to define any useful information.

Duccio understood. He’d seen everything I had, and his patience had reached its limit.

Wait, I begged him.

With what remained of my mental will, I entered the monster’s mind again. I stayed only at the surface; I wouldn’t delve deep enough to see the children’s eyes again. There was the fountain—the soothing image that Duccio had placed in the rapist’s mind to calm and blind him. I couldn’t control the frenzy behind it, but I could remove the fountain. I ripped it from the man’s mind and forced his eyes to see me, to recognize the anger before him, to feel the furious breath I exhaled upon him.

In an instant, he gasped, seeing my amber eyes reflecting the candlelight of the room and shining on my silken black fur. He heard the deep growl from my throat and experienced the numbing sensation of terror I demanded he feel.

I slashed at his face with my talons, slicing through his skin to draw blood. The move shattered any remnants of his dream, and the scream he let out was fully awake.

Again, I slashed, this time at his chest, ripping the fabric of his shirt and drawing blood that dripped down from each trail of broken skin. He felt intense pain, and I relished it.

A couple more slashes—one to his leg and another to his stomach. Not enough to kill him, just enough to make his body suffer.

I ripped once more, this time at his breeches, and pulled the heavy fabric away until I exposed his sex. I pulled on his cock, stretching it painfully, then sliced the head clear off.

It was too much for the man, and behind his wail, I sensed he would faint at any moment, which infuriated me more.

“Wake up!” I screamed at him, but it was too late.

He lost all control of his body and crumpled. I grabbed him, held him up, and ripped out his throat with my teeth. Dissatisfied with the taste of his blood, I slash again and again at him with my talons. I ripped off the skin of his torso; then, I ripped off the rest of his sex. Finally, I severed his head from his body, my talons splashing the brownstone walls with his blood.

I held it in my hands and squeezed angrily when nothing more came from his mind, shattering the skull and destroying the last of his brain with a frustrated roar.