Bite the Hand 🐺

After supper, I scraped the still-warm entrails into a metal bowl, and took it out to feed the werewolf.

It'd been over forty degrees again today. The temperature had hardly dropped since the sun went down. As a result the ground was bone-dry and packed hard. He'd have tried to dig his way out anyway, no matter how much his paws bled and his claws broke and tore. That is, if not for the Collar.

His tongue lolled, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Was the Collar having this effect on him, or the heat? He hadn't dragged himself into the shade, nor even lifted himself to have a drink of water.

"Come along," I said briskly, "Before it goes cold."

Those eyes flickered, and reset themselves to their usual obsidian chips. One swivelled and fixed on me. His lip curled.

I tipped the sloppy mess into the dirt right by his nose. His ham slice of a tongue slid out, like a child licking ice cream. A most pathetic display.

I narrowed my eyes, unsure how much of this was a sham to lower my guard. A moonstruck Wolf is not stupid, not as such, but he's ruled by instinct, not cunning. Surely the silver was having its effect, too? Beyond the blisters bubbling up around his neck like angry pink pearls. Nasty. Unsightly. But necessary. Unfortunately. The stink of scorched fur and flesh assaulted my nose.

You must never handfeed a werewolf. For reasons which should be obvious to anyone who is not a simpleton, and knows even a shred of the lore. The Wolf will bite the hand. It is in his nature.

Yet, he was useless to me dead.

I had silver gauntlets for when I needed to handle him, but I was loathe to further ruin his pelt. Besides, he might well eat entrails cold, but he sure as sugar wouldn't eat them Tainted with silver. Not even if he were starving.

I slid the metal gloves on, admiring their glint, and then stood, hands on hips, glaring at the beast. An idea bloomed, and I marched back into the kitchen to fetch the yellow gloves from under the sink. Sure I looked ridiculous, I knelt in the dust beside him, and forced my breath to stay steady. There was still a risk. He could, after all, enjoy warm innards, if I made a single wrong judgement.

It would've been easier to lay his head in my lap. A part of me wanted to. That way lay suicide, though. My leather apron should offer flimsy protection if he aimed those enormous teeth at my torso.

I stayed at arms length, levering his jaws open as if he were a stubborn Jack Russell with a stray sock. With my other hand, I scooped a fistful of gore into his mouth. There was no need to force his mouth closed again; he was a slave to the taste of blood.

Another fistful, and another. My absurd rubber fingers became sunset-coloured. Violent red streaks over orange stains. He seemed to gain strength with every bite. I should have moved back, but I was mesmerised. He took chunks from the pile without being fed, and when it was all gone, he turned his head to lick my fingers. Puppy-like, almost. In the next instant, his jaws closed on my bloody hand. It sounded like a knife-screch against a plate, but only lasted a moment. He let go, yelping.

Panting, I backed away, those jet black eyes once again boring into me. I flexed my fingers - sore, but working. Perhaps he hadn't crushed the bones and nerves. I tore off the yellow gloves and examined the metalk underneath. Heart racing, looking for puncture marks.

I needed to get him into the lean to. It was surely no coincedence that he was slumped in the exact spot where the moon would cast its rays. I couldn't risk the Wolf regaining too much strength. He needed some. For the... experiments.

I licked my lips.

It was tempting, after his attempt to bite me, to grab him by the tail without first covering the silver, and tow him into the kennel. I could already the keening of agony he'd make with every step. Delicious.

No. Protect the pelt. If the experiments failed, at least it would fetch a price. They mustn't fail, though. Who knew if I would be able to secure another specimen?

In any case, the blistering was ugly. Besides, the inside of his mouth must be a sizzling cacophony of agony now.

Towing him along by his tail was the safest move, furthest from those jaws. Something about the image, like the inversion and mockery of a sled dog, tickled me intensely.

I wrapped the leather apron around one gauntleted hand, and pulled him into the murky recesses of the shed. He growled with every step to let me know just how much he'd like to tear me apart.

I smiled.

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As always, thank you for reading!