I woke up the next morning with sand in my mouth. I hocked a huge loogie, but still little particles stuck to my tongue. I was naked; the sand scratched along my bare skin. I sat up shaking.
The first thing I did was slap my face. Smooth except for a slight five o'clock shadow. No snout or fangs. I glanced down; my arms and legs were bare. I reached around and ran my finger as close to my spine as possible. No bone protrusion.
Had it been a dream? A quick glance at my arms told me that I was being too optimistic. A couple angry claw marks ran from my elbow down to my wrist.
My hoodie was the only piece of clothing that wasn't in tatters. I swung it over my head. I slid my hand into the pocket; my cellphone was still there.
The events of last night were a mystery. The last thing I remembered was woofing down rotten meat. My only consolation was that the only blood on me was my own.
Tears sprang to my eyes; my pride had hit rock bottom. I stared at the display for several long minutes. With a loud exhale I made one call. There was only one person I trusted enough to come get me.
"So you're trying to tell me," Bri said as I got dressed in my little rock fortress. "that we had to cancel the show last night because you sprouted hair and a snout and went all Kibbles and Bits on us?"
"I know it sounds insane," I said. "But...I think I turned into a dog."
Bri laughed. "Sure you didn't turn into the wolfman?"
I paused; my pants fell back around my ankles. "What makes you say that?"
"People were talking about one of the doctors in town going beserk yesterday. I guess he ran out of the hospital wielding a huge knife and talking about a wolfman."
I yanked up my jeans, zipped them, and swallowed hard. Bri stopped laughing.
"Nick?"
"I went to a doctor yesterday," I said. "And he did run after me with a knife."
The look on Bri's face was priceless. If I hadn't been one hundred percent serious, I would have taken a picture.
"That's not funny."
"I know! But, c'mon. You saw the hair you shaved off me..."
"Maybe you just have a vitamin deficiency," Bri rationalized.
"Lauren left me," I said bitterly.
"What?!"
"I hurt her Bri. I don't remember hurting her but there were bruises and--and--"
"Nick, do you need to go home?"
I sighed. I had never been the reason for a cancelled show. We only had two shows left. I could do it. I shook my head.
"No."
Bri didn't look so sure. I walked out to him, fully dressed.
"You look exhausted," he commented.
"I had a rough night," I said. "I don't remember most of it, but I'm pretty sure that's the truth."
"Maybe you can sleep on the flight."
"Maybe," I agreed. We walked in silence. We were nearing the hotel when I stopped.
"Bri?" My heart began to race. He stopped.
"Yeah?"
"Did you and Leighanne...did you two go out last night?"
Bri's forehead crinkled. "Yeah. Why?"
I thought back. The man and woman walking by me...the familiarity...the desire to tear them to shreads...
I felt physically ill. I had almost killed my best friend and his wife. My mouth opened, but I didn't even know how to begin to explain my panic.
"No reason," I said. Bri opened the lobby door for me and I walked in. We had just enough time to get our bags and meet the others at the airport.
I wanted to put this stop behind me; as far as I was concerned, it never happened. My plan was to complete the last two shows and then go home and beg Lauren for forgiveness.
And, for good measure, I was going to do one of those laser hair removals.
But that would be my little secret.
"Steak. Rare," I whispered.
"It will be a half hour," the polite voice coming from the other end of the line said.
"That's fine. Thanks," I said.
I hung up the phone and glanced at myself in the mirror for the umpteenth time. The guys and I had just finished our last concert. I was back to normal except for a huge case of exhaustion and the sting of the painful scabs that had formed over the slashes on my arms.
The horrible scars on my chest were also back.
I thought back to what Bri had said. Wolfman. I was a big believer in the unknown. In my mind, Bigfoot existed and Area 51 was filled with aliens.
But could a human really become a wolf?
While I waited for my steak, I grabbed my cell. My laptop battery had completely died and I didn't want to get a new one until I got home. I had learned my lesson about blackmarket stuff the last time I bought a pair of blue Nikes. My feet had looked like twin blueberries for a month. My fingers flew over my small screen.
Wikipedia is an awesome thing. I know people say you can't take all the information for fact, but I've found it to be a pretty good go-to source. The entry on werewolves was extremely long. By the length of some of the words, it looked like a rocket scientist had contributed to the thread. I sank back in my pillows and began to read.
If I was hoping the information was going to make me feel better, I had been grossly mistaken. Teeny tiny little pictures of horrible transformations intermingled with a long history of werewolves. I kept coming back to one particular passage:
In Italy, France and Germany, it is said that a man can turn into a werewolf if he, on a certain Wednesday or Friday, is attacked in a dense forest and left to lay with the full moon shining directly on his face.
I glanced down at my chest. I had been attacked in Germany. I couldn't recall what day of the week it was, but suddenly I did seem to recall the huge moon overhead and the sensation of being dragged over the undergrowth.
"No," I whispered. I was reading the line once more when a loud knock sounded on the door. I screamed, then remembering my room service, I scrambled off my bed. I
The girl holding my tray looked nervous.
"Sorry," I said. "I forgot."
I gave the girl a generous tip and took the tray. She returned to her cart and hauled ass down the hall.
My track record with the opposite sex was failing rapidly.
I returned to the bed with my meal. Even with the lid on, I could smell the bloody beef. I glanced back at my phone one more time. I had gone as far as the side-effects:
After returning to their human forms, werewolves are usually documented as becoming weak, debilitated and undergoing painful nervous depression.
Was I weak? Yes. Was I depressed?
My finger poked the warm meat.
The jury was still out.
