Prudence stood, staring at him with her arm still outstretched. Her insides crumbled. He looked even more miserable than before. Her fault. She hurt him. Broke something precious to her. Just like always. The more she tried to fix things, the deeper she cut. Her gaze fell from his curled, shaking form to Fiji. The bear had tumbled from the wheelchair when Lucas frantically retreated. The plushy lay on the cold cement. The white of the toy’s diaper was stark against the darkening night.
“Okay. Lucas. I’m sorry. I truly didn’t intend to hurt you. I know you don’t believe me. I’ll go.” She whispered brokenly then silently drifted into the crowd without another sound.
Her and her big, stupid mouth. She was so fucking stupid. Prudence Piper, werewolf and eternal fuckwit. She screwed up no matter what she did. Human, wolf, twenty years old, a hundred and fourteen. Still the same screw up her father and Mrs. Fisk always said she was.
She stormed through the crowd. Kids darted to and fro, dashing from booth to booth and snatching up candy. Trick or treating had started. The sun set; only a few streaks of magenta lingered. Purple bled into navy blue. A few stars twinkled. The streetlights were on.
The full moon hadn’t come out yet, but she could feel it. A siren song to the marrow of her bones, plucking the chords of her being. Lycans were strongly compelled to change under the full moon, almost a biological imperative. It was a natural law; rare was the lycan who could resist. Human superstitions about werewolves were right in this case. There were few exceptions to that law. It was very, very hard- almost impossible- to resist. And painful. So very painful. Most lycans didn’t resist. Only the oldest and strongest of lycans could retain their human form under the full moon. The older weres had more control over their instincts. Younger ones often lost control to the all-consuming rush.
Even then, they still retained their rational mind, their faculties. They weren’t a human-hunting killing machine hell bent on a slaughtering spree for shits and giggles. That was a human misconception spread by horror movies. They were just like any animal, primed on instincts. The full moon was an adrenaline rush, a call to run wild and let loose.
Every once in a while, a newly changed lycan couldn’t handle it. They did lose their mind. Went rabid. There was no help for them when that happened. They couldn’t adjust or cope to their lycan bodies. To their new state of being. They wanted to stay human, fought off the lycan parts of them. Nature would not be denied. That inner conflict resulted in some of them going insane. Snapping. Going rabid.
When a lycan went rabid, the packs had the unpleasant duty of stopping them. There was only one way to stop them. Death. Letting a rabid lycan live put everyone- humans and lycans- in danger. Out of control, rabid lycans were the source of humanity’s beliefs about werewolves. Lycan secrets had to be kept.
Given how out of control a rabid lycan was- they attacked and killed anything and everything in their paths- an entire pack often banded together to take the lycan out. A battle of fangs and claws to the death under a full moon. The rabid lycan was literally torn to pieces by the pack, to prevent the lycan from doing it to others.
Prudence’s heart felt like that now. Ripped to bloody pieces. She shuddered. She’d never had to do that, but some of her packmates had. She’d heard horror stories.
A pack was supposed to mean family and safety. Her pack was a loose collection of rogues; wolves who eschewed pack life. Like her, they kept their walls up. Good times and easy money were the only things that kept them together. Maybe, when she was bitten, she should’ve taken up with a real pack instead of a criminal brigade.
Regret was a bitter pill to swallow. Self reflection an ugly fun house mirror. Both went down better with booze. Spying a bar at the end of the street, she headed in.