I’m planning on making this into a place to post my serial story: Pack.
Here’s bit I’ve worked on. You can expect to see more later, when I start the weekly postings.
A cottony waft of snow landed silently on the grey muzzle of the watcher. By rights he should be in other form, his other mind, but he was a hunter and that could not be denied. The speed and stealth of the canine form appealed far more than the tall, pale, soft form of men.
The Watcher let a low growl grow deep in his throat. The anger left him warm. No matter how much he knew his layers of dull grey fur would keep him from feeling the cold, the human side of him still insisted he was cold. The physical was of little importance—what mattered was his mind. For all his years of learning his body, his companion’s body, his mind had yet to adapt.
The ice-glazed doors opened. The Watcher sat up, focusing his piercing nose towards the figure stepping out into the icy New York night. There was a draft of the building’s warmth. It swirled across the street and met the Watcher’s muzzle.
To some, walking in front of the narrow alley across from the restaurant, it was a pleasant touch of heat—perhaps with a hint of garlic.
But for the lean furred figure in the alley itself, it was a goldmine.
The exiting figure had eaten noodles with tomato sauce—sauce heavy in garlic and basil. He had sipped from a slim crystal glass of white wine. His clothes were new, recently bought at a dusty store, perhaps somewhere in the older part of town. The man had shaved recently. And he had a gun, perhaps on his person. The acrid scent of sulphur hung about the man’s waist, invisible to all but the Watcher.
The wolf’s black-ribbed lips pulled back to expose slim fangs. The Watched sniffed and closed his mouth. Smiling was another habit he hadn’t grown out of.
The man paused outside the door of the restaurant. He glanced towards the alley but saw nothing. Only the glint of two dark orbs betrayed the presence of something other than trash. But the man turned away, distracted by another freezing blast of wind. He walked away, pulling his overcoat closer to his body, shielding himself from the biting ice.
The Watcher slipped further into the alley, turning away to slink to the sheltered corner at the back of the crack. A large cardboard box that had once held a refrigerator, worn and wet at the edges and ripped from his seizures, was his comfort. A small blanket, twisted into a tight ball, lay in the center of the small abode.
The Watcher checked the corner of the box. A fresh change of clothes lay there—though “fresh” was relative. Roughing up the blanket and spreading it with his short claws, the Watcher turned around and lay down. He didn’t know if the action was natural to wolves or just to their domesticated brethren. His companion had been silent on the matter.