The Walls of Jericho

Shift Too

Channing’s shift happens in a two-step process.

I’ve seen enough horror movies to recognize the first part, where he—swells, becoming the hulking hairy half-man half-beast kind of werewolf. It’s intimidating as hell, to say the least.

I’m kind of willowy, which is a nice way of saying I’m narrow, thin and disappointingly flat from head to toe. In fact, clothes drape better on a two-by-four than they do on my figure. Since I’m petty and immature, I treat them with the same utilitarian disdain. I suck it up that I’ll never be a supermodel, and wear whatever is comfortable.

In very short order, there’s no doubt Channing’s jeans aren’t comfortable. They’re also no match for the sheer volume of muscle expanding inside them, though I have to give LevisStrauss some serious kudos for the incredible tensile strength of their denim.

Strong work, Levis. Literally, strong work.

That fabric is well past the point where I expected it to shred when it actually does. By then, he’s easily a foot and a half, and probably more, taller than I am. And appears to be still expanding.

Damien, as the smallest of the three friends, is still about twice as broad across the shoulders as I am and, by comparison, the muscle-bound Ferdi and Channing are much wider, perhaps almost three times my breadth across. As men.

In this beast-form of his, Channing is terrifyingly huge. Lean as he is and even covered in short fur, it’s readily evident that he’s capable of some next level feats of superhuman strength and in all likelihood, speed. 

Stuff like bench-pressing a bus maybe. 

Or perhaps snagging an Airbus A380 commercial airliner out of the sky like a frisbee, as examples.

He’s built like a Mac truck—large, ferocious and strong—and across the shoulders he’s about the same breadth as one, only fur-covered with a thick neck and burly arms and legs to match. He’s no less intimidating with the other appendage jutting out below his waistline either. It’s absolutely inhuman in size and a determined-looking purply-red color that conjures in my mind the kind of s*x described as ‘long and rough’.

That makes me strangely excited and excitable.

Naturally, he notices.

His eyes bore into mine. Hypnotic. Controlling. And I allow him—since what else am I going to do?— to spread my legs wide with one giant paw. His fingers are remarkably gentle, touching, then probing, and I curse my traitorous body while I shudder with pleasure feeling his finger slide easily through and into the incriminating wetness. Above me, he lets out a guttural groan.

For a long moment, we’re both still, eyes locked on each other. Right now, I'd give anything to be a telepath, because it scares me what he might be thinking.

When he gets to his feet, he extends one of those massive, clawed paws and pulls me up with him. All the rooms and hallways in Avernus have these high ceilings and seeing the rounded tufted tips of his ears brushing across the texturing as he rises to his full height, I understand why. I may not be a large woman, but I’m still an adult human. Channing was taller than me before, but not unreasonably so. 

Now, he towers over me like an adult does over an average-sized middle-school child. Like one of those wolf-headed guards in front of that temple in Overwatch, only without the armor.

Or the loincloth. Hmmm.

His head turns, glowing blue eyes watching keenly down that narrow muzzle, as I circle him slowly, both terrified beyond reason and singularly impressed. A low growl escapes him when I rest my hand at his waist which is nearly shoulder-high for me, then trail my fingers over him. His divine abs quiver beneath my curious fingertips, but I can’t stop touching. The coarse hair that covers his body fascinates me.

His alpha voice in my head is deeper, more resonant. And undeniably stirring. As I look up, I feel like I’m in the presence of the ancient Egyptian god Anubis. I can totally see this guy judging human worthiness, guiding and protecting souls to the afterlife.

“Hmmm?” I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s enthralling.

“What? Oh.”

I back away, climbing onto the bed when I feel the mattress against the back of my thighs. That’s when the second part of his transformation takes place.

It’s not a pretty picture.

If the first part of his transformation is quiet and sort of frighteningly awe-inspiring, the second part is a debacle of horror and repulsive noises.

The bones all through his torso start moving. Not quietly, like waving your hand or closing a fist. The fierce torsion forces him to his hands and knees, then into a sphinx position, where he shudders and writhes in agony. His head hangs, his great muzzle dragging along the carpet with the pain. The ripples of realigning bones, shifting muscles and stretching hide continue, relentless, nauseating and ugly.

“Don’t—be—afraid. I—won’t—hurt you,” he mumble-groans.

Or at least that’s what I think he says. Wolf jaws and tongues aren’t really made for the kind of vowel and consonant pronunciation and vocalizations necessary for human languages. The actual sounds he makes are nearly unintelligible.

They’re also nearly inaudible over the agonizing, sickening snap, crackle, pop of rearranging bones.

The entire transformation takes only minutes but listening to the sounds of it and watching the grotesque unnatural wrenching and twisting of his normally beautiful body is enough to scare the s**t out of me and mentally scar me for life. 

I’ll never be rid of the memory in my head.

Observing gruesome body adjustments will do that to you. 

Channing gives a pained whimper—the only sound he makes the entire way through—as the last of the metamorphosis takes place. The room stinks of my fear and a woodsy loamy doggy odor, both of which I surreptitiously attempt to ignore.

He gets all four feet under him and rises.

All I can think is ‘enormous’.

Some dogs can be big. Wolves are bigger. This animal is the size of a small sport utility vehicle, but far more dangerous.

Giving a rough shake of his coarse yellowy-brown coat, he sends a few pieces of dander into the air. It floats weightlessly, sparkling golden in the lamplight. Then he flops over onto his side and twists to his back with his legs in the air. 

Then he rolls. 

His limbs and thick stubby tail wriggle and thrash almost gleefully for easily a minute before he gets back on his feet and attempts to look dignified.

If I live through this, I’m never letting him live that down.

Unlike his tawny upper coat, his limbs are slightly reddish, and lack the black mottling of his thick ruff along his neck and back.  His throat, belly and his muzzle around his mouth are a creamy-white that blends softly into the rest of his coloring. He has relatively long, pointy ears that round at the tip and a narrow snout full of sharp robust teeth, with the upper canine tips protruding from beneath his lips just slightly.

Like a subtle warning.

Not subtle at all when you're roughly the size of a small camper.

His nose wriggles busily, scenting the air, before his narrow head swivels my direction. He still has his deep blue eyes, but they watch me, alarmingly, with no recognition. Taking one swaying step right, then a second slow step left, he evaluates my threat level. 

By comparison to his truck-sized looming wolf, I’m disturbingly certain my swizelstick figure rates on the harmlessness gradient somewhere between amusing fluff-filled squeaky toy and tasty two-bite snack. I scramble hastily to the opposite side of the bed when he prowls to the edge of it. He watches me with those glowing alpha eyes as I skitter to and fro while he circles the perimeter.

“Channing?” I say softly, wide-eyed and chewing my bottom lip with anxiety.

There’s no acknowledgement as he paces around the bed keeping me hemmed in and sliding along the headboard to the furthest point from him, still naked as a jay bird.

I can’t help my shriek of terror when, unexpectedly, he bounds onto it with me, snagging and pinning me with one massive paw before I realize it's happened. He holds me a few seconds, graciously granting me a brief last moment of silence to say my prayers and make peace with my untimely demise before I meet my maker. Then his foot releases and a split second later, he flops the weight of his massive head onto me.

“Oof!” The breath is forced out of my lungs when his heavy skull lands on my belly. “What the hell!?” I choke out, then shove ineffectually with both hands at his ear and his muzzle, but I may as well be trying to move a boulder.

Rolling onto his back, he thrashes around with his legs in the air like he did on the floor. Then he bounds to his feet on the trashed bed, staring down into my face with his tongue lolling and his tail wagging.

Oh my God. He's like an eight-hundred pound puppy with the zoomies.

What. A. Dork.

Limp with relief, I glare up at him. “I reek like a dog now. Was that absolutely necessary?” I demand, uncertain if he can understand me. “You were scent marking me, weren’t you? God, dogs are so gross.”

As if in confirmation, he stoops, rubbing first one side of his massive face from his muzzle to his ear, then the other, across my body from my hip to the opposite shoulder, blatantly disregarding my grunts of displeasure and futile attempts at resistance. Rising, he stands over me and snuffles along my collarbones with his cold wet nose. When he comes to his ‘spot’ on my skin, he swipes that long rough tongue of his over it.

A hot shiver claims me, and it’s not even stopped when he does it again.

“Okay, okay.” Fearlessly, I shove his face away. “I get it. I’m yours. Now, get your dog breath out of my face.”

I flop around on the spring-coil mattress like popcorn kernals in hot oil as he turns in place, once, twice, then a third time. He lays down with his back against me and stretches out like he owns the place.

Well, I guess technically he does own the place. If not Avernus, then at least this room.

Rolling to my side, I spoon against his furry back. It’s remarkably comfortable and warm, even with his coarse coat brushing my naked skin. I throw one arm over him and stroke his belly. “Look, if this is going to be a regular thing, A) you’re always responsible for washing the bedclothes, and B) I want one of those Tempurpedic mattresses that you can jump on at one side and not spill the glass of wine sitting on it on the other. You got that, fuzzy?”

His head flicks up. His tail thumps twice. Then he stretches his leg up so I can pet more of his chest.

Fine. 

At least he’s not humping my leg.

“How long does this last? Once you do it, are you stuck like this? Or can you control it?” As I continue stroking his fur, I relax and feel suddenly tired. Having this kind of experience sprung on you will do that.

Yawning, I snuggle closer against his back. “I’ll expect a full recounting of answers to my questions when I wake up, you got that, dogbreath?”

When I poke him in the ribs, he flinches. Then, his tail thumps twice and he lays still against me.

** 

There’s an uncomfortable crick in my neck when I wake up in the pitch dark later. I roll to my back, trying to pick the dog hair off my tongue with two fingers and realize suddenly, Channing’s warm fuzziness is gone.

“Channing?” I say softly, bolting upright.

To my right, the bedclothes rustle, then a large warm arm crashes into my chest, knocking me flat. “Right here, babydoll,” he sighs, snuggling against me. He nuzzles the hair near my ear.

Tentatively, I lift one hand, then rest my inquiring fingertips on his arm. Inching upwards, I reach his shoulder, then move down along his ribcage verifying he’s no longer covered in fur. Man-Channing has returned. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“I’m not sure what you’re looking for there, babydoll,” he purrs at my ear, “but it’s a little lower and toward the mattress.”

“My God, Channing. Will you stop?” I smack him lightly with the backs of my fingers. “How many times a day do you think you need s*x?”

He snuggles me closer, throwing one leg over mine—probably so I can feel the massive b***r he’s sprung. “Cut me some slack, Jericho. I’ve been waiting about one-hundred and ten years for you. I’m a little excited.”

“Waiting,” I snort. “I’ve seen you parading your ‘waiting’ past Esteban’s diner doors. For years.”

“I never slept with any of those girls, Jericho. I’d never slept with anyone until you.”

Even though it’s dark and I can’t see him, I wriggle to my side so I’m facing him. The entire frustrating process is made twice as difficult because he’s tightening his limbs around me like a boa constrictor.

“Channing, for pity’s sake. You’re squeezing so hard I can barely breathe.”

“You’re bugging me. Stop wiggling.”

“I’m trying to face you.” I manage with great effort to free one of my arms from his treacherous coils. “Besides—ungh—I know I’m not bugging you. You don’t even have the decency to hide how much you’re enjoying it.”

“Can’t hide something that big, babydoll.”

“Uh-huh. That’s exactly my point, so stop pretending you’re some kind of martyr. There’s no way you’re so good in bed without having practiced.”

He inhales a self-satisfied, “Mmmm,” and I can hear the smug smirk in his voice. “You think I’m good in bed?” His coils relax and one hand caresses downward along my spine to cup my posterior.

I exhaust about two seconds debating whether to cattle-prod zap his conceited ass again, then opt against it. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. 

“I’m sure there are better," I say casually. "I’ve never comp-ed a huge bowl of chocolate syrup drenched ice cream for you like I have for Ferdi. There’re a lot of girls in south Crossroads missing that piece of him, that’s for sure. Maybe you should ask for some pointers.”

“Harsh, Jericho. Very harsh.”

“Then stop trying to sell me that line of hogwash. Besides, one-hundred ten years isn’t all that special. Between two lifetimes, I’ve waited ninety years and you had proof I was a virgin.”

“Not in this body,” he snorts. “I know the dragon didn’t keep a beautiful woman prisoner for years and never once touched her.”

Wow. Speaking of harsh. Seriously. Wow. Wounded, I slump and go still.

I suppose if I’m going to take vengeance for something, then it has to be for dragon’s betrayal. Vigilante as it sounds, at least that seems justified. That scaly monster kept me prisoner for an entire lifetime, after all. Then, when I tried to escape after decades of being used as a weapon to take out his competition, he torches me. Talk about burning the bridge once you’ve crossed it, right?

Still, revenge for that kind of wrong sounds warranted. Merited. Earned.

Particularly compared to revenge over unrequited love. That just sounds Fatal Attraction kind of cuckoo in the head. Even to me, and I’m the one plotting it.

“Jericho?”

“You’d be wrong.”

This time it’s Channing who gets very still. “Never?” The word drips impossibility, disbelief. “But that penthouse and the designer clothes and all the men he had guarding you.”

“A gilded cage isn’t the same as love, Channing. It isn’t the same as finding your mate.” I heave a soft sigh. “He found me as a child. In an orphanage. He never saw me as anything else.”

He cuddles me closer, cuddles me tenderly. “He’s a dragon. They don’t have mates. If they love something, it’s riches. You weren’t meant for that. You were meant for me.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I feel it, and I think you do too.” After all the work getting here, he rolls me to my back, then captures my mouth with his kiss. Hotly, he devours my lips, his tongue begging entrance through them.

The instant it’s granted, his kiss becomes so intense, I’m unconscious that I’m returning it, not simply being plundered and taken from at all. A peculiar, sweet unquiet stirs, then grows radiant, answering his calling from someplace still and deep within me.

In that moment, I learn what it is to love and to be loved in return.