Quake

ULTIMATUM

Damascus leads Tucker beyond the narrow door. A long hallway stretches ahead. The walls are bare stone, there are no windows. The way is lit with bulbs in brass cages. None of the ornate showiness of the rest of the manor is present here.

“In creation this passageway was a servant’s highway between the lord of the manor’s private quarters and the dining hall,” Damascus answers the question before Tucker can ask it, “There’s a whole network of these discreet hallways running through the walls of this place. Not unlike your tunnels in the mountain. I restrict their use to myself alone.”

He looks back over his shoulder at Tucker and grins, “Well, myself and anyone who’s worth my company.”

“Like Renani?” Tucker suggests.

“Sometimes, yes,” Damascus looks ahead, “But tonight it’s you, stray.”

Tucker has no reply. In this confined space, the Alpha’s scent is overwhelming. Tucker can barely breathe, he feels lightheaded. Images of his bathtub fantasies cloud his mind. The passageway ends in a plain wooden door. Damascus pushes it outwards and ushers Tucker through.

They emerge into a room lined with bookshelves. Tucker gapes. He has never seen so many books all in one place outside of a library. The wall to the right is the only one without floor to ceiling shelves. It is instead taken up by tall French doors, open onto a wide balcony. A sea breeze sways the curtains and flutters the papers on the heavy mahogany desk in the centre of the room. Damascus clicks the door shut behind him, from this side it is hidden behind a bookshelf.

“Welcome to my office. Have a look around.”

Damascus moves over to a huge intricately detailed earth globe standing on three sturdy legs beside the desk. He flips it open by some hidden catch, revealing a stash of expensive liquor inside. He peruses the bottles, putting great thought into what he will drink next. Tucker notices that his wineglass already stands empty on the desk. He drank the entire thing in the tunnel on the way here. Tucker drifts to the stone hearth in the wall opposite the secret door. He thought the one in his room was big, this one is twice the size. The fire inside has burnt down to coals.

“Can I add a log?” he asks.

Damascus looks up from the bottle of whiskey he is inspecting, seemingly surprised by the question.

“Go ahead,” he replies.

Tucker selects one from the woodpile and tosses it onto the embers. He leans forward and blows on the coals, teasing little flames up to chew at the fresh log.

“Did Yvonne teach you how to start fires too?”

“No. Klaus did.”

“Another member of your mongrel pack?”

Tucker watches the fire creep up the side of the log, hesitant to answer, too nervous to lie. He wishes he hadn’t mentioned Klaus at all, but the wine has loosened his tongue, the name just slipped out.

“Klaus was a human,” Tucker murmurs, crouched before the fireplace, hypnotised by the steady growth of the flame.

“Was?” Damascus pries.

“He died.”

“How?”

“Yvonne killed him.”

There is silence while Damascus dissects that information.

“Don’t tell me you were f*****g the human?” there’s a note of amusement in Quake’s voice.

“I was in love with him,” Tucker replies.

“That’s disgusting,” Damascus laughs, there is no genuine mockery in his voice, more a sort of breathless amazement at the frankness with which Tucker was able to admit it.

“Yvonne thought so too,” Tucker replies emotionlessly, “So she hunted him down and ate him.”

Damascus does not reply immediately. Tucker hears the clink of glass on glass, the glug of pouring whiskey.

“What then?” Damascus asks, corking the bottle, “You ran off to the mountains to sulk?”

Tucker takes a deep swig, finishing off his wine, “To grieve, yes.”

“Why did you come back?”

Tucker considers this question for a while before replying.

“To die, I thought. Now… I don’t know.”

He hears Damascus’s polished shoes move across the bearskin rug towards him. Tucker looks back to see Damascus standing over his shoulder, holding a tumbler of whiskey down to him. Tucker is already drunk, but he accepts the new drink.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“What kind of person was he? This Klaus?”

“Kind,” Tucker replies, without hesitation, “Gentle. Honest.”

“He sounds boring,” Damascus quips.

Tucker smiles into the fire, “He was. In the most wonderful way.”

He hears Damascus moving away again, shuffling through the draws of his desk. Soon after he smells tobacco. Damascus is stacking his pipe.

“Up until five hundred years ago, us wolves fed exclusively on humans,” Damascus pauses his story here.

Tucker hears him strike a match, smells the tiny explosion, the sizzle of the tobacco catching flame.

The silence stretches for as long as it takes him to light his pipe, “At the end of a generations long war, human and wolfkind chose to negotiate a peace. Borders were drawn, treaties written and signed. Both sides ceased to hunt each other.”

“I didn’t know that,” Tucker stands up straight, turns to face Damascus.

Damascus nods, “You wouldn’t. Knowledge of our history is accessible only to those who speak the old tongue. All our history books are written in Fenraal. That language is beyond the likes of you. Yours is a new bloodline, I’d say you’re fourth generation at most, by the smell of you.”

“I’m third generation,” Tucker confirms, “My parents were born wolves. My grandparents on both sides were humans who turned through surviving attacks.”

Damascus snorts and heads in the direction of the balcony. Tucker follows.

“There are few who remember the war and the treaties. Changelings, least of all. And among the humans it has been forgotten almost entirely. Our kind faded into the human realms of folklore and fiction. There are even some who fetishise our species, if you can believe it.”

“I believe it,” Tucker murmurs.

He has lived among humans all his life. Nothing they do surprises him anymore.

“The audacity of them,” Damascus snarls, “When little more than five generations ago they were scarcely more than our troublesome livestock.”

Damascus leans on the rail of the balcony, gazing out over the darkened coast beneath.

“Your Klaus, did he know what you are?”

Tucker leans on the railing a respectful distance away from Damascus. He sighs deeply.

“No. I didn’t tell him.”

“You were f*****g cattle and lying to it, then,” Damascus concludes, “And you call that love.”

Tucker takes a sip of whiskey, it blazes a warm trail down his throat.

“My parents were Alphas of a small pack. Yvonne challenged, killed and usurped them at the age of thirteen. In her defence, I don’t think she fully understood the consequences of her actions. She was young and hot-headed, too much raw strength and cunning in her for her own good. But I was still a child then too. Love hasn’t been present in my life. I wouldn’t know what love looked like if it walked up and punched me in the face.”

Damascus does not reply for a time.

“How did Yvonne find him? The human.”

“I f****d up, forgot to wash away his scent. She followed my trail back to his home and…”

Tucker does not need or want to finish the sentence.

Damascus pulls on his pipe. He sighs billowing clouds from his mouth.

“That’s the trouble with you new bloods. You make a mess, shitting and f*****g and killing all over the cities. You trample and defy peace treaties that you don’t even know exist.”

“It’s not as though any of you purebloods are offering to show us the error of our ways,” Tucker retorts, before he can think better of it.

Damascus turns to him. Tucker braces himself for a blow, but it does not come. Instead, Damascus is smirking. Tucker is frozen. The Alpha’s aura has expanded again into a choking fog.

“Are you asking me to discipline you?” Damascus’s voice has an edge of playful annoyance, “To school you in the ancient ways of wolfkind?”

Tucker bites on his bottom lip. He feels his aura heating up, his own weak scent escaping him. He is unsure whether he is afraid or aroused, or both. And worst of all, the knowledge that Damascus can smell it.

“If I did… What would you do?” Tucker asks carefully.

Damascus does not answer immediately. He takes another sip of whiskey, his eyes lethargically travelling the length of Tucker’s body. Up and down, up and down.

“Transform,” he orders, “Show me your purest form.”

Tucker blinks slowly.

“Right now?”

“Right now,” Damascus confirms.

Tucker downs his whiskey and puts the glass aside. He begins to unbutton his shirt.

“Leave the clothes on,” Damascus instructs, “I want to see them tear.”

Tucker nods wordlessly.

Without any further hesitation he drops to all fours. The shirt is the first to rip as his spine arches up and through it. The lovely shiny shoes bust apart with the length of his claws. The trousers drop like an empty sack as his torso elongates and his waist shrinks. His scarred skin stretches and gives way to the autumn red hairs pushing through the pores like needles. The transformation is taxing in his wounded state. Once it is through, a sleek auburn wolf stands panting in the moonlight, amid the ruined scraps of clothing. Damascus watches this all closely. He walks in a slow circle around Tucker, studying his form from every angle.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d mistake you for a fox,” he says, returning to his original perch, leant against the railing, “The red fur is most irregular. Does Yvonne share your colouring?”

Tucker nods. Damascus takes another sip of whiskey.

“I’ve seen enough. Change back.”

Tucker is not sure he has the energy to revert to his hairless form, but he sees no choice but to comply with the Alpha’s wishes. The transformation is laboriously slow and painful this time. Damascus stands impassively watching his contorting and groaning. After a ten-minute eternity Tucker looks human again, lying spread-eagled, flat on his belly. Too utterly exhausted to move. Hands flips him gently over, onto his back. Strong arms scoop him up from behind the knees and shoulders. Damascus carries him inside and lays him down on the oxblood leather couch before the fire. Tucker is too dazed to fully comprehend this tender gesture. He tries to sit up, but a stern hand pushes him back down.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Damascus says, speaking softly, but with a clear note of authority.

Tucker watches him turn away. He tends to the fire, stoking it, adding more logs, and then he disappears behind the couch, out of Tucker’s line of sight. In his absence, Tucker watches the dance of the flames. The scent of Damascus remains nearby, and strangely it soothes him.

He reappears with their two tumblers of whiskey, refilled. He puts one down on the end table, then sits on the armrest at Tucker’s feet.

“For the pain,” he says, gesturing to the glass on the table.

He sips at his own drink and stares into the fire. The trauma of the transformation sobered Tucker up almost entirely. That shot of whiskey smells highly appealing. He reaches a tentative hand out for it. Once he is certain his fingers can maintain their grip, he moves the glass slowly over to his mouth. In his weakened state, it feels heavy enough to be made of lead. His head is elevated by a scatter cushion, at just the right angle to allow for sipping. He miraculously manages to get it to his lips without spilling, but dribbles some on his chest while he drinks. His slow movements draw Damascus’s eyes from the fire.

“Better?” he asks.

Tucker rests the tumbler on his chest.

“Yes,” he lies, “I’m ok.”

Damascus hears it in his voice, “Don’t try to act tough. I know you’re still in pain.”

“Sorry,” Tucker mumbles.

Damascus frowns. Tucker finishes his drink. Damascus gets up and disappears around the couch again, when he returns, it’s with an entire bottle of whiskey in his hand. Damascus takes a seat on the armrest beside Tucker’s head this time. He leans over him, to refill his tumbler.

“Why are you being kind to me?” Tucker blurts, his mind fuzzy from pain and whiskey.

Damascus makes eye contact and holds it, “If you constitute this treatment as kindness, then your life has been even more absent of love than you realise.”

“I… I don’t understand what you mean, Alpha?”

“Then shall I show you?”

Tucker does not respond. He watches Damascus place his whiskey and glass down on the table, then move from his perch on the armrest to kneeling on the floor beside the sofa. The firelight behind him outlines his broad frame in gold, softening the intensity of his features.  His aura is all Tucker can smell in this moment; all he can think. Damascus draws closer, closer still. Tucker closes his eyes. Damascus’s lips lock with his. They share a long, smooth kiss. Damascus leans out, takes Tucker’s whiskey glass from his hand and puts it on the table, then climbs on top of him. Their lips meet again, this time the kiss is deeper, tongues rove more freely, saliva no longer held back. Damascus bites Tucker’s lip and he whimpers. Damascus leans back again, suspended over him on all fours.

“What I mean is: I’m trying to seduce you, Tucker,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically playful, “Is it working?”

By way of answer, Tucker uses all his strength to reach up and wrap his arms around Damascus’s neck, to pull him back down into a kiss. Damascus slides his hands up and down Tucker’s ruined body, feather-light on the scars. His thick stubble scrapes the skin around Tucker’s mouth raw. This time, Tucker leans out of the kiss.

“I haven’t been touched in a year,” he whispers, “I haven’t been touched since Klaus. Please f**k me, Alpha. f**k me raw. Don’t be gentle, I want to feel it all.”

Damascus is taken aback for a moment. And then he grins, revealing fangs.

“Since you asked so nicely.”

He sinks his teeth into Tucker’s shoulder. He cries out, tangling his finger’s in Damascus’s hair. He loosens his jaw and lets go, then licks at the blood that oozes from the bite. It tastes like Tucker smells, that peppery mint that fills Damascus’s nostrils now. In his weakened state Tucker cannot suppress his aura, it wafts from him like an exotic flower in bloom. Damascus has never smelled anything like it before in his thirty years of life. He takes Tucker by the neck and flips him over onto his belly. He admires his pale back, running sharpened claws down his scarred skin, drawing five thin lines of blood. Tucker squirms in the ecstasy of pain. He does not think of Yvonne, or Klaus or the mountains. He does not think of anything but the spicy, musky aura that envelops him, and the Alpha that it emanates from. He leans forward to whisper the question into Tucker’s ear, “Are you ready?”

Tucker looks back at him out the corner of his eye, panting into the sofa cushion.

“Do it.”

The Alpha slides fingers inside of him. He gasps. He moves his hips to match the hand’s rhythm. Damascus slaps a hard palm against his round ass and digs his fingers into the cheek until beads of red well up from the points of his claws.

“Yes,” Tucker groans.

Damascus pulls his thighs apart and licks. He tastes just as fresh there as he smells. In fact, the pepper and mint scent of him is stronger here than anywhere else on him. Damascus could keep his face buried there for hours, but he feels his member throbbing within his trousers, and suddenly he can’t wait anymore. He leans back, licking his lips clean. Tucker is a trembling mess on the sofa before him; face flushed, ass in the air. Damascus slaps his ass a few more times while he undoes his belt and trousers. Tucker leans back into it.

Damascus strokes himself a few times, but he’s already rock hard. He plunges into Tucker. Tucker cries out. He throws his hips back to welcome Damascus inside. After just five steady thrusts, Tucker is on the brink of climax. Damascus begins to build pace, moving faster, harder. Tucker bites his lip, tries to keep his voice contained. Still, it escapes in little yelps.

Damascus wonders if his precious Klaus ever f****d him like this. Klaus could never have f****d him like this.

He leans forward and whispers in Tucker’s ear.

“Scream for me. I want to hear you come.”

And then he thrusts harder and deeper than before. Tucker obediently cries out. Again, again, again. Tucker screams, this time Damascus feels him clenching tight around his shaft. His small body spasms in orgasm. Damascus finishes inside of him soon after. Tucker goes limp. Damascus does not pull out immediately. He stays inside of Tucker for a while.

“Alpha,” Tucker gasps, “That was…”

“I’m not your Alpha,” he replies, brushing Tucker’s ruffled red locks out of his eyes, “Call me Damascus,”

“Damascus,” Tucker starts again, “Thank you.”

Damascus pulls out and lies on his side, slotting in behind Tucker on the couch. They lie in silence for a while, breathing in sync.

“Why me?” Tucker asks after a long while, “Why would you want to f**k me?”

“Your aura,” Damascus replies immediately, “It’s subtle at first, but once you get a good taste of it, it’s fresh like the world after rain.”

“I see,” Tucker replies.

“And you’ve got a great ass.”

Tucker laughs, surprising them both. He clears his throat, embarrassed, then sits up, moving out of the Alpha’s arms.

“I’m exhausted,” he says, getting carefully to his feet, “I would like to retire to my room. If you’ll give me leave, Damascus.”

Damascus sits up, stroking his chin.

“You know, I think I actually prefer you calling me Alpha.”

“Okay then… Alpha, may I be excused?”

“But you aren’t a member of my pack,” Damascus continues, “So I’m not actually your Alpha.”

“I’m not a member of any pack,” Tucker points out.

“Then join mine.”

Tucker blinks in shock.

“But… I’m new blood?”

“I’ve adopted a few strays before you. They all passed the trial, earned their place in the pack.”

Tucker does not know what to think.

“This trial, is it a fight?” he asks.

“It is,” Damascus confirms, “You would have to challenge one of my strongest hunters.”

Tucker is no fighter, and they both know it. In his current state he wouldn’t stand a chance.

“May I have some time to think about it?”

“You have the night. I want your answer by morning. If your answer is no, I want you gone with the sunrise. I don’t want to see your face in my city ever again.”

Tucker’s confusion deepens, “You’d set me free? What about Yvonne? Don’t you want my help finding her?”

“I’ll weed that b***h out eventually, with or without your help.”

“But…”

“You can go, if you choose to. Go out into the world alone, back to the mountains or wherever. I don’t care.”

Damascus gets to his feet, bringing with him the woven throw that hung over the back of the sofa. He puts it around Tucker’s naked shoulders and clasps it shut at his neck.

“Or,” Damascus steps back, Tucker holds the blanket in place himself, “You could stay here. Join my ranks. Avenge your human by hunting Yvonne by my side.”

Damascus moves over to his desk, retrieves his pipe and begins to stack it.

“Think about it. You may leave.”

Tucker nods, then turns and hobbles in the direction of the main, unhidden door. Out in the hallway, he realises he has no idea where he is. He has never been to this wing of the mansion before. He spends hours limping around the hallways, lost in more ways than one. 

The sun is rising by the time he finds his room. He knows his answer.