Mizrah's Ladder

That night, you dream, Yusuf.

The swimming pool's chlorinated, ink-stained water is icy cold around your ankles, you can't even feel your feet anymore...but the rest of you is left more frigid still by the icy lick of fear.

From your vantage the Chicago skyline is limned and frosted with silvery moonlight and nothing else, the neon night-gleam of America's City drowned out in a wash of alien argent; up here on the rooftop pool you were afforded the best view possible of your failures -

SEE HIS BODY FLOATING IN THE WATER, FACE DOWN, NEVER TO KILL AND LAUGH AT YOUR SIDE AGAIN -

SEE HER CORPSE TANGLED IN THE BLACK OF HER HAIR, CRADLED BY WAVES, HER WISDOM EXTINGUISHED -

Don't look Yusuf. Better to stare down the malignancy coiled in the center of the pool...the bloated simulacra of a gigantic cobra, fractal scales of killing silver smoking with Werewolf Blood, smeared in the shape of your name. You are frozen in its gaze as it flares and distorts itself closer to you, three forked tongues lashing across your face, burning ilke silver. You cannot blink, cannot change and run from the Outsider as its vacuum-warped voice offers a single, sibilant promise in your ear: 'SOON'

...the dread phantasm, at some point, becomes so horrific as to grow indistinct; you twitch and tense, you're drowning in silver and it hurts, you can't breathe. You're falling, spinning...

-Wham-

You awaken on your floor, tangled in your blankets and sheets - no wonder your throat is constricted, they're wrapped around it. You struggle and spit and curse, pulling your sweat soaked body free - on the edge of wakefulness you call her name in the darkness.

Isabel...

But halfway through her name you remember, she isn't there

You're shivering. It's miserably cold and humid, and your apartment doesn't have heat...yet your bedding, your t-shirt and shorts are completely soaked with perspiration.

You immediately feel the familiar companionship of misery, settling in at your side with his heavy arm around your shoulder.

Exhaustion clings stubbornly underneath your eyes, and your thoughts have the consistency of farina. You've been waking up every two hours, terrorized by variations on the same nightmare...that Snake. You'd left the Outsiders and the Lunar Strain in Chicago, and since the...tragedy that brought your life tumbling down to ruin again last year, you'd yet to encounter a single moon-lost Wolf, or the apex-predators they called from the dark beyond.

The City had once been safe from them, but no longer. Alas, faced with this truth, you could no longer afford to run alone and subsist on stringy, low quality prey like Skitterlings, or stray dogs - you couldn't afford to be a weak Lone Wolf anymore. It wasn't just for your weakling heart that you needed Isabel at your side, but for your inner strength, so...

Why isn't she here? Oh, right, cuz you're a fucking dick Yusuf,

you curse yourself, checking your phone futilely for communication. Nothing, not since two nights ago, after your first epic fight. Unfortunately for you, some...very bad habits died hard, and some old vendettas had yet to be settled - vendettas that weren't worth bringing your Mate into.

She disagreed, especially because the last couple of times you'd gone up against Charys, she'd almost killed you. Now this, of course, wasn't Isabel's problem because Charys' beef with you went back to the chaos of fighting the year before, as she blamed you (rightfully) for the deaths of many

Most Werewolves want nothing to do with you, shunning you actively for what you'd done and whom you'd killed, even if you'd ended the conflict of the Long Night - war between predators, a free for all with the moon singing a maddened aria above. Charys, though...the Black-Talon was like you in that she didn't believe in surrender, and independent of her pack called the Hunt upon your head every third night of the Full Moon like clockwork. It was sporting of her, giving you time to heal and prepare to face her...she knew you'd never turn down the Challenge, and that your pride drove you to fight her one on one.

Charys was easily beyond your league as a warrior, probably moreso since she could hold a gun or knife straight, and every time you faced her she brought something different to bear - your only saving grace was an excellent aptitude for boxing, your small but honed array of Wolfkiller Imprecations, and of course Lena's teachings...but your arsenal was small, and the Black-Talon's grew with every Hunt.

You'd failed to inform Isabel of this monthly ritual - reasonable for her to worry, because she

is

your packmate, but Charys is also

your

problem and something you can handle on your own. Mostly.

You were still regenerating where she'd used those awful, burning claws of hers - a new trick you didn't even know your kind were capable of - to score through your back; long, painful marks that had slashed deep and sizzling...you'd both ended the duel coughing up blood and writhing, screaming ignobly in pain on the ground from what you'd done to each other, an ignominy that you

could never let Isabel witness

Still, it was inevitable that she would ask questions when you dodged her calls and she predictably caught you trying to run down a Nachten without her at your side (common knowledge that their boiled bile sped the healing of deep burns). That girl was just too smart to fool, a trait you found irresistible in women.

Now, it feels as if you are reverting to the atavistic state of only a few short months ago...the Old You had never left, it'd simply hibernated during this short Summer of contentment. The sense of loneliness isn't as bad as it once was, but it gnaws at you again, a quiet reminder of the once-beating hearts you'd held close to your own. Your kind simply weren't meant to run alone, no matter how you tried to make it work

Your phone pips - hope blooms, radiant in your heart, hopeful that Isabel is messaging you first, but...no such luck. You really fucked up, hurting her like this; how could she have known that this whole conflict with Charys centered around a great, big gaping wound in your psyche that still dripped moonlight-blood and screamed for recompense? Maybe she'd have tread more lightly, but even so...

-FLASH-

" - you cannot keep these things from me Mizrah, look at you - you're...oh my god," she breathed in horror when she saw the full extent of how Charys had mauled you. "Please, sit down and let me at least do...something, cover them up instead of just letting them bleed and smoke."

You were so embarrassed...and when you were embarrassed you got defensive, and when you felt defensive and you were in pain, you were unpleasant and mean. You insisted that it was nothing, that your body could heal it and her fussing would only make it worse when she had to focus on herself - learning how to Hunt, growing stronger, finding satiety and balance so she didn't end up unhinged from the start like you'd been.

"Stop it, just stop it please, you can't be stubborn like this! Do you know what'll happen to me if you die?! Do you think I can just...go on and forget about you?!" her voice raised, and it reminded you of things the people before her had said; the pressure rose in your head, a sense of being trapped; hard to breathe and think clearly and you said stupid things about dying before her. About this being...a hopeless, crazed repeat, an act of insanity and a boat she was better getting off but that made no sense because you'd dragged her on-deck.

When she asked if you'd been drinking to say such 'cruel, ridiculous things' (you hadn't, you were just hopped up on the blood of another Turnskin), you wisely swallowed down the malice on the tip of your tongue, and calmly told her to leave you alone because it hit way too close to home.

Every step away from her was worse than Charys' talons tearing smoking furrows in your skin as Isabel implored you not to go, to come back to her; you still remember her hand on your shoulder at the threshold of the alleyway. At least you hadn't shrugged it off, you'd squeezed her fingers before leaving but it wasn't much better.

Then came the texts. It just made you feel worse...asking where you were going, when you'd come back to her; telling you to take your time, but please not to leave her. Not to leave her bed cold and lonely, and it was enough to make you almost turn back but...you were just so mad and scared, looking for an excuse to regress, so you didn't answer.

FLASH

...your phone pips at you once more. You shake yourself out of it and look: a message from Delilah.

D - `you coming or what emoboi`

Oh...oh right. Right, right, you had practice today,

shit

you'd really been fucking that up too. You strip your sweat-sour shirt and shorts off and check the time - fortunately, you have a few hours yet so you weren't totally fucked. You text the bassist of

INSTRUMENT OF AGGRESSION

back with fingers flying over the keys:

Y - `yes, chill, smoke two joints, i'll see your skinny ass at 10`

She responds with a pair of middle finger emojis and a gif of a rainbow toad hitting a bong...fitting. At least your bandmates aren't chronically pissed with you. They'd practiced exceeding patience over the past year, cognizant that something had gone horribly wrong in your life, no matter how you demurred or denied. You have to wonder, Yusuf, if they think you're just some typical rockstar-wannabe with rockstar-wannabe problems

Drug addiction, runaway love, financial woes...cliche tripe. They have no idea about the Howls in the Night, the deadly Jungle that seethed just beneath Humanity's eyes or the dread truths keening from the dark side of the Moon .

There is another month before Charys comes after you again, with another caveat you'd failed to tell Isabel - she swore that if she beat you in a duel three times in a row, she'd simply kill you. So far the two of you are neck and neck - she'd won six, lost six. Staggered with each other. It would have been an easy thing to simply end her as a threat the last time you'd won, and she'd dared you to more than once but...you just can't bring yourself to go through the intense, grinding effort to actually kill another Werewolf. It takes heartfelt dedication to a cause, or intense hatred to murder one of your kind.

Your bathroom is the nicest part of your apartment, understandably, as it is also the most important - cleanliness is next to godliness and some among the Scriveners, those who preserved the closest thing to legend and lore among Turnskins, claimed Werewolves had once been worshiped as deific forces, long ago. Therefore it made to be clean.

You'd paid good money stolen off the still warm bodies of coke dealers and loan sharks to install a real, proper bathtub; the dark blue faux-marble surface was a nice touch. So was the bubbly massage function, and the fact that you could fit two people; you wish Isabel was in there, inviting you to join her with that welcoming, sweet smile

If you really wanted companionship you could call up Rita, who was always down to be fucked, or Lola with her man-hating cock-loving paradoxes but...none of them compared to Isabel. None of those Mortal women could even keep up with her, physically or intellectually

She'd spoiled you for other females. Nobody touched you like she did, nobody moved with such skill and precision and dedication, and...the wonderfully warm, deliciously wet heat of her silken grasp squeezed and massaged you powerfully, milking you of orgasms like no one else. There were of course a thousand other traits you'd praise before so luridly thinking of those soft, swollen labia, the way her petals bloomed with arousal under the hard pearl of her clitoris...you hadn't fucked in a couple days and were horny amidst the misery.

You twist the spigot roughly, shower water hissing and already hot, banishing the cold. Stepping in front of the mirror, rapidly misting up, you closely examine yourself.

Your human shape wasn't always like this, you were a chubby little kid once. Skinny teenage years had given way to significant muscle growth in your 20s when you switched to an all meat diet under your first alpha's less-than-loving watch. Lena had known what she wanted from you from the start, and she'd shaped you, existing somewhere in the middle of a complex Venn Diagram of roles; drill sergeant and tormenter, protector and pusher, and sometimes she even rewarded your strength and ferocity with the warmth of her bed and the needle-sharp adoration of her kiss

It was a shape you'd maintained since you killed her.

The Werewolf body is morphic, it changes and alters itself to best function on the Hunt and you'd chosen to cull your Prey through the force of your presence; from doe-eyed girls hypnotized by your song to whole crowds whipped into a violent frenzy, you'd worked hard to maintain your appearance. Some would call it vain - you'd simply tell them you have to eat somehow.

Cresting a couple inches over your father's 5'10, you'd become an imposing figure in your 20s, compared to what you were before Lena's lashing tongue and talons had slashed away the fat and weakness. You have your mother's hooked Levantine nose and expressive mouth, dad's upward-turned eyes and black, straight hair. You tilt your head to the left and touch your ear, frowning at the missing ring that had once occupied the lobe; Charys had ripped it out in the fight and you need to get another one. The metal in your body had been part of the Hunt, and admittedly something the women in your life had adored, like...

You think about Lola standing behind you while the shower made the room misty, pressing her hard, naked body against yours with a certain sheepish abandon. She'd kissed your ear and licked your jaw like a hungry animal, her shaven head gleaming and her lips hot with threats if you told anyone about this, her fingers running along the allure of your pierced cock...

...Isabel is fond of it too -

Stop that you stupid bastard,

you excoriate yourself, dragging sharpening black claws across your chest; you rip your skin, pain shocking her visage from his mind. Mikey used to really get on your ass for that, your dead, beloved pack brother a pillar of support you'd never managed to pay back.

You focus your attention back to your body, searching for weakness and flaw, something you can always find in yourself.

Your shoulders are broad and strong, the outline of trapezius and lateralis standing out and running down the bulge of your upper arm; you had started to lose a bit of muscle mass when you ran alone, when you stopped hunting Greater Prey and subsisted like a dog on scraps. It's disappointing because you were once much stronger but, now that Isabel was at your

Dammit NO think about something else, think about sex -

Your mind shifts to Lilly and the thought of her lying on her back while you hold her thighs apart, running her tongue sloppily along her fingers as she rubs her pearl. She shrieks with shameless pleasure as you rail her, driving your manhood into her and fucking her like no man had ever fucked her before. You recall the way she gushed over your lower belly, squirting her nectars in climax -

Hmm...the memory of Lola's insidious touch and wiry hardness, of Lilly's heavy breasts and messy, hungry tongue is starting to make you hard. Your eyes trail from your arm to your chest, pectoralis muscles and abdominals, obliques and iliac crest starkly clear - it means you aren't drinking enough water, and the lines of your lower torso seem almost to point at the base of your penis. You're turgidly erect now, blood pumping through the heft of your manhood. It stares you down in the mirror, circumcised and gravid, plum-dark with arousal, damn you're

really

fucking horny because you haven't been having sex three times a day like you needed -

- like Xia had needed as well, now -that- had been wild. She loved fucking on her balcony, overlooking all she surveyed and you remember how her fingers gripped down on the bannister, her petit, tight body rocking as you plucked her clitoris with your frenum ladder, leaving droplets of her excitement on the concrete. You hated this rich bitch and she loved that you pounded her, legs turning to jelly when you pull out -

You find that you're already stroking yourself, your thumb and the tips of your fingers running along the swell of your frenum. It's not as good as the way a woman pleases you but...in your pathetic state? You give in, climb in the shower, and let the water run hot over your naked body, trickling down between the cut of your pecs and over your sensitive penis. You somewhat guiltily pump a handful of Isabel's conditioner into your palm, your enhanced olfactories almost fooling you into thinking that she's there - your blood races, you throb and drip your payload in response. You reach down and slick your penis through your hand, closing your eyes and imagining -

- the woman you so thoroughly, intensely desire looking up at you with those big, sparkling dark eyes of hers, that curly hair tied back to make it easier for her to pleasure your glans. "Such a beautiful, impressive penis," she notes, running her tongue along the underside and causing your eyes to hood. Nobody's voice had this effect on you, and nobody had ever suckled this skillfully at you, running her lips up and down the curve before edging you to orgasm...teasing as she stood and tugged you toward your bed - she knows you love to finish inside of her, filling her with your creamy warmth and she loves it just as much -

-because you're still hard after, and you can go for round after round and that's an amazing thing about this impossible, inhuman body isn't it? She loves to fuck you with your cum lubricating her pussy. You sigh, a low, breathy, masculine sound as your other hand comes down and lightly massages your testicles...glad that she can't see you doing this, giving in to the fact that she's always, constantly there on your mind; impossible to pull away from your Packmate. That was how Pack was supposed to be - closer than friends, closer than family.

Only you'd never loved, and been loved in return by someone who shared that relationship. It was torment being apart...

You slow your hands, looking down at yourself and feeling pathetic. The glinting ring through the tip of your helm, that ball clasp, the steel beads on the underside...you turn your turgid manhood in your grasp, fingering the bits of metal through your cock. Isabel had asked you about that once, and you'd answered with bare honesty - that you'd gotten it on a dare, but that wasn't really the whole story. It was more of a situation of...intense pressure. Fear of Lena, and also this fucked up, perverted need to please her...she'd twisted the dynamics of pack against you in a way that had always made it hard for you to accept the alphahood of another. You close your eyes and remember -

- Lena's slow, easy stride, how she put her hiking-boot clad foot on your side as you knelt there, trying to salvage your ruined throat. She kicks you over onto your side easily, and you fall weakly on the concrete. You can't breathe, you feel your brain losing blood, panic is overwhelming but the horrible part of this life is -you can't seem to pass out from this-. Throating was all about dominance, hardwired into your physiology, so even as the veins close and regrow you have no choice but to stare up at her in fear as she approaches, utterly conscious. "You know it doesn't have to be this way Yusuf, but -I- know the truth. You -enjoy- the pain...you -enjoy- being thrown down, defeated. It means..." Her hands reach under your arms, hauling you to a sitting position and dragging you into a chair while you wheeze and gasp through the ragged hole she'd made in your neck. "...that you don't have to think. You don't have to decide, you can just...be this animal, for me." Her fingers came up, undoing the buttons of her shirt; you know what you have to do next, because you lost to her...and because she's right, there's a part of you that likes to just be this kind of animal -