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That Time of the Month

Laura J. Underwood

Laura J. Underwood is a fantasy author with a number of tales in print, including Song Of Silver (Dark Regions Press), Bad Lands with Selina Rosen (Five Star Press 2007), The Lunari Mask (Yard Dog Press 2007) and The Green Women (Sam's Dot Publishing 2008). Her short fiction has appeared in Sword And Sorceress, Catfantastic, Such A Pretty Face, Turn The Other Chick and various other anthologies and magazines. When not writing, she's First Assistant at the Carter Branch of the Knox County Public Library System. Occasionally she plays harp and wields swords as a member of the SFWA Musketeers. She lives in East Tennessee with a cat of few grey cells and her folks. For more information visit her web page at http://www.sff.net/people/keltora.

 

"Have you seen my son Charlie?"

Morgan looked up from the book she was reading and spied Mrs. Briggs at the hedge with a leash in one hand and a rolled-up newspaper in the other. The old woman was sniffing the air as though she scented something rotten.

Morgan resisted the urge to flare her nostrils. Instead, she shook her head and pretended to have no interest in what her neighbor was doing. Since the Briggs had moved into the house next door three moons ago, Morgan had considered building a ten-foot fence to reclaim her privacy. Not, she suspected, that any barrier short of the Great Wall of China would keep that woman at bay. Mrs. Briggs was always out there sniffing around, trying to see what was happening in Morgan's backyard. Privacy was an issue Morgan prized above all else, and it annoyed her that she now had neighbors who couldn't keep to their own territory.

"Here, Charlie," Mrs. Briggs called and started to whistle. "Come on, boy. I haven't got all day. Supper's getting cold, son."

Morgan rolled her eyes. She continued to pretend to read now as Mrs. Briggs moved towards the back of the yard and then suddenly shouted, "Charlie! Bad boy!"

As Morgan peered over the top of her now forgotten novel, Mrs. Briggs rushed into the area between the shed and the hedge and laid into something out of sight with the newspaper. There was a yelp akin to a dog, and then a more human, "Gad, Mom! Okay, stop it!"

Charlie stood up, giving Morgan a view of his bare chest, which was not as hirsute as she would have thought or even liked, and a shaggy head of a long mullet. Morgan considered him cute, except for that serious underbite. Even from here, he smelled like a wet dog.

"You fool, how many times have I told you to stop doing that where the neighbors can see!" Mrs. Briggs snapped like a rabid hound.

Charlie glanced in Morgan's direction. His face turned a little red as he waved and said, "Oh, hi, Morgan!"

His mother whapped him across the nose with the newspaper, snagged his mullet and started dragging him towards the house.

"Ow, Mom, stop it, that ain't cool, I . . . "

"Just shut up and get in there!" she snarled. "I swear, boy, you'll be the death of me and the rest of our kinfolk if you don't learn how to behave in civilized parts!"

They disappeared through the back door of the bungalow. Morgan heard the slam of the screen and the rattle of voices going faint as they moved into another part of the house.

She put her book aside, and watching the Briggs' house to make sure no one was watching—yes, she had seen Charlie peeping out at her when she sunbathed—she hurried towards the back end of her own yard. Reaching the hedge, she looked over it in the area between the greenery and the garage.

There was a bone, bloody and gnawed, lying in the small pathway that led to the back gate.

Morgan eyed it, and then glanced at the house and muttered, "Stupid backwoods werewolves . . . just what I needed."

She turned and headed back for her own house.

 

When the Briggs first moved in, Morgan had suspected even then that they were a bunch of common hillbilly werewolves. In this day and age, no one really believed in such things, and just calling the police to report them for being lycanthropes would get her put in a loony bin. So she watched for the signs, and as soon as the first full moon started to shine, she began to find the bones of dead rabbits and the remains of cats scattered about the hedgerows of their small suburban neighborhood. Sloppy, lazy, shiftless . . . It angered her that they were so careless with their kills. Fortunately, some folks thought the coyotes were to blame. Morgan had examined every kill she discovered before disposing of it, and she knew the telltale signs of long claws and teeth were larger than anything a coyote could do. Besides, the coyotes didn't come near this place. They knew better.

Stupid hicks, she had thought. Leaving your kill out where the whole world can see.

The Briggs were clearly out of place here in the suburbs of Fenderbank City. They tended to keep dead cars in the driveway (even though they got cited for them more than once) and Mrs. Briggs actually dangled laundry on a line to dry in spite of having bought a home with all the most modern conveniences left by the late and not so lamented previous owner, Mr. Corwin. His relations had wanted a quick sale and had even lowered the price since selling a house with blood splatters on the walls wasn't easy. Nor had Corwin's relatives wanted anything out of the house where their uncle had died so brutally. They were too creeped out by the whole experience.

As far as Morgan was concerned, Corwin got exactly what he deserved. He was always too darn nosy for his own good.

She had rather hoped, however, that someone quiet and less intrusive would move in. Instead, she got the Briggs. They acted like a bunch of hillbilly wannabes. Papa Briggs was a big hairy man who sat on the front porch pulling slugs from a bottle of moonshine and whose chewing tobacco splats adorned the sidewalks like ugly starfish. Mama Briggs reminded Morgan of Ma Kettle in the way she was built and talked.

And then there was Charlie, a thirty-year-old son who should have been off on his own. He was definitely not an alpha. Morgan had almost taken a liking to him, mainly because he did seem awful docile for a werewolf, but Charlie was as ignorant as dirt and subtle as a chin zit. Now and again, Morgan saw him watching her from the house, and she could practically smell the feral lust visible in his eyes. But the moment she actually looked straight at him to see if he could put his money where his mouth was—so to speak—he would duck and cower and if he'd had a tail, it would have been between his legs.

Every time the moon rose, Morgan knew it was that time of the month for the neighbors. There had been reports of three large shaggy dogs seen wandering around the local Low-Mart parking lot down on the main road; one black, one grey and one sort of sandy brown—the color of Charlie's mullet. They had chased down a deer one time, and another time, they were seen scrambling after someone's cat.

At first, Morgan had been angry. The last time a pack moved into her neighborhood, they had been a group of young Hispanics. They pissed and pooped on Morgan's yard and tore up her flowerbeds, and had it not been for her own allergies, she would have planted wolfsbane and roses to teach them a lesson. Things reached a pitch when someone dumped the remains of a deer right behind Morgan's house. That was the last straw. Morgan had nosed around until she found out where the pack lived, and then she had called the INS. The pack quickly disappeared when it turned out they didn't have green cards.

With the Briggs, it was going to be different. She couldn't just keep calling the police about the old cars, and since the Briggs were clearly American born, it was impossible to sic any of the government offices on them. Charlie was too old for Social Services to take an interest in his constant abuse by his mother. Somehow, Morgan was going to have to figure out a way to break up the pack.

And then, Morgan decided, she knew a way.

 

It was still afternoon when Mrs. Briggs yelled at Mr. Briggs to get off his sorry behind and take her down to the Low-Mart.

"We're going to be there tonight, woman," he snapped back.

"I need to go now!" Mrs. Briggs retorted. "They got them extra large flea collars on sale, and you know they'll run out by dark. Don't know where that boy's getting them fleas, but he's a-needing a collar right now."

"Just dip him again," Mr. Briggs said.

"That messes up his skin," Mrs. Briggs retorted. "You know how sensitive he is."

With much grumbling, Mr. Briggs came out, swinging his keys on a chain. He and Mrs. Briggs trundled into the truck. It roared to life, a metal dragon belching black smoke out of the tail pipe.

Morgan stood by the curtained front window and watched them head on down the street. She glanced over at their house, and sure enough, Charlie was at the window. He couldn't see her because of the angle and the shadows, but she could see him, and she smiled.

Charlie, she figured, was going to be easy. Typical of a backwoods hick, he had no idea how to act among the more civilized. She had seen him pissing on her back gate just the other day, but only on the outside. It was as though he wanted to mark the territory without being too obvious.

She would remedy that. With the right training, he would adjust. The problem as she saw it would be to get him away from Mama.

We'll show you who's alpha, Morgan thought. She headed out the back of the house, wandering over to the fence, wearing the tightest pair of cutoff jeans and tube top she had. She pretended to be watering the herbs, and then she dropped the hose and bent over, making certain her tightly clad backside was directed at the Briggs house and in full view.

She heard the screen door slam and the thump of feet across the grass. Picking up the hose, she played with the spout then turned.

Charlie was right there at the fence, his tongue hanging out, his eyes bugged.

"Something wrong, Charlie?" she asked and looked him right in the eye.

He went back into the submissive posture she had become so used to seeing, tucking his chin, grinning, his cheeks turning red. And panting.

"Nothing, Miss Morgan," he said. "I just thought you'd fallen and . . . "

"Well, how sweet of you, Charlie," she said and stepped closer to the fence, letting the water trail down her leg and into her tennis shoes. "No one ever cared whether or not I fell before."

He looked up, startled. Before, she had always told him to get lost, and it must have startled him to have her being so forward and friendly.

"I . . . uh . . . "

"Come on, Charlie. Don't be bashful."

He practically melted when she reached over and stroked his cheek with one hand.

And then she realized he was peeing through his pants. He looked down, embarrassed, and ran back towards the house.

"Charlie, wait!" she called.

He stopped on the porch, obedient as a lamb, ducking his head and looking back at her.

"I am sorry," she said sweetly. "I seem to have gotten you all wet with my hose."

His head snapped up. He looked down at the stain and his tongue lolled out of his head.

"Come on back," Morgan said. "I never get to just talk to you without your Mama being around."

"That's because Mama's afraid—" Charlie stopped.

"Afraid of what," Morgan asked. "Afraid a silly girl like me is gonna steal her handsome son?"

Charlie was suddenly at the fence again, leaning over. The wafting odor of raw meat was on his breath. "You think I'm handsome?"

"Of course, I do. I thought it the day you moved in," Morgan said. She leaned over the fence, her lips close to his. He looked uncertain, but then she nuzzled his neck, steeling herself against the fact that he clearly didn't wash it, and then nipped him. He yipped just a bit.

"I could use a guy like you on my side," she said.

Charlie grinned and nipped her back. She growled in her throat, and he fell down, rolling over on his back, one leg thumping.

And she knew then that he was hers to command.

 

In Hollywood, Morgan reflected, the way of the wolf said that the moon was always full when the lycanthrope changed. Scientifically, there were "full" moons for nearly three nights in a row.

In reality, she had learned over the years of dealing with werewolves that the moon had nothing to do with it. True lycanthropes could change at will. Even dumb hick werewolves had that power.

Morgan was sitting by the window in the dark, watching the Briggs' house for movement, when she heard the creak of the back screen. Quickly, she charged into the kitchen and stood at the open back door just in time to see the shapes of three large canines trotting across the backyard and bounding across the fence.

Dressed in a black exercise suit, Morgan stole out of her house and followed. She had let her long dark hair down, and it now draped like a cowl about her head and face as she dashed across her back lawn and leapt over the fence. She landed quietly in the soft-soled boots and kept up the pace, trotting down the alley in the wake of the three forms, staying downwind.

Fortunately, they were not that difficult to keep track of. Charlie was stopping and marking nearly every bush and fence. The black beast kept going, but the grey one would stop and snarl at the younger. At least once, Morgan had to duck behind some garbage cans when the grey wolf attacked the younger, grabbing his throat. He went down in a submissive posture and she snarled and growled, and then meekly, he followed with less marking.

The local Low-Mart was set on the edge of an old wooded pasture that already had signs up about future development and condos. The three wolves raced around the edge of the parking lot to head for that territory. There they began to scare up rabbits and other rodents.

Morgan edged along until she was as close as she dared to get, still keeping downwind. She watched them gathering their kills into a pile in the center of a clearing. Now and again, Charlie would eagerly snag up one of those kills and attempt to scarf it down whole. But the grey wolf—and Morgan could now see that she was definitely a female—nearly bit his head off when he tried.

Waiting only until the pile was a goodly size, Morgan stood up and stepped out of the shadows. Three heads turned. The grey wolf snarled. The black one lowered his head and growled.

Only Charlie, the brown wolf with the underbite, ducked his head and sauntered towards Morgan, tentatively wagging his tail.

"Evening, Charlie," Morgan said and stared at the other two. "Did you make up your mind which pack you wanted to be in?"

"Charlie!" the grey wolf barked in a hoarse manner. "Get your sorry tail back over here, boy, or I'll . . . "

"Or you'll what?" Morgan interrupted. "Whap him on the nose with a newspaper like he was a common dog? You disgust me, Mrs. Briggs. You and yours don't know the first thing about being civil."

The grey wolf rose up on hind legs and shook until the fur fell away, leaving her plump Ma Kettle figure exposed under the light of the moon. Morgan resisted the urge to say "Ewwwww," and kept her gaze on the steady yellow eyes that the old woman still displayed. Her bun had pulled free, and long grey hair cascaded down across her rolls of exposed flesh.

Sloppy and out of shape, Morgan thought.

"Civil?" the old woman snarled. "You think we give a damn about being civil? This is survival, little girl, and you just learned our secret. We can't let you live now. Charlie, get your sorry hide back over here now."

Charlie stayed just behind Morgan like a heeled pup.

"Bill, go get your boy," Mrs. Briggs said.

The black wolf snarled, "He ain't no boy of mine, and you well know it, woman."

Mrs. Briggs snarled and snapped a blow across the black wolf's skull with her fist. "You sorry son of a . . . Charlie, this is your last chance! You get back over here, or I'll take you down when I kill her."

"Kill me?" Morgan said and put a hand to her chest. "What make you think you can kill me, old woman?"

"I've killed bigger mortals than you, girlie," Mrs. Briggs replied. "I'm the leader of this here pack, and what I say goes, and Charlie might find you attractive, but he ain't gonna have no pups with the likes of you after I eats your heart out."

"Really?" Morgan sneered at the old woman as she began to remove her exercise suit and casually tossed it aside. Charlie's eyes practically bugged out of his head and he thumped his tail in appreciation. "Maybe it is time you learned that you're not the only alpha bitch around," Morgan said.

"Why you little tramp! I'll chew up your bones!" Mrs. Briggs dropped to all fours and changed rapidly back into a grey wolf and lunged. But even as the old woman was shifting, Morgan dropped to the ground as well, took a deep breath and let the change take over. But instead of a fat, grey, paunchy werewolf, Morgan was a sleek beast of prey, every black hair laid perfectly against her muscular body.

Mrs. Briggs lunged and tried to snap jaws closed on Morgan's throat, but Morgan ghosted out of the old woman's reach, and before Mrs. Briggs could turn and renew the attack, Morgan was on the grey wolf, closing jaws down on the back of the old woman's neck and snapping hard.

Bone crushed under Morgan's massive jaws. Mrs. Briggs yelped once and then fell silent to the ground. Morgan heard snarling and snapping to her back and turned in time to see the black male and Charlie head to head, nose to nose, lips pulled back, canines exposed. Neither attacked, but neither withdrew.

Morgan sighed and, like smoke, she shifted back into her human form. Naked, she walked over to step between them, pushing both males back. Charlie immediately went into a submissive posture, wagging his tail. Mr. Briggs hesitated, then backed away and paced nervously at the edge, wandering over to the corpse of his wife now slowly shifting back to that of an old woman. Satisfied that he would keep his distance, Morgan collected her exercise suit and pulled it back on.

"As I see it, Bill, you have an easy choice," Morgan said. "You can join my pack, or you can get the hell out of town and never show your face in these civilized parts again. There's only room for one alpha lycanthrope in these parts, and I am not about to let it be anyone but me . . . and Charlie here is going to be my new alpha male. So are you with us or against us?"

Bill sat back on his haunches and changed into a man—a hirsute, naked man—and scratched his neck thoughtfully.

"Can I take what's left of Nellie here if I agree to leave?" he asked.

"Nellie?" Morgan said.

"My wife. Her name was Nellie," Mr. Briggs said. "Her kinfolk will want to give her a proper wake back in the hills. They'll also wanna know who killed her and why."

"You can tell them she made the mistake of messing with a younger alpha," Morgan said and nodded. " But you better not be getting any ideas about bringing the pack here." Morgan snarled and showed sharp canines to make her point.

Mr. Briggs pulled himself upright and started to haul Mrs. Briggs' corpse over his shoulder.

"You'd best watch yourself, boy," Mr. Briggs said, tossing an admiring glance at Morgan. "She's one tough alpha. Don't think for a minute she'd ever gonna let you be top dog."

Charlie grinned a wolf's grin.

Mr. Briggs disappeared into the shadows with his wife.

Morgan turned to look down at Charlie. "You're not very good at shifting quick, are you?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"We'll work on that," she said and patted him on the head, and his back leg drummed the ground. "Come on, big boy."

Morgan turned, snagging up a couple of the dead rabbits as she started towards the suburban lights. Charlie grabbed a couple as well and trotted after her.

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