1

The first thing I feel is the cold.

In the metal.

In the air.

In my bones.

It literally emanates from all of the steel surrounding me.

The bars.

The ceiling.

The metal base under my bare skin.

I feel wretched.

The fact that there’s a certain irony about this situation eludes me at this stage.

Shivering, I join my mind as it emerges from the darkness.

Lurking at the edge of the blackness, there is just more cold.

More cold and, of course, more pain.

But that also means that I am consciously aware of my body again.

Although right now, I’d prefer not to be.

I hear a whimper nearby and finally force myself to open my eyes.

Through the slightly blurred bars dancing in front of me, I see a medium-sized mutt with floppy ears, half setter, half mongrel.

Hesitantly wagging its tail, but not coming any closer.

I increase my efforts to free myself from the fetal position and the pain immediately bites again with ice-cold ruthlessness.

But it also helps me to remember.

Things have always come at such a price.

Knowledge.

Memory.

Identity.

By accepting the pain as a form of currency, I obtain a fraction of all these things.

Of my humanity.

Of my life.

The dog, for example: I clench my chattering teeth together, endure the pain, and stare at him until I can think of his name.

Marlowe. That’s the dog’s name.

And he is my best friend, as I can now recall again.

I want to say his name, but when I try, all that comes out is a rough croak that frightens us both to death.

No wonder the dog is backing away toward the closed door and watching me distrustfully.

It’s obvious that he’s torn.

That I am just as big of a dilemma for him as I am for myself.

Marlowe …

I cling to the name and the sight of my confused four-legged friend. It helps me finally pull my mind out of the frozen blackness.

The darkness goes.

Cold and pain remain.

And the memories get stronger with each heartbeat.

More concrete.

I concentrate entirely on the question of why I’m lying naked in a steel cage in a windowless room.

Why the dog is here. Marlowe!

It takes a while, and not without the cold stinging in my limbs, but then it occurs to me.

On the worst nights of my life, Marlowe stands guard over my prison until I wake up in pain the next morning and put the puzzle back together again.

But all along, I thought that the pain, which is part of the puzzle, couldn’t get any worse.

Should have really known better.

Suddenly it feels as if someone were grabbing me by the ribcage and ripping out all of my bones and guts.

I double over in the small, cold cage.

Let out an inhuman cry of pain.

Marlowe barks, frightened.

“Hey, come on, kid,” Dead Crow’s husky voice also resonates from somewhere.

Not that it’s of any use to me now, of all times, to indulge in hallucinations of my friend and mentor.

Then it’s over just as quickly as it began.

The pain is gone, as is the confusion.

Only exhaustion and coldness remain.

And knowledge.

Every haunting memory.

Every painful particular.

Every ugly detail.

My name is Jackson Ellis, this is the cellar of an apartment building in Seattle, and last night was a full moon.

Why am I sitting in this cage?

Let’s put it this way:

During the full moon, I have a hairy problem.

*

It started on my twelfth birthday.

Great party, at least for a gang of excited twelve year olds who had still never played spin the bottle and still never had a smoke. Much less known what to do with tits or pussies.

Thanks for the party, Mom.

It’s just too bad that you shot yourself before I could tell you how cool it was or that I love you.

Suppose the sleeping bags in the living room, where the full moon could shine in, were a stupid idea.

The moonlight didn’t exactly bring out the best in me, if you know what I mean.

I still remember how I woke up the next morning and tasted that particular mix of cold and pain for the first time.

The taste of blood in my mouth.

I puked blood and hair and bits of skin on the tattered, blood-soaked sleeping bag of my best friend Jamie just as my mom opened the door. She must have been holed up behind it when the noise started.

She looked at me.

Not reproachfully.

Not horrified.

Not disgusted.

Not afraid.

Not sad.

So, according to her suicide note, as I understood it, I owe the slightly protruding lower jaw to her family’s gene pool, while the severe form of lunacy goes back to my father, whom I never got to know.

My mother always called him a mistake.

Understatement of the millennium, if you ask me.

Sometimes I wonder how it must have been for her every year after my birth.

The uncertainty.

The waiting for hour X.

The hope and fear.

The praying.

Though, I’ve never seen her pray.

Not that you should get the wrong impression of her.

She was a great mom.

Made every effort and never let me realize how much effort it really was.

And it wasn’t easy for her as a single mother in the northern province, you can believe that.

I could now, of course, say: damn, sometimes she’d give me a strange sideways glance if she thought I wouldn’t notice.

But she didn’t even do that.

Great woman, as I said.

A shame, that in my darkest hour, when I was scared and naked and covered in blood between the chewed up bodies of my friends, she left me alone and took the small-caliber way out.

She could have at least taken me with her.

*

I only vaguely remember the weeks and months after my first full moon as a wolf.

If someone comes up with the idea of making a movie out of my life, this phase would probably be referred to as my hobo years.

As I remember it, it’s an endless collection of weeks during which a pale, emaciated teenager wandered, lost, over the widespread tracks across the upper half of the country, devoured by the memory of what he did to his mother and friends.

Probably just as well that I don’t remember much about those years.

I remember one thing very well, though.

Every full moon was hell.

Which doesn’t mean that the days and nights in between were better.

As a child, I transformed even more spontaneously — as soon as I was afraid or felt threatened.

Which had often been the case among the hobos.

A little boy is fair game for assholes who spend their ruined lives against the walls of freight cars and in the dark crossings of the old railway yards.

Fair game for all the depraved bastards who earn a bad reputation, preying on the nice guys with bad luck.

At the time, I transformed one or two times a week, no matter what the moon said.

Because someone held a switchblade to my throat.

Because some wiry heroin-fueled nutjob wanted to shout and slash me open with a broken bottle in order to save the Virgin Mary from the flies.

Because two guys held me down and stifled my cries with calloused hands and tattered woolen gloves, while the third guy dropped his pants.

Back then, it too often meant:

Moving on.

Fast.

Inconspicuously.

Like a ghost.

I probably would’ve been caught immediately if I hadn’t been hunting among the hobos.

One less Chip or Jack or Joe from the old railway stations and tracks — who really cares?

Even the hobos took it pretty calmly in the beginning.

“A fucking bear.”

“Those damned coyotes are getting bolder.”

“That was definitely Marvin’s fucking pit bull, the sneaky bastard. Someone should shoot that monster.”

Someone really should have shot the monster.

And I don’t mean the pit bull.

The monster in boy’s clothing, who lugged a worn backpack around, along with a guilt that was so much bigger and weighed so much more than the boy himself.

Who tore through the ranks of hobos and threw up their blood in the woods on so many mornings.

I was more than a stray.

I was a serial killer.

At some point, I became such a bloody legend among the hobos that they were eventually just as afraid of the full moon and strangers as I was.

But the blazing bonfires and suspicion couldn’t save them when the wolf burst out of me and pounced at them from the darkness.

Why didn’t I pack it in then and make a clean break?

Because human beings cling to life.

No matter how much animal gets out from time to time.

We cling to life, as fucked up as it may be.

Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.

I’ve stood on drafty railroad bridges and wide, dark highways several times.

I’ve never jumped.

But fell deeper and deeper.

Transformation after transformation.

When I was seventeen, I got to Seattle.

The cargo train stopped, as it always eventually did, and before I really even knew what was happening, why or how, this time I was one of the dark figures who jumped out and scurried away, stiff-limbed.

Just got tired of moving around, I guess.

Didn’t want to spend another winter among the hobos.

Why Seattle?

No idea.

It was just as good as any other city to look for an inconspicuous place in the urban darkness.

Somewhere among the other sinners.

*

The memories of my first few months in Seattle are considerably more present than my days as a hobo-killer.

Took me a bit to find my bearings.

Got into some trouble.

Fell in with the wrong crowd at first.

Eventually, I started working as a bouncer.

It helped that I was already a tough kid at eighteen — usually my scowl was enough to keep any real trouble away from the door of a second-rate club.

Some people said that I looked wolfish.

Fuckers.

The ladies liked the quiet boy with the stubble and dark eyes.

The darkness within them.

If there was a problem when I didn’t show up on the full moon (as already agreed upon), then I wouldn’t hesitate to head to the next joint.

Even back then, there were enough shitty acts in old factories or warehouses that would pay a few bucks to have the idiots bounced.

Much better than a life on the tracks.

On top of that, I quickly found myself enjoying the businesslike camaraderie that existed among the bouncers.

I still like it today.

At the time, I was more desperate and somehow convinced myself to be a more normal part of the whole.

Part of the herd.

Even though I was still a wolf, as every full moon proved again.

It was back before Marlowe and the cage, when the nights went a little differently than they do now…

*

I always went to areas with a rough reputation.

I’d find myself a secluded corner by the early afternoon and wait restlessly for the full moon and its inevitable effect.

For example, I still remember lying on the top level of a massive, condemned parking garage and shivering in the autumn wind as I watched the moon rise in the sky and waited for it to begin.

For the affliction of the night to run its course.

For it to steal the control away from me and for the giant wolf to lunge on all fours in search of its prey.

For my desperate fear to chase down only the right ones.

Actually feasible in an area like this.

Kind of funny.

The monster that justifies his monstrous deeds by only acting them out on other monsters.

A nice idea, and not just in Dexter, which always makes me grin smugly when I see it.

They almost caught me a year after my arrival in Seattle, anyway.

Not the cops.

The mafia — which up here still controls almost every strip club and similar place the same way it manages the hardcore brothels.

On one of my wild nights, the wolf grabbed a guy that was always knee-deep in snow, even in summer.

Unfortunately, he was more than a small-time coke dealer — the nephew of an influential boss, whose sister threatened to banish him from the Thanksgiving table forever if he didn’t avenge the death of her little darling.

When I got wind that the big guys were looking for the murderer, I made a run for it.

I know it was embarrassingly irrational as they probably never would have figured out that I was the wolf.

Either way, I ran like the wind.

I was used to running anyway.

It was essentially all I could do.

I took what little cash I had hidden in the ventilation duct of my dump of a home and got myself on the next flight to Vegas.

Why Vegas of all places?

I can’t even answer that now.

Maybe because the name of the city jumped out at me from the departures board as I rushed out of the taxi and into the airport.

Or because what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

And a lot happened in Vegas.

*

That’s where I finally met Dead Crow.

My copper-skinned Obi-Wan.

My whoring Mr. Miyagi.

His real name?

He never told me.

It was a running joke between us that I would randomly ask for his real name.

Dead Crow’s answer was always the same.

A Native American who works as head of security at a joint like the Silver Bullet Casino needs a cool name, he would often say before getting the next round of beer or whiskey or both.

We were really tight.

More than teacher and student.

Much more.

Real friends.

Though we didn’t have a good start.

Dead Crow was having a smoke at the loading dock behind the Casino and caught me rummaging through a rusty dumpster on his turf.

Why?

Vegas is just not nice to people without any dough.

And I didn’t want to work for Siegfried & Roy.

“What are you looking for in there, kid?” Dead Crow asked coolly from the ramp. “Don’t really look like someone who should be digging in other people’s garbage. Well, you’re already doing it. You actually look like triple-fucked buffalo shit. But your spirit. That guy looks like he could get things done, if you know what I mean.” He casually flicked his cigarette away in a high arch. “Interested?”

I stood in the dumpster and had no idea what had actually just happened, let alone if I was interested.

Regardless, he had my attention, as I looked for my future in the wet, stinking mass of kitchen waste and tourist scraps.

But he was a real head-turner, this old Native American man who was not nearly as old as the wrinkles on his tanned face suggested.

A nose like an eagle’s beak.

Arms covered with tattoos on tattoos.

Long, gray-streaked hair down to the bone comb in the back pocket of his leather pants.

Always wearing a dark shirt and a black leather jacket.

He wouldn’t even take a piss without his cowboy boots.

He put out a hand and I took it.

Accepted the job and anything else he had to offer.

Guidance.

Camaraderie.

Friendship.

You just had to love this madman.

Who treated the Dutch and English tourists like punching bags when they blatantly crossed the line and wouldn’t take their hands out of the waitresses’ panties.

Who laughed loudly and a lot.

Who drank me under the table at the end of our shift every morning and always had the hottest dancers when they first showed up and were still new in town.

Who continued laughing and flirting and drinking when I was already unconscious in bed.

On top of that, he always had the best stuff.

A phenomenon, that man.

But don’t worry.

This isn’t going to be a story about Indian sweat lodges, totem poles, and hallucinogenic drugs.

Well, maybe the latter if you want to push it. If you count passing a joint back and forth during sunrise on the casino roof with a bottle of whiskey between us that didn’t make it to the morning.

But it’s not about that.

It’s about what Dead Crow taught me.

About me and the beast in me.

*

“You can control the wolf inside you, kid,” Dead Crow said to me one morning, while we were having our liquid breakfast. The cleaning crew behind us washed away the puke and the dreams from the previous night.

It had been a rough night with more weirdoes than usual. At one point, I almost lost control and let the monster steer.

I didn’t ask Dead Crow how he knew about the wolf, and certainly not whether he would tell anyone about it.

I didn’t let the beast off the leash in Vegas even a single time by mistake, not even when we had to get through all the trouble with the Triads.

Spent the full moon nights alone in the desert.

Apart from that, immersed in my job.

And always had Dead Crow by my side when things got rough.

Felt at ease for the first time.

Balanced.

Life in Vegas was still more show and facade than the club scene in Seattle, but it felt more real.

More meaningful.

The way it just is in these situations.

You think you’re the center of the universe.

The center of reality.

Even when it’s all made up of glass and fake shine.

“You just have to show the bastard who’s boss,” Dead Crow continued lecturing, as if it were the most normal topic in the world for two men to discuss at the bar in an almost empty, tired casino in Las Vegas. “You and the wolf, you’re a pack. Never forget that, kid. Show him who’s boss in the pack and that you’re in charge. And not only when it’s a full moon out — you have to show him every day. Otherwise, he’ll eat you entirely one day.”

Now I think that this conversation was the first time that I saw myself and the wolf as two beings whose existence were tied together, and not as two sides of my personality.

Instead, two people who shared a body.

After the second beer, I asked Dead Crow why I couldn’t control the wolf during a full moon.

“The full moon gives the wolf’s totem power, kid,” Dead Crow answered seriously. “That’s his thing.”

Still don’t know if he really meant it or if he was just taking me for a ride with his Indian mysticism.

After the next beer, I found the courage to ask whether Dead Crow knew others like me.

He gave as little of an answer as he did to the question of his real name.

But I suspect that there was someone else who had a similar problem to my own.

Eventually saw the scars on Dead Crow’s back when his shirt was torn by the bodyguard of a nouveau riche Russian in a scuffle at a black jack table.

And they didn’t originate from the bigwig’s female companion, although there had been enough opportunities for it, if I interpreted Dead Crow’s grin correctly.

And, to be honest, there are enough Native American legends with some shaman or warrior who changes his skin, where they usually make it sound all flowery, right?

Anyway.

On our next day off, we drove into the desert.

Parked in the middle of nothing.

No trace of civilization anywhere you looked.

Sat silently on Dead Crow’s old Mustang, looked into the emptiness, watched a couple hawks hover in the warm wind, and emptied a bottle of Johnny Walker.

“Come on, kid,” Dead Crow finally said. “Want to try something.”

We stood in the sun.

Like two boxers before the sound of the bell.

Seemed pretty ridiculous to me.

And then Dead Crow gave me a couple of hearty slaps and suddenly started to throw all kinds of insults at me.

Really got me livid.

Spouted really nasty shit about my mom, and so on.

Quickly lost control.

I yelled at him, he yelled back.

I shoved him, he shoved back.

I tried to punch him in the face.

He gracefully dodged it and kicked me in the balls.

Even when I lay on the sand in front of him, he kept kicking.

Over and over again with the tips of his awful cowboy boots, in the stomach and in the ribs, against my hips and my collarbone and shoulder.

The wolf came to the surface faster than a rottweiler on the fence when the mailman comes.

I growled at Dead Crow.

Wasn’t much human in this growl.

Already felt the fur growing on my arms and chest and face.

The bones and muscles and tendons grinding in preparation for what would soon happen.

Dead Crow still didn’t even run to the car when the seams of my clothing burst and the fabric ripped.

As dark fur broke out all over my skin.

“Fight it, kid!” Dead Crow yelled.

Screamed at me like a mangy mutt.

“Show him who’s boss! Show him … oh shit.”

Dead Crow just barely made it into the car.

Hit the gas and fishtailed off in a cloud of red dust.

The wolf chased after the Mustang through the desert for over two hours before he slowed down and Dead Crow could finally outrun the shaggy fleabag.

He waited a few miles away until I had caught up to him, naked and with sore feet.

Neither of us said a word.

It was only when we had the wasteland behind us and drove through the city, which looked strangely changed and pale, that Dead Crow said:

“You’ve got a real crazy wolf, kid. A real lunatic of a wolf.”

With this knowledge, our first field experiment ended.

Before the next time we ventured out into the desert, Dead Crow taught me some breathing techniques.

Practiced an hour every day with me, sometimes even two.

“Ancient Native American techniques?” I asked the first time, as we sat on his bed in the lotus position, eyes closed, but the spirit wide open, as my wise mentor put it.

“Yoga,” Dead Crow answered after the next exhalation. “Do what I say. In. Out. In. Out. In … slower, kid, you’re panting.”

Eventually, he decided I was ready for another try.

So we went to the desert again.

“But don’t come back, okay?” I requested, as we faced each other on the red-brown sand once more.

Dead Crow smiled kindly.

“Okay, kid,” he said reasonably. “And you make sure that crazy wolf stays where he is, okay?”

I nodded grimly and my Native American friend hammered his bony fist into my chin.

And he was proven right.

Sure, it wasn’t easy, and in the end my will was probably more crucial than the shit with the in- and exhaling.

Anyway, I showed the wolf who was boss.

I remained a man despite Dead Crow’s harassment.

An angry, tormented, inwardly torn man with bruises and sore ribs.

But a man.

And that’s how Dead Crow taught me how to control the wolf in me when there wasn’t a full moon.

We repeated the desert trips.

In the end, I even managed to consciously bring about the transformation, and then to mostly keep the upper hand, and finally to determine the time I’d revert back.

Dead Crow didn’t say it, but he was terribly proud.

Me too, for that matter.

Four weeks later, the best and only real friend I’ve ever had OD’d.

I carried him out of the shitter stall where the Native American cleaning lady had found him.

One of his sisters.

Another tribe, but the same blood or something.

She howled like a wolf herself.

Luckily, I was the first to react to her cries.

Wrapped the old bastard in a stained table cloth from one of the cleaning carts and carried him down to the garage. That way, the paparazzi couldn’t get a photo the way they always did with the drunken starlets.

Set him on the back seat of his Mustang, got in the car, which was still covered in dust from our last trip to the desert, and drove off.

Laid the crazy Indian out in the middle of the desert like a chief, doused him with whiskey, and set him aflame.

He and the rising sun raced ablaze.

I waited until the wind started blowing his ashes away.

Afterwards, I headed north toward Seattle to pay my respects once again.

*

I came up with the idea for the cage after my return from Vegas.

Dead Crow had shown me how to put the wolf in his place and stay in control.

If I let the beast rage unrestrained during the full moon, it would hurt our relationship.

I also had the feeling that I was betraying Dead Crow’s memory if the wolf gained any control.

Nothing worse than guys who are sentimental, eh?

In any case, the cage is a very practical thing.

And if anyone asks, it’s for Marlowe.

Better an animal abuser than an animal-man.

I justify the sound insulation on the walls with the old drums that I got cheap from a friendly club owner and left in a corner to collect dust.

As for the bars and locks on the inside of the door, I still have no adequate excuse.

Either way, my landlord doesn’t give a shit about what his ideal, paying tenant, in the small room next to the boiler, does.

Would really be different if he knew what went on in here on a full moon.

Or that I writhe around naked in a cage and talk to my dog.

“Marlowe.”

Slowly, I recognize my own voice again.

Still scratchy.

Still powerless.

But already sounds more like me.

Marlowe feels the same and wags his tail more enthusiastically than ever.

“Come here, boy,” I encourage him. “Come.”

He hesitates, anxiously shifts his weight from one side to the other.

He wants to come to me, but still isn’t quite sure.

I can understand that.

I pull all of my strength together.

“Marlowe,” I say firmly, although I’m shaking from the cold and the aftermath of last night.

At the same time, I shove my hand out between two bars.

It only works for the human version of me, don’t worry.

What do you take me for?

“Come here, Marlowe.”

Marlowe darts over to the hand like a torpedo and licks it frantically, while I try to pet him.

“Yes, that’s right. Good boy, Marlowe.”

He nestles up against the bars.

But I lean powerlessly from the other side.

I comb through Marlowe’s soft, shaggy fur.

I have to admit — all this is more than just therapy.

My fingers grope around his head and neck.

Looking for the leather collar.

It takes a while until I get the key loose from the carabiner on the leather strap.

When I get it, I ball my fist around it and curl up in the cage again.

My eyes close almost on their own.

The cold creeps into me all over again.

“Get a move on, kid,” Dead Crow says, annoyed. “Or do you want to lie on your ass all day?”

Marlowe barks at me.

“It’s okay, buddy. I’m here. Everything is okay.”

I am still shaky like a dried up alcoholic. It takes multiple tries before I can push forward on my knees, get the key into the lock, and unlock the cage door, which is reinforced with cross bars.

Marlowe huddles up against me as soon as I drag myself out of my prison on all fours.

“Just a minute, buddy,” I mutter and lie on the rough, concrete floor.

Better than the freezing metal.

Marlowe licks my face with his warm tongue.

Good old Marlowe.

What he has to endure just because I need someone that I can count on.

Who, on the next morning, comes to me, forgives me for everything, and gives me the key, no matter what happened in the night.

Oh yeah, I know all about it.

I know it all too well.

Once, I recorded the spectacle on video.

Actually, I always wanted to avoid it.

Also don’t understand how some people film themselves in bed.

But humans are just curious.

Even if they are a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

So, just once I mounted a camcorder on the tripod and placed it in front of the cage.

Wanted to see why even the toughest guys were wetting themselves when they saw how I turned into a six and a half foot monster made out of muscles, fangs, claws, and fur.

Well.

What can I say?

I immediately destroyed the tape which showed the transformation just as clearly as Marlowe’s panic.

The world isn’t ready for such special effects.

Poor Marlowe.

He still has to bear it.

When it happens, he hides behind the drums, on some of his blankets.

He has to deal with a lot when the transformation begins and moments later a ferocious beast starts to rage, pushing against the steel, and growling.

Luckily, Marlowe is clever.

He only comes out again when it’s all over.

When I become myself again on the cold, firmly secured, metal floor and have the taste of blood and bile in my mouth, which — to top it all off — feels as if someone pulled out all of my teeth and cut off my tongue.

I feel so sorry for Marlowe.

But I need him.

Even now, it’s mainly Marlowe’s rough tongue and doggy drool that bring me back to reality.

Dead Crow’s presence can’t really be called reality.

It takes a lot to stand up.

“Ah, fuck.”

Every vertebra cracks.

Marlowe never leaves my side, which leads to me constantly tripping over him.

I don’t say a word.

Don’t have the right.

Just slip into my underwear and the old worn out flip-flops.

“Come on, buddy. Time to go home.”

I lock up the cellar room and drag myself through the dark, unfinished hallway to the elevator, Marlowe still by my side as a loyal wingman.

I push the button, prop myself up against the brick wall and wait until the elevator rumbles down and the doors slide open.

Today, the elevator is empty.

No surprise.

It’s only a little after four.

The metal doors close and I try not to think about the cage, as I aim for the button to my floor and actually hit it on the second try.

We are set in motion.

But only briefly.

The elevator stops with a jerk and the doors slide open sooner than they should.

Mr. and Mrs. Fosco look me up and down.

“Morning,” I mumble and step aside to make room for them.

Marlowe wags his tail as the retired couple enters, and we continue moving upward.

The silence is particularly awkward.

“You’re up and about early,” Mrs. Fosco eventually remarks, which doesn’t really make it better.

“I was about to say the same to you,” I respond and attempt to produce something like a smile.

“We’re coming from the hospital,” Mrs. Fosco reveals in a confidential tone. She ignores the panting of her over-weight husband and adds: “Charles thought he was having a heart attack again.”

“And?”

“Just gas,” Mrs. Fosco says, “as usual.”

Her husband mutters sullenly to himself.

Mrs. Fosco keeps ignoring him with the experience of over thirty-five years of marriage.

“And you?” she asks in return.

“Laundry,” I say without hesitating.

The Foscos know how I earn my money and what kind of hours my bouncer job requires.

“And why do you do your laundry naked?” Mr. Fosco now asks grumpily.

He just wants to take the attention off of his gas.

And because his wife is staring at my crotch.

“He can get away with it, Charles,” his wife says.

Mr. Fosco glares piercingly at my six-pack.

I shrug with my toned shoulders.

“This nut puked on my clothes when I threw him out of the club. I didn’t want to go into my apartment like that, so I went directly to the laundry room.”

Mr. Fosco’s eyes narrowed down to slits.

“And the dog?”

The elevator stops.

The doors slide open.

I meet Mr. Fosco’s stare.

“I hope you get over your gas, Charlie,” I say and go to my apartment door.

Fosco’s eyes burn a hole in my back.

And my ass.

Then they also get out of the elevator and go to their apartment a few doors down.

Phew.

Home free.

Why do I live in an apartment building and take on all the risks that coexistence with two dozen tenants undoubtedly entails?

Simple answer for a change.

Because it helps me.

More than a hermit lifestyle ever did.

Firstly, I don’t have the cash to buy myself a secluded house and, after all the years I spent without a home, I’ve had enough nights outdoors in my life.

Secondly, the responsibility I have for my fellow human beings — who, despite everything, are rather concerned with anonymity and superficiality — is an incentive to pull myself together.

To not let things slide.

To follow Dead Crow’s advice and to remind the wolf every day about who is in charge of our pack.

Marlowe barks at me.

Tells me who’s in charge of my other pack.

And that it’s time for his breakfast.

After freeing Marlowe from his full-moon collar and turning up the heat in the apartment, my four-legged roommate gets his food straight away.

Lots of meat, little kibble.

He’s earned it.

While Marlowe happily gets to work on the contents of his bowl, I lurk around the room like a phantom and try to acclimate myself.

After a full moon, I always have the feeling that I’ve been away for weeks.

There are enough messages waiting in my voicemail to give that impression anyway.

They are all from Abby.

I don’t listen to them.

We had a particularly big fight.

It could be the end.

I sigh.

The full moon doesn’t make me any more reasonable, and I’m getting tired of listening to the same song over and over.

Sometimes I think back and see the fights only as the marker points of our “relationship” — mixed in with a little bit of sex and shared walks with Marlowe.

“Cheryl saw you,” Abby said yesterday, accusingly and hurt. “She said that you were flirting with some club-slut.”

“That’s my job,” I responded calmly.

Appropriately levelheaded.

Abby didn’t give a shit.

“Your job is to hit on sluts?” Abby snapped immediately.

In moments like that, I don’t see much of the woman who I first fell for at her friend Candice’s bachelorette party.

“I’m the head of security, as you may remember. Guests are customers. If a girl has a problem, I take care of it. Being nice to her is part of the job, that’s all.”

“A girl,” Abby mimicked me. “You bastard!”

“What? Because I talk to other women? Yeah, I’m a real sonofabitch. Hopefully, she’s not pregnant.”

Fighting in the evening before my night in the cage is not a good idea.

Should have pulled the emergency brake when the time was right.

Eventually, it was clear where this was going.

The argument was almost an exact copy of the fight we had a few weeks ago. In a moment of disarming idiotic honesty, I told Abby that I once had a thing with Marcy, who still works as a bartender in the club, where I see her pretty much every evening.

“You bastard,” Abby hissed again venomously, and I could only watch, as her personal wolf broke free.

What followed were roars and screams and howls.

I left before she’d made her way to the steak knives in the kitchen or the neighbors called the cops.

Stood in front of Abby’s apartment door with my dark thoughts and heard her sobbing on the other side.

Felt like the ultimate scumbag, even though I didn’t do anything.

Shit.

I sigh again.

It really didn’t go well.

I sit down on the sofa, turn on the TV and DVR and watch the saved episode of The Glades from yesterday evening.

But my thoughts are still more focused on the fight with Abby than on Jim’s latest case in the series.

In the end, I give in to the urge and listen to Abby’s messages on the voicemail.

If I was hoping that after the thirteenth message, which consisted primarily of sobs and insults, the whole thing would come to a happy end, I’ve been deceiving myself.

Also, the last message didn’t offer any prospect of reconciliation.

I turn off the TV and my cell phone and go dejectedly into the dark bedroom.

As the next cold, damp day descends on Seattle and drives away the wet, shiny twilight of the night, I fall into my bed.

My usual bedtime.

Nevertheless, I have the feeling that the wolf stole something from me.

Not the night.

But something much more valuable.

*

I sleep all day.

Marlowe is already full of energy when I come out of the bedroom, so the first thing we do is go downstairs and take a long walk.

Does us both some good.

The proximity of the full moon makes its presence felt, in that my already sharp senses are still more irritable than usual.

It hits me hard.

Exhaust.

Drains.

Fast food.

Pizzeria.

Fish restaurant.

Chinese.

Perfume.

Deodorant.

Sweat.

The list of metropolitan discomforts is long for a sensitive nose.

This is also an issue when I go back after our round in the cellar with a shovel and get rid of the mess that Marlowe and the wolf made last night.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I say to Marlowe, who looks ashamed. “It’s my fault.”

I empty the stinking contents of the bucket into a garbage bag and stuff it in a container behind the building.

What?

Did you think that I would conceal the not so glamorous side of the werewolf jet-set life?

Not a chance.

What’s good enough for me is good enough for you.

Get used to it.

*

“You’re free today, buddy,” I say to Marlowe, who’s lying on the bed and watching me as I get dressed after coming out of the bathroom freshly showered.

Outside, the lights of a rainy evening flicker.

The Space Needle points to rain clouds once again.

I slept the entire day, but still feel like I’ve been on my feet for a week.

Not just because of the night in the cage.

Mainly because of the thing with Abby.

It bothers me a lot.

Regardless, I don’t want to call her.

I know that I should call despite the finality in her messages.

That she is probably just waiting.

But I don’t do it.

Because I am angry.

And because I am discouraged.

Since I secretly think that the break is beyond repair.

That Abby is already finished with me.

Or I am with her.

Sounds difficult after the messages on my voicemail anyway.

Not like roses and certainly not like rings.

Only like rain.

Which is why I treat my cell phone with contempt and don’t put it in my jacket pocket when I get ready to go to the club and clear my head, even though it’s my second night off in a row.

I can manage better at a bar than here at home, as I like to tell myself.

“What do you want to watch today?” I ask Marlowe, as I button the cuffs of my black shirt.

I run my fingers through my hair again.

After a full moon night, it’s hard to control.

Just as much of a hopeless case as my five o’clock shadow, which I can’t for the life of me seem to scrape off of my cheeks.

The same every time.

“Sponge Bob again?”

Marlowe responds with a bark.

He knows the game by now.

Have the feeling that he only participates for my sake.

“Sorry, buddy, Scooby-Doo isn’t on at the moment.”

Another bark.

“I know, I don’t get it either.”

I put on the TV, turn down the volume, and carelessly throw the remote on the sofa.

Marlowe settles in on the couch.

“Are you comfortable?”

Marlowe pants his approval.

I scratch between his ears and stare blankly at the TV before I snap out of it and leave the apartment.

*

In front of the building, I bump into Mrs. Summer’s chihuahua. She’s the filthy rich widow who lives in the penthouse above all of our heads and is crazy about furs.

She’s already holding the door of a taxi that is waiting with the motor running. “Come, Bartholomew!” she calls sternly, but the neurotic, yippy, little dog doesn’t seem to notice.

Plants himself in front of me and barks wildly.

Pretty brave for such a small, shaky thing with a fur lined jacket whose worst nightmares involve getting jumped on by a squirrel in the park.

The wolf, who is still lurking near the surface, doesn’t appreciate the squirt’s defiant behavior.

A growl and the pooch runs howling to his mistress and jumps into the taxi with a single bound.

Mrs. Summers gives me a scathing look before she gets into the car.

Its taillights glow like a wolf’s eyes.

I dismiss the thought and head in the opposite direction.

The darkness smells even more like rain.

*

Marcy puts a beer in front of me on the bar.

“Trouble?” she asks a little spitefully.

I don’t look at her and instead focus on the bottle.

“What makes you say that?” I ask, after throwing back the first sip.

Marcy tosses her blonde tresses over her shoulder.

“Well, you’re here on your night off. And you’re making your fight face.”

“I don’t have a fight face,” I object, but Marcy just laughs and I know that she’s right.

Know exactly which facial expression she means.

It’s pretty terrible that — of all people — my ex is working the bar when I come here to drink because of my girlfriend-slash-new ex.

And another damned hot ex.

Black pants, dark green, spaghetti strap tank top.

Brings out her eyes.

And everything else.

With the second beer, I am already highly philosophical about how the names of my last four flames ended in Y.

Nancy.

Sandy.

Marcy.

Abby.

I’m starting to see a pattern.

Two or three more beers and I’ve got the whole world peace thing figured out.

Marcy is starting to annoy me.

“So, what did your professor do?”

“Lecturer,” I say automatically. “She’s a lecturer. Not a professor. Not yet.”

“Uh, sorry.”

Marcy grins pleased with herself.

Then surprisingly she asks with sincerity:

“Is she worth the trouble?”

“I don’t know,” I answer just as sincerely.

Marcy’s fingers graze my hand beside the beer bottle before she’s called away by a guy who wants to order a round for himself and his office buddies at the pool table.

Frowning, I look at my hand.

What was that about?

The thing with Marcy and me was good while it lasted , but since then we’ve only spoken to each other when there was some kind of work-related reason, making it unavoidable.

That thing just now…

Felt strangely normal and familiar.

Almost pleasant.

Almost as if the cheating, and lies, and all the crap between us didn’t exist.

I think about whether there is such a thing as unmistakable chemistry between two people when I hear a familiar voice nearby.

“Don’t even think about it, kid,” warns Dead Crow, who is suddenly sitting on the bar stool next to me and reading my thoughts like an open book.

I shrug my shoulders and take another sip of beer.

“About what?” I ask him innocently.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dead Crow just repeats stoically.

*

I am up to my fifth or sixth bottle when I smell something that distracts me from Marcy’s subtly perfumed cleavage, which I have been intently thinking about for the past forty-five minutes.

The new scent belongs to a dark-haired beauty whose skin can barely be distinguished from the fabric of her breathtakingly cut, cream-colored dress.

Despite Marcy’s advances and my susceptibility to small gestures and kind words, I didn’t realize until now that I am actually looking to hook up so I can try to get over Abby.

Until I smell her and our eyes meet in the wide mirror behind the bar.

“Hi,” she says, as she slides onto the stool next to me.

“Hi,” I say and: “What are you drinking?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

“Alright then. Marcy? Another beer, please.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Marcy, who looks indifferent, puts a second beer on the bar. The beautiful stranger next to me drinks it with more grace than this dump has seen or probably ever will see again.

“I’m Sierra.”

“Jackson.”

We attend to our beers.

“Do you see my friends back there?” Sierra says after a few moments, while I was quietly inhaling her scent and enjoying her warmth beside me.

“Yes,” I say, although I don’t know which group in the back of the club she means.

“They bet that I couldn’t get you into bed,” she informed me. “Not a chance, they say. Bitches, right?”

I look at my beer bottle.

How many was that now exactly?

And: is this really happening?

“That’s not very ladylike,” I say casually.

Despite the knot in my tongue.

Despite the twitching in my pants.

She shrugs, and I am wrapped around her finger.

“Do you think it would be enough if you just invited me?”

I tilt the bottle back and forth thoughtfully.

“You mean for a coffee or something?”

“Or something,” she adds, smiling.

It is not a timid smile.

Not an Abby-smile.

Even more than a Marcy-smile.

Holy shit.

I reply coolly: “Hm, could be.”

“And?” Sierra puts her hand on my knee.

I swallow.

“And what?”

“And are you coming with me?”

I turn to the side and look at her.

Admire her profile.

Her curves.

Really suck in her scent.

“Yes,” I then say.

“Great. Let’s go. I have a bet to win.”

“Just a minute. I’ll be right back.”

I know it’s a mood-killer, but a full bladder is not to be trifled with when you want to hook up and have a woman like Sierra in front of you.

I won’t be long.

On my way back from the toilets, Rick is waiting for me. He’s in charge of the door today.

“I know it’s your day off, Boss. Sorry, but can you come outside with me real quick? There’s this guy. Say’s he’s a buddy of yours and was acting all big. Everyone’s in a bad mood today anyway. It must be because of the full moon.”

What else?

I look over at the bar.

The dancing bodies block my view.

There’s a flash of something cream colored.

Otherwise, I only see Marcy behind the bar.

I sigh and follow Rick’s multi-colored, tattooed, ex-gang member neck to the entrance.

When I return to the bar, annoyed, almost twenty minutes later after too much needless stress, Sierra is gone.

Can’t blame her.

Definitely vanished into thin air.

Like an angelic apparition.

“Where did she go?” I ask Marcy. She just shrugs her bare shoulders, relieved that she’s the undisputed eye-catcher in the club again and can rake in her usual tips.

And that I didn’t get what I wanted.

“You’re asking the wrong person, kid,” Dead Crow says, sitting at the bar, knocking back a tequila. “Have I taught you nothing? You don’t ask an ex about a lady that you’re so obviously in to.”

“Shit,” I growl, worming my way through the sweating bodies on the dance floor, and hurry toward the back exit, where there’s a narrow alley.

*

Dead Crow may have taught me to keep the wolf on a short leash when there wasn’t a full moon, even after a transformation.

But he’s still not completely harmless.

Especially after last night.

But I just can’t get Sierra’s scent out of my mind.

Luckily, her scent is all the wolf needs to find her.

So I give him the reins.

I haven’t done that in a long time.

My clothes?

Doesn’t bother me.

I just want Sierra.

The wolf is quite surprised when I voluntarily withdraw into the darkness.

And he seizes the opportunity without hesitation.

*

On four powerful legs, he trots through the darkness, which has the intense smell of rain. He enjoys the wet asphalt and the earth and the grass, and the stones under his broad paws. He runs quickly through the night, which is full of sounds. He finds his way through the shadows beyond the city’s artificial splendor and the treacherous glare of the light. He startles a homeless man who likely pissed himself, but stunk of urine either way. Shortly after, he darts past a parked patrol car with two exhausted cops chewing away at soggy sandwiches, who are hardly roused by a call on their radio about a couple of rowdy kids in the city center. They suddenly don’t feel safe in their car anymore, despite their weapons and badges. It goes similarly with the taxi driver, who is thinking about the hot ass of his brother’s daughter, scratching his crotch and taking a swig from the bottle in his hand, which he suddenly drops out of fear, as a massive shadow with glowing eyes jumps over the hood of his car. Unfazed by all of these peripheral encounters, he rushes on through the night. He tirelessly follows the trail of her sweet, delicious scent that dominates his thoughts. Above him, the rain clouds shift, leaving a clear view of the glowing moon, which looks fuller than it actually is. He wonders if his chance may come, and…

*

With a bit of effort, I force the wolf back into the blackness.

Don’t like the fleabag.

Feels like he would dig his teeth into my mind.