SUBJECT LINE:
{ASSM} "Cry Wolf" {Dancer AND Empath} (no-sex)


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Disclaimer/Admonition: Right, there's no real reason for 
*anyone* to not download or read this story - there's no 
sexual matter (yet), no appreciable violence, and only a 
few 'bad words'*. Mind you, if you're a minor or citizen 
in one of the world's less...'enlightened' nations, what 
are you doing browsing <alt.sex.stories> or its sub-groups 
and risking potentially grave punishment? :)

* - If you want MY opinion on this 'obscene language' 
issue, go check out George Carlin's web-site...

Copyright notice: Dancer and my humble self, the authors of 
this diverse creation of prose, hold all rights of 
reproduction. Private copies for personal perusal and 
archives for NON-commercial distribution are permitted by 
us.

Plea for attention: The only reward ASS* authors can expect 
is the joy of sharing their creation with the rest of 
humanity. So, if you enjoyed someone's work, it's only 
fair to email the author and tell him or her so. I promise 
that it'll make YOU feel good to send kudos; after all, 
Mark Twain said, "The best way to cheer yourself up is to 
try to cheer someone else up." As always you may contact 
me (and my wife Dancer) through my email 
account: <empath69@hotmail.com> 

Editor's Note: Yep; got a *collaborative* story idea from 
Dancer in her last care-package, and unlike most of the 
ideas I've been whittling away at, this one had a rush of 
ideas flow out, so here we go...

=============

Okay, Empath, here's a tale I thought up and wondered if 
you could co-author with me. I'll write the first part, 
mail it to you and you write the second part, mail it to 
me, so on and so on. Sort of a 'he said, she said' thing. I 
haven't given this story a title yet but something will 
come to me (it always does :).
{So far, she tentatively has suggested 'Cry Wolf' as a 
working title...}


Former Yugoslavia
Present Day
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This was my worst nightmare: being hunted down by crazed 
villagers who believed me to be a werewolf. I -am- a 
werewolf but do you think I'm going to tell these losers 
chasing me that they're right? 

If there wasn't a full moon and no mysterious, unexplained 
deaths, how did these people arrive at the notion I'm a 
werewolf? My brother told them, the stupid shit. Why he 
said anything needs some background info.

My name is Natalie Cromwell and I've been a werewolf for as 
long as I can remember. 

What? I'm nearing thirty. So what was I saying? Oh, got 
it. My brother, Oscar Cromwell, is normal. As normal as a 
pain-in-the-ass younger brother can be. I'm the only living 
werewolf in my family. My great-grandma was one and she 
helped me learn to live safely among the regular humans 
until she died when I was twenty. 

Huh? All right, keep your shirt on! So anyway, Oscar and I 
decided to take a summer tour of Europe and see the sights.

We made a stop in Moldavia (or whatever they're calling it 
nowadays) on our way south to Greece and holed up in some 
unmarked village for the night. Oscar was drinking it up at 
the village's only tavern and I paid the barkeep $100 U.S. 
to quit serving him. Oscar pitched a fit and started going 
on and on about how I didn't understand him because I was a 
werewolf. The patrons went silent for a moment, and then 
the shit hit the fan. A couple burly men grabbed for me 
while everybody else screamed that I should be burned. 
Needless to say, I escaped the tavern and ran into the 
dark, foreboding woods. (natch)

And here we are, back at the beginning of the story. Yes, I 
could have changed into a wolf and gotten away a lot 
quicker but an animal's instincts take you over. In wolf-
form, I would've either ran myself to death or got myself 
cornered and killed a bunch of people. I stayed human and 
used my brain to outwit the villagers. I came to a shallow 
creak and jogged upstream for a while until a low-hanging 
tree branch snagged in my hair. Disentangling myself, I 
pulled my butt up into the tree and scurried over a sturdy 
limb to the next tree.

I climbed through the treetops and passed over torch-
wielding posse searching the woods for me. They followed my 
trail south and I headed northeast, away from the village 
and Oscar. No, I didn't see if he was okay. He was the one 
who got me into this mess. Where was I? Escaping through 
the trees. After getting by the village, I dropped to the 
ground and took off at a nice, easy jog. I came out of the 
woods to some kind of abandoned farm field with a house 
just beyond. From what I could see, the house was well kept 
and lived in (lights in several windows) and I figured 
whoever was in there wouldn't be any worse than the angry 
villagers hunting me.

I crossed the field and noticed a ten-foot high fence 
surrounding the property that I had to find a way past. 
There was a red and white sign hanging at eye level on the 
chain links that warned me the fence was electrified. "Oh 
well, here goes nothing," I told myself. I backed up about 
fifteen or twenty feet then ran all out and jumped. My 
sneakers hit midway and I could feel the volts zapping me 
painfully. I scrambled to the top and dove to the ground, 
landing on a shoulder and rolling away.

Sitting up groggily, I touched my hair, which stood on end. 
Barking alerted me to the guard dogs. The canines galloped 
toward me with several men holding guns lagging behind. I 
looked the small pack of shepherds in their eyes, telling 
them mentally not to bite me. I stood up and waited for the 
men to catch up. One of the men spoke into a walkie-talkie. 
"We've located the intruder and are bringing her to the 
house." He ordered two other men to hold my arms. "Mr. 
Stuart wishes to speak with you."

The guards and dogs escorted me to the house. The dogs 
stayed outside while I was taken through the front door to 
the library where, presumably, Mr. Stuart waited. A man was 
there, seated in a large leather chair and swirling brandy 
around the snifter in his left hand. His legs were crossed 
at the knee, right over left, and the firelight glinted off 
his deep auburn hair. He wore a loose-fitting, cream 
sweater, black trousers and his feet were bare. "Mr.
Stuart?" I said.

He faced me, giving me a good look at his features. 
Slightly tanned skin, brown eyes, a straight nose, full 
lips and a strong chin with a deep cleft. "Who are you and 
why did you jump my fence?" His voice hinted at a French 
accent.

"Natalie Cromwell and I was running for my life."

"From whom?" he asked, sipping at the brandy.

"A mob of villagers who think I'm a werewolf."

He choked on the alcohol and sputtered, "Excuse me? A 
werewolf?"

"Yes, a werewolf," I replied and sat uninvited on a chair 
identical to his. "Do you have a first name, Mr. Stuart?"

"Randall. Why do these villagers think you're a werewolf?"

"My brother told them that when I paid the barkeep to cut 
off the drinks."

Randall leaned forward. "Are you a werewolf?"

"Yes," I answered and shifted my hazel eyes to a rich 
golden amber color. "Now what will you do with me, Mr. 
Stuart?" I saw his pupils dilate and nostrils flare at my 
words. "Will you kill me?"

"Tell me where your brother is."

"Back at the village, passed out on the tavern's floor most 
likely. Don't even think about laying a hand on him. I 
protect my own."

"I believe you, Miss Cromwell." Randall placed his glass on 
the coffee table and got to his feet, holding a hand out to 
me. "I want to offer you a place to stay for as long as you 
need. I'll send a few of my men to find your brother and 
bring him back here, unhurt." I took his hand and allowed 
Randall to lead me upstairs. We halted at the third door 
down and he opened the closed door. "You can sleep here. If 
you need anything, pick up the telephone. I have a round-
the-clock staff who will see to you."

The room was as big as my whole apartment back in New York. 
The carpet was a thick, soft pillow of green shag and the 
main attraction was the bed. I walked across the carpet to 
the bed and ran my fingers along the beautifully carved 
footboard. "I like the bed, Randall. I hope it's a soft 
mattress." On that note, I flopped down on my back and sank 
into the thick padding.

"It's late and you need your sleep. Good night, Miss 
Cromwell."

"Good night, Mr. Stuart." He shut the door behind him, 
leaving me alone. I touched the burgundy-colored silk 
sheets and sighed blissfully. I kicked off my shoes and 
socks and drew the down comforter over my body, drifting 
into a light sleep.

* * * *

Author's Postscript: So, what happens now? Why was Randall 
evading Natalie's question of what he was going to do with 
her? Why the security measures? (guards, dogs, electric 
fences and round-the-clock staff) Who is Randall Stuart? 
How come he wasn't shocked at her admission of being a 
werewolf? Is he a werewolf?

(Well he WAS surprised by the *mention* of werewolves, but 
didn't 'bat an eyelash' when she admitted to being one...)

Editor's Rebuttal: Okay, I just HAVE to pick this gauntlet 
up! I'll get some plot development - namely answers to the 
above questions. This little beginning sparked some LOVELY 
ideas. :) And relax - I'll leave the possibility of sex 
wide open - but leave the actual sex scenes to Dancer; 
she's better at that. <sigh>

* * * *

I shut the door and padded down the hall. Once I left the 
guest wing I broke into a run. I crossed the atrium with a 
leap, letting the inner cat hurl me over the railing 
through the open air and into the corridor on the other 
side. A few more paces - which were trying to become 
bounds, and I skidded to a stop in front of a floor-length 
mirror. I ran my hands through my hair and took the effort 
to straighten my clothes. Catching my breath, I reached to 
tap on the mirror's face, only to have it pop clear of its 
mounting and swing to one side.

I was greeted in my native French. "Quit preening 
yourself, kitten, and get in here."

I smiled and complied, pulling the concealed door shut 
behind me.

"That was a rash leap, kitten; there were a couple of maids 
crossing the first floor."

"I know; I smelt them. Did they see me? Even look up?"

"No, lucky kitten."

"And what have I told you about that nickname, Henri?"

The man sitting at the bank of monitors turned his chair to 
look at me. "I'm sorry, your grace. But I've called you 
by that term of affection for longer than not - it takes 
some effort to stop myself." His grin said exactly what 
amount of effort Henri was making.

"Anyway, you heard?"

"Yes; so what?"

I was astounded by his indifference. "Didn't you see it?"

"What, your grace?"

"HER EYES - she changed them as I was looking at her; just 
as she admitted it!"

"Ah, sorry - I didn't have the right angle."

"I'm telling you - she IS one of the blood."

"But a werewolf."

"That's enough."

Henri stood and walked over to me. "Kitten, you know the 
lore - you know what happens if differing strains try 
to..."

"Supposedly! You never saw it in your lifetime, and the 
lore admits that it's only a CHANCE of cross-infection."

"Randall!" That got my attention; Henri almost never used 
my proper name - my title in public, my nickname in 
private. "Listen. We don't know for sure what would 
happen, but we DO know that some of the risks aren't worth 
it!" 

I was losing hope, and my strength with it. "But...but 
Henri - the chance...if she...maybe...I..." Henri sat me in 
his chair.

"Calm down, kitten. I know you promised your mother you 
wouldn't let the line die out. And it doesn't have to; you 
just find the right woman-"

"NO! I won't do that! If I force this upon someone, I 
become every horror story that the mortals tell about my 
kind! I'll NEVER do that!"

"I'm sorry, kitten. I know how you felt about Anna-"

I swatted the man away from me. "Don't talk about her! We 
promised!" I gasped, and broke down, hunching over with my 
face in my hands.

Henri came over and patted my shoulder. "I'm sorry, 
Randall - I didn't mean to open old wounds."

"But why? She loved me - even after I told her everything. 
She even let me infect her. And then, the plane..." My 
voice petered out.

"I don't know - I'm sorry, kitten. Who knows why accidents 
like that happen? It is possible she survived."

I looked up at him. "It's been three years - if she did 
survive, she would have been able to swim and walk back to 
me by now. No, she died on that flight and her body is 
somewhere in the Atlantic."

Henri hunched down to look me in the eye, his lined face 
exuding compassion. "I'm sorry, Randall. I just wish 
you'd put something that wasn't your fault behind you."

"Henri, I'm trying to! This...this woman..."

He rolled his eyes at my lapse of memory. "Natalie 
Cromwell."

"Thank you. Miss Cromwell; she's the first of the blood 
we've found in over a year! And you've been putting a lot 
of effort in searching out other lycanthropes - you HAVE 
been looking hard, haven't you, Henri?"

He sighed. "Yes, your grace. I've spent five millions in 
the last three years investigating. A waste of time and 
money, if you ask me."

I growled at Henri, my teeth lengthening. "I've told you - 
no more infecting mortals."

"Yes. Yes, your grace - I'm sorry. I just think you're 
doing this the hard way; just find someone who loves you - 
someone whom you can trust, and..."

"No."

"Yes, your grace. But please don't pin any hopes on this 
American woman, kitten - she's *lycanthropis*lupis*. If a 
*lycanthropis*felis* such as yourself mated with her, it 
could kill you both."

"Or turn us into mortals, or turn us both into one or the 
other strain of were-creature. Or do nothing, Henri."

"Are you willing to risk your life - AND hers - to find 
out? If you die your promise to the Duchess goes 
unfulfilled, and if you're unwilling to risk harm to mere 
mortals, what of risking the death of a fellow 
lycanthrope?"

I sighed, eyes downcast. The old bastard was right; I 
couldn't chance it - I'd never forgive myself if anything 
went wrong. "Yes, Henri. I know. I knew it all along; I 
just wanted to hope. After all this time..." I let the 
thought remain unfinished.

"Come, kitten. It's late and you need sleep." I 
protested. "No, those contracts will wait until tomorrow - 
I'll have them waiting on your desk. And your guest is 
sound asleep, so you have nothing to worry about - go get 
your ball of yarn and curl up in front of the fireplace, 
kitten."

I smiled at the man. "Henri? I remember you coming to me 
on my eighteenth birthday and swearing your life and 
loyalty to me."

"Yes, your grace. Every keeper of the lore swears his 
fealty to the Duchy's heir or heiress when they reach 
adulthood."

"So I would think someone who made such a vow would be much 
less disrespectful and patronizing than you are to me." We 
chuckled and he escorted me to my suite.

=============

Right; we know something of Randall's origins, his 
intentions to Natalie (or that he's undecided what he's 
going to do with her - that's why he evaded the question:), 
the security measures and lavish appointments are part-and-
parcel of his aristocratic lineage (quite apart from the 
lycanthropy flowing in his veins:) I've even expanded the 
general ideas around werewolves (and similar creatures).

Of course, some other questions that Dancer didn't ask have 
remained unanswered - why is a *French* man named Randall 
*STUART*, for example? I've got an answer for that, btw.:)

I've got a lot more info and ideas to be revealed, but I 
think it's time to let Dancer have her turn...:)

To be continued...
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