
















Chapter Two

Bones of Our Ancestress




                                   "The highway is alive tonight, but ain't nobody kiddin' nobody about where it goes"
                                                                                                  The ghost of Tom Joad  Bruce Springsteen



 
 Hear me, oh my child, know that this is thy beginning which is the beginning of us all, for in the time before time began, there was the Father and FirstMother.

 Even among the ranks of the Undying, the Father was a Creature of blackness, the darkness of his soul writ in bestial lines upon his visage. Even the eternal blood refused to protect him from the fires of Day. 

 Shunned by his brothers, he did howl in madness and emptiness in the black empty wastes that stretch beyond the great river Char, but he was a Creature of power and his howls were waiting howls.

 One day their came unto the blackness of the wastes a bright and luminous, blue-violet light.

 At first the Father was afraid and fled from it, but it did not burn him. The Father seeing that he was unburnt, became curious and cautiously he did approach. The Light was the brightly beating heart of FirstMother.

 As she walked across the wilderness and waste, FirstMother sang a song of creation and where her footsteps pressed the earth, roses did spring forth.

 In time these roses covered the waste and made it green, and when the rose’s first blooms did fade, scattered from their seeds were born the hounds.

 The Father was amazed by these things, even more so by the song of creation that FirstMother sang.

 The Father followed FirstMother across the wilderness, watching those changes which FirstMother wrought upon the land.

 The Father was still afraid and did not wish to approach too close lest she still perhaps burn him, or the hounds which drifted like fog about her feet might bite him with their gleaming fangs or burn him with their glowing eyes.

 FirstMother walked and sang upon the land until she came at last to the great river at the edge of the waste.

  She turned her burning eyes upon the Father and for the first time spoke.

 "I have heard your cries in this wilderness and waste, and I have come. I give you these roses and these hounds, they are my gift to you, and through them will you find the avenues of your power."

 FirstMother raised from the earth a handful of pale dust and with her own saliva and menstrum, she modeled a small clay figure and into this figure she did breath her song.

 The figure was transformed to that of a living woman, her hair was woven moonbeams and her eyes held the ever shifting blue-violet light of FirstMother's heart.

 "I give you also this woman, for in her flesh and the flesh of her flesh will you distill that power which is your destiny." 

"Know you however, that the man-child born of your visage will  be him who does lay this, your paradise, to waste again."

 With these words FirstMother lay the hand of the woman unto that of the Father and so was their union born.

 From that distant day to this, the Father has fed upon the flesh and passions of the daughters and his power has waxed full, and in breeding daughter from daughter has his power concentrated in their blood, growing greater with each succeeding generation.

 Know you my child, that from that first generation unto this, no man-child has ever lived to draw breath more than a single day, until now, and now there are two.

 Know you that this song is the song of your blood, this song is the song of your destiny.

 The whispering fades, taking with it the watercolor landscapes it wove, the real world still a distant fog. He can't feel his limbs, can't see, can't move or speak, only drift on the fading dream tide. His mind is adrift, full with the wonders which he has been shone and the terrors as well.

 The most terrible image that remains is that of the Father's dreadful white face, his long stained fangs digging bloody furrows in his lip. His hair a dark nimbus of coiling blackness, dark electric eyes burning with madness and hunger.

  Though those terrible eyes seem to search him out, to seek for him, making Peragrine wish to shrink away in terror, even this image too, fades. Now there is only the darkness, thick as storm clouds, muffling even thought and feeling.

 It seems then, that a very long time passes, until the foggy world begins to clear. He still cannot see or move his thin limbs, but there are sounds.

  At first it seems only a distant vibration, a humming, then a buzzing, then, as if by a miracle, words.

 "And just how long are gonna be keeping him under like this?" The voice is deep, running roughshod over its own vowels, a voice of cheap whiskey and bad cigars.

 "As long as it takes, Detective. I've already explained this to you. Until we feel that he can safely be brought to consciousness, he stays under." Condescending martyred politeness, a tone generally reserved for annoying children.

 "You know, I could always come back with a warrant." The Detective's patience clearly wearing thin. Please, oh please give me a good reason to flatten you doc, it seems to say.

 "Detective Baylor, I'm quite sure there are more constructive ways to spend your time other than harassing my staff and myself. Don't you have any errant wizards to persecute or perhaps a pixie dust lab to raid?" Mage cops? They must be.

 "Oh you’re cute, very cute, did you see the autopsy reports on those men? There were none, there wasn’t anything left to autopsy! Seven men dead, another five are permanent residents of the looney bin, and somebody is gonna pay. That kid has answers and I want them now!" His rough voice is thick with outrage. What did I do? There is a shuffling, a choked sound.

 "You can let go of me now, Detective." The doctor sounds out of breath and just a little frightened, but trying not to show it.

 "Jack, please. Jack put him down. Please, Jack. Good, thanks buddy." This must be his partner, his voice is soft timbered, soothing, unflustered, strange accent. Peragrine can almost picture his patient tired face. He sounds as if he must be the sort of man who is universally liked by dogs and children. Classic good-cop bad-cop pairing.

 "Yes, thank you Detective Baylor." Pure tight-mouthed politeness, dripping hidden venom. 

"Detective Cloon would you please take your partner and go. I don't want to see either one of you here again unless you've come with a warrant." Prim, smug, furious, someone will pay.

 "Asshole." The one called Baylor growls.

 "C'mon Jack, we can just get to Judge Lanz before she goes home, but only if we go now." His voice is softly persuasive.

 "Asshole." Baylor would still like to flatten the doctor, but he is listening.

 "Yeah, yeah, c'mon." Affectionate. They are farther away now, their shoes making almost no sound as they pad away.

 Silence. 
 
The night is black and soft as feathers as TheWolf crouches on a ledge no broader than four hands, it is the only vantage point from which he can view the boy's window. He would like to be asleep, his belly is full to bursting and all he really wants to do is rest and digest. But there is work to be done and the Master is impatient for news.

 As he crouches, he sings a soft lunatic tune. "Oh, Alison in the morning, sweet Alison at night, Alison moldering under the stones, Alison my delight."

 The smile which splits his increasingly inhuman features is broad as his earlobes and full of teeth, the moons of his home are coming into conjunction and it becomes harder and harder to keep the human-mask from slipping, but he is a strong wolf and a loyal servant of his Master.

 The princeling’s sister was delicious, so tender and sweet. His taught sheathed cock thickens with memory, the girl had been disappointingly easy to break. But after the questioning time was over, after the little harlot had been wrung dry of every bit of useable information, there was a more than enough left to play with and play he did.

 As weak as her resolve had been, her body was young and strong and full of life. He was gratified to know once again that nothing can scream with the volume and vigor of a healthy young girl. 

 Light. It unfolds behind his eyelids like blood-red poppies, he can feel hands on his limbs. They are strong and supple, smoothing some sort of sweet scented oil into his legs, arms, and torso.

 It is good to feel again, to know that his body is still whole, still his own. He is surprised at how sensitive his flesh has become, he imagines that he can feel very whorled fingerprint of the hands that slide so firm and strong upon him, keeping his sleeping limbs healthy and supple. He can certainly feel the sheep’s-wool lining of the manacles that bind him to the hospital bed.

 Is this what a coma feels like, how long have I slept, where is my father? These questions are a confused whirl in his mind, the whirling increases until his mind is spinning downward into darkness again.

 It has been five days since the incident, five days they have kept him drugged into unconsciousness, running their interminable tests, they still don't know what they have there hands on, oh if they did, what would they do?

 Oh sure, they’ve figured out it was a blood-born curse that killed all those foolish, foolish guards at the club, not any violent effort on the part of the little  prince.

 Just a little something, waiting for whoever tried to break his chastity before he was given unto the Father. The curse is bred into all the daughters, why should it not be carried in this son as well.

 But they know nothing else, nothing specific, only that he is very, very special.

 The brat should have been eaten at birth, it would have been simpler that way. But then who would have imagined the Huntsman to flee into the cold of winter as he did, just goes to show that you can never really trust anyone, can you? 

 You give a man near immortality, give him good employment and a place at your table, you even go so far as to let the man raise one of your very own cubs, and what does he do?

 Flees with his family in the dead black heart of winter, stealing the Master’s child worlds away. Taking him to the farthest reaches of the empire, without so much as a by your leave.

 That was a merry old time we had when the Master learned of  the huntsman’s treachery, oh how the man-packs did bleed for it. How the Master did rage in his ivory tower for the length of each day, riding out each night to wreak his fury on the small villages nestled in the snow.

 It was a fine, rare old time for The Wolfpack, so much carrion on the land, the litters were large that year. Many fine, man-fattened cubs, the best sort of meat, lean and rich all at once.

 Five days, one wonders if all their drugs and magics will be able to keep him under much longer. The Wolf has revised his first opinion of the boy's weakness of spirit, it seems that he is not so much weak as inexperienced. 

 He was not raised in the crucible of the pack, his iron is still soft and full of impurities, but it would seem that it is tempering.

 LIGHT! SOUND! FEELING! TASTE! SMELL! All these come blaring into play, sensory splashes and explosions as if a stereo were suddenly thrown on at full volume.

 The lights in the room are rapidly dimmed, a hand rests firm on his chest, stilling his thrashings to a soft twisting against the restraints that bind his limbs to the bed.

 The room is some sickly shade of avocado tile work with metallic grout, the walls inset with big glowing wards. All the better to contain you with my dear.

 Hard, soft, fearful, concerned, there are faces all around him, watching him, waiting, for what he does not understand. All is held breath and expectation for the longest moment, then at last, someone speaks. 

 "Well there young man, it's nice to see you waking up finally." He is a small man, an arrogant man, and he is a liar.

 He is not pleased to see Peragrine awake, in fact he is deeply unhappy about it. It is the doctor who had spoken with the two detectives, Peragrine recognizes his prissy little tone.

 His small prim mouth is pursed into a smile of false cheer, his i.d. badge say's that his name is Callaverdi, his dark little rat's eyes are gleaming with the frustration of his carefully crafted plans.

 "You've been asleep for quite some time and I'm sure you must be feeling quite weak at the moment...Eh? What was that?" He looks bewildered at being interrupted, he is obviously used to having people hang on his every word.

 "W, water...Can I please have some water?" Peragrine's throat feels full of sand, his mouth full of ashes and dust, the voice hardly his own.

 "What?... Oh, yes of course. Linda, would you please?" One of the nurses brings a cup, rattling with ice, it has a thick jointed straw sprouting from the lid.

 The water is cold and good, delicious in fact. Eyes closed in ecstasy, he swallows and swallows. The rest of the nurses cluster together to watch, as if he were some strange unfamiliar creature which might bite at any moment.

 "So young man, how are you feeling? Do you remember anything of why you are here?" He sounds impatient to begin, he is practically hopping from foot to foot with anticipation.

 With a glance, Peragrine knows what he is, he is a small mundane man with a small mundane soul, one who dreams of conquering monsters to prove his largeness. Peragrine instantly dislikes him.

 "Yes." The white-haired boy's voice is distant, almost dreamy sounding. 

 "Yes? Oh good perhaps we can talk about that." The doctor is nearly popping his seams now, the goal in sight. ‘He wants his very own tame monster.’ Peragrine thinks. ‘Well he shall have nothing of me.’

"No." The answer comes flat, uninterested.

"No?" Incredulous, the little brat dares refuse, Me? "I really think that it would be in your best inter..." 

"No." The tone is clear, you bore me, it says.

"Now look here, you have a lot of questions to answer and if you won't talk to me then you might just have to be questioned by the police instead. You don't want that, do you?"  This is not going at all as he planned, he feels control slipping away from him, perhaps threats might help. 

"Are you listening to me?" Sweat is popping out across the little man's forehead. His peers are watching, he's got to re-establish control.

"Please untie me." The request is soft, polite, yet commanding, obey me Peragrine’s tone says.

 For one very long second the little man looks hesitant, but the moment is as fleeting as single breath. "That won't be happening until we can be sure that you are going to be helpful." Now he has something to offer, something to withhold. "Now are you going to answer my questions or not?" 

"No, I don’t want to discuss it." Flat toned finality is all he gets.

"Fine, have your own way. Dr.Chaney let's go, I think that the boy needs some thinking time alone." All prim superiority now, smug with power, he is willing to wait. "Oh, Nurse Evers, I want strictest protocol with this one. Liquid diet, intravenous. Nothing to be taken orally and he is to wear the restraint gag at all times, unless being questioned. Is that understood?" Let's see how you like that, his eyes flash as he leaves, trailing doctors and nurses in his wake.

 "Perfectly Doctor." She is all efficiency as she puts the gag in place, pinching the nerve bundles of Peragrine’s jaw to make him separate his teeth, the antiseptic nastiness of the rubber bit spreading across his tongue. Then they are all gone and he is left alone with the blinking and beeping of the monitoring machines and the chaotic jumble of his thoughts.
 
 The meal is nearly digested, TheWolf begins to feel lean and strong again. It is four days now since the boy woke. As far as TheWolf can find, they have gotten nothing from him.

 The Master has issued his orders, the Huntsman is to be sent home, but there are others coming to handle that matter. TheWolf is glad of this, the Huntsman is a loose end, a lamb strayed from the fold, an example still to be set.

 The ones who come would also carry back with them the reports he has thus far prepared, he can only hope that the Master will be pleased with his work. It’s hard being a wolf, so much work to do, so many pleasures to resist.

 His eye is caught by a flashing blue light, a police cruiser is angling in for a landing, the Mage Police have returned.

 "So you still persist in this stubborn silence, well if this is the way you want it I suppose I will just have to call in the authorities and see what they can do with you." This oft repeated threat is delivered once again to little effect. The Doctor once again slips the gag in place, pinching viciously the sensitive spots at the corners of Peragrine's jaw to separate his teeth.

 The little man is furious at the boy's complete unwillingness to discuss what had taken place in the security office. The horrid little beast's entire vocabulary seems to consist of nothing but the word ‘No’.

 "Well there Doc, it's nice to know you were thinking of us." The doctor whips around, face going livid as he catches sight of the speaker looming in the doorway. Peragrine's eyes widen at what he sees. There aren't all that many Barchuk on this world, the few that are are mostly cops or military, professions to which their species is well suited.

 "What the...Oh God, what are you doing here." The shaggy lycanthrope towers over the doctor by about three heads, he is in half-man form, broad-muzzled and very hairy in a rumpled Panama suit.

 "I thought I made it perfectly clear that I don't want to see you in my hospital again." The doctor is working himself into a fine little self-righteous froth. "I should call security right now and have you removed!" 

 "Yeah well, the way I remember it, you put a little stipulation on that." The big fellow shambles forward into the room followed by a golden eyed marmoset beautifully turned out in leaf green, his trousers and jacket perfectly pressed, his gleaming orange fur brushed till' it shines like silk, he is about five feet tall at most. The two detectives make a very odd match.

 The barchuk makes an obscure gesture with one hairy paw and plucks a folded sheet of vellum out of the air. "Well guess what, Abracadabra, taa-daa!" 

 "Your precious warrants I suppose." The doctor looks at the papers with distaste, as if it were a dead mouse the detective offered. "Well Detective Baylor, what do we do now? I suppose you will want to speak with the boy now, but I really suggest that you don't waste your ti...." 

 "Actually you suppose wrong." Baylor's thick lips wrinkle back to show a mouthful of ivory sabers, double eyeteeth gleaming in good humor. "We'll be taking the boy with us." 

 "You, you can't do that!" The doctor's weasily little eyes are practically popping out of his skull, spittle flying with each word, he looks as if he is about to have an apoplectic fit. 

 The big detective just grins down at him, double eye-teeth glinting in the sickly hospital light. "Check the warrant, you might be surprised, there's about three hundred addendums to what we get to do. Now why don’t you be a good little doctor and go with Officer O'Day, he'll be wanting you to show him your files, Okay?" The Wolf-man is really beginning to enjoy himself now, he can't stand smart-ass little pricks like this and whittling this one down to size is going to be fun. 

 "I protest this, you can't just come marching in here and ..." THOCK!!! The doctor goes down like a sack of rocks, eyes wide and unseeing, a livid knot already rising where the big detective's hairy middle knuckle has clocked him right between the eyes.

 "Did you really have to hit him that hard?" The little Simian blinks his immense golden eyes in worry.

 "He'll recover." Baylor was clearly unconcerned, he turned and directed the other officers to go about the business of seizing files and generally tossing the ward. The barchuk's small partner is still unsure. "Yeah but, one of his pupils looks kind of funny." 

 "Good thing he's in a hospital." As far as Baylor is concerned, the little prick can kack, it only means a little extra paperwork to fill out. The Mage-police have very few restrictions on their actions, so important is their work. 

 "Uh, yeah. I'll go get a nurse." The little marmoset turns for the door, the doctor is starting to twitch and a foamy drool is leaking from the corner of his slack little mouth.

 "You do that, I'll start gettin' the kid ready to travel." The great shaggy Barchuk turns his bright green eyes toward the boy who lies manacled and gagged on the hospital bed. The teenager is watching him quietly, eyes large and luminous, pale lavender above the gray rubber bit-gag.

 Detective Baylor walks over to the side of the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, making the steel frame of the bed groan under his great hairy weight.

 "Hey there kiddo, how's it hangin'?" Unable to answer, Peragrine merely shrugs.

 Baylor reaches into his breast pocket and removes what looks very much like a ring-box, and from it he takes out a small shining cabochon of some deep coffee brown crystal with a little silver glyph glowing in its heart. He licks the back of it and presses it to the middle of Peragrine's forehead where it immediately sticks fast.

 "Yeah, I know how it is. Do you know what that was I just put on your forehead?" Peragrine shakes his head, going slightly cross-eyed in an attempt to look at it. At least it doesn't hurt.

 "It's a lemur-stone, it's passive as long as you behave yourself, if you don't, well that little thing just really fucks you up royally. Boiled down, it's a very sensitive little psionic limpet, it become hyperactive in the presence of active magic use and if you try to pull it off it doubles back any spell you try to use. So you just kind of zap yourself  You behave, and there’s no problem, right?"  Peragrine's eyes are round as saucers now, he nods furiously, wanting very much to be considered not a problem.

 "Good, that's real good." Baylor pats the boy on the head like a puppy, then lets his hand slide down along the boy’s cheek, down his white throat and onto his narrow chest.

 The material of Peragrine’s hospital shift is very thin and when the detective’s rough nailed fingers find the nubs of his small pink nipples, the material does nothing to dull the sensation of them being very lightly tweaked and tugged at.

 The boy gasps softly behind the rubber gag, his cheeks going brilliant scarlet as the barchuk detective takes these liberties with him. No one has ever touched him this way, ever been so bold with him, and it makes his stomach clench with nervous fear. Well, no one but that guard at the club, and look what happened to him. The detective’s eyes are a study in amber laced intensity, hungry and devouring as they bore into him.

 “You like that, don’t you Slut?” Det. Baylor growls softly, smirking as the boy squirms against his bonds, trying to pull away. The youth is blushing furiously, tears springing to the corners of his brilliant blue eyes, even as his nipples go hard as two tiny stones and he begins to make a tent beneath his hospital gown.

 There is a rustle at the door, the marmoset has returned with a couple of orderlies and a stretcher, his thin arms are filled with a huge stained and greasy looking suit bag with a built in steel hanger at the top.

 "Oh hey, heh, heh, heh. Damn Shanim, you think you brought a big enough bag?" Baylor is shaking the whole damn bed with his chuckles. "Shit man, we put him in that thing we'll never find him again. 

 "It's the smallest one we had in the wagon." Detective Cloon sounds just a little defensive, the corners of his orange skinned mouth going a delicate purple that must pass as a blush among marmoset kind.

 "Heh, heh, well look at it this way kid, you won't feel cramped, heh, heh, heh." Baylor rises from the bed still laughing, making way for his partner to lay out the bag on the floor.

 The miasmic stench of sweat, urine and worse that rises when it’s zipped open is enough to make Peragrine's empty and shrunken stomach twist and cramp with nausea. He starts shaking his head violently back and forth, howling wordless pleas around the bitter rubber gag, not to do it, not to zip him away in that horrible stinking thing.

 He'd be good, honestly he would, he'd do anything they wanted him to. Just please, please don't put him in that awful stinking body-bag. It smells like death and despair.

 The simian at least has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable, not that it will change anything. "I'm sorry Mr.Harker, it's standard operating procedure, but we'll be at the juvenile facility before you know it." 

 The mere mention of that terrible place, Juvenile hall, is enough to change Peragrine's mere fear of the transport sack into a full fledged panic attack. He starts throwing himself back and forth in the shackles, fighting so hard that the heavy steel framed hospital bed is actually rocking slightly "C'mon Shan, sack em, and rack em', let's go!"

 "Umm, Jack, would you mind lending me a hand here?" The boy is struggling so hard Shanim was having trouble getting a grip on his skinny limbs. 

The man-wolf rumbles deep in his throat. "No problem." He leaps in a single bound more than ten feet across the room, landing with a resounding crash on the bed, all four legs at the corners of the mattress.

  His body is suspended above the boy's, as he leapt he has transformed entirely into his lupine state, a wolf of gargantuan proportions and nightmare features.

 The thing’s clothing is no where to be seen, its body hung with thick dreadlocks of silvery gray fur that swings from muscle-bound limbs like swamp-moss. "SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LAY THE FUCK STILL!!!" It roars into the boy's terror frozen face, covering his features in a thick spray of spittle. 

 The air is immediately filled with the ammoniac scent of piss, a yellow stain running across the white sheets. The boy's face a patchwork of terror white and humiliation red, eyes black as a violet night.

 The lemur-stone is glowing a brilliant amber, the little silver glyph growing brighter and brighter, then both rapidly dimming as the boy goes limp, staring upward blankly, clearly unconscious.

 "Did you get a reading on that?" Baylor asks, shifting back to his rumple-clothed, mid-way form, and sitting on the edge of the bed again.

 "Pretty impressive stress reaction." The marmoset blinks his great golden eyes very slowly and then checks the dweamer readings on his hand-pad. "Very impressive indeed jack, we're going to need a stronger limpet, you might have just about got yourself toasted." His voice is soft with worry.

 "Well it shut him up, didn't it?" Baylor grumbles, clearly feeling unappreciated for his efforts. The Detective Cloon just shrugs, blinks again and sighs, then goes back to work trading the boy's hospital shackles for regulation ones.

 It's not like he couldn't understand the kid's panic over going to the juvenile center, any sane child avoids anything that might get them sent to that den of horrors. This boy comes the Fairland Heights corporate community, wealthy neighborhood, plenty of soft living there. The poor kid is going to be eaten alive in juvie.

 When he was still at the police academy Shanim Cloon had done a brief stint as an intake guard at the juvenile detention hall, it was one of the more unpleasant experiences of his career, those kids were rough.

 When the boy is well bound for the ride to the station, Shanim lifts the slight form from the hospital bed and slips him into the prisoner transport bag.

 Damn he wished the maintenance guys would swamp them out a little more often, this thing stinks like high hell. Oh well, it should be a short trip anyway.

 Peragrine is not unconscious, not even a little bit, he is instead quite awake and aware of what goes on, he simply can't move, not even blink. He isn't exactly sure what that lemur-thingy was supposed to do but he is pretty sure it was designed to hurt more than this. 

 It’s amazing to realize how easy it is to accept awful things happening to you when you simply have no choice. The total lack of any choices makes a complicated life brutally simple, just accept whatever they to do to you and survive. He has a feeling that this is not the first time he will face this particular truth.

 He still hates and loathes the awfulness of it, as the small fuzzy primate changed his shackles, put him in the bottom of the bag and zipped him up in the horrid stinking darkness. They didn't even bother dressing him, he was still in that stupid little hospital gown he'd been in for the better part of the week.

 As he is lifted, he slides down to the foot of the bag, a small fetally positioned stick-figure, all skin and bones he's become on that intravenous diet. He feels the hospital gown riding up around his sides, leaving his flesh naked against the sticky sides of the canvas.

 The whole damn time that asshole head doctor hadn't unshackled him even once, just rolled the bed wherever they needed him to be, so he could run his endless tests. They couldn't seem to drug him into unconsciousness any more, so they just kept him trussed up.

 He feels the bag lifted and swung onto a beefy shoulder, probably Baylor's, just as if he were a sack of laundry. He can feel the big creature's muscles bunch and shift beneath his slight weight.

 Out into the hall he is carried, here and there he can hear the angry squawks of nurses being rousted from their stations, can hear the loud rustling of files being torn through, computers tapped away at as files are accessed and copied. He guesses that the big detective hadn't been kidding about the warrant.

 It just doesn't pay to mess with the mage-cops, magical crimes are taken very seriously in this part of the empire, and the force that has been assembled to deal with them is a formidable one.

 His father has always said that they are like a mafia, if you pay the license fees and behave yourself, they pretty much leave you alone. But it is never wise to underestimate how vicious they can be if you defy them or get in their way.

 Except for the stink and the shackles and being severely thirsty, the thirst is so much worse than the hunger, being carried along in the bag is in its own way, perversely pleasant.

 It’s womblike in the warm darkness, with the cop's heavy muscles shifting against him, with the pleasant rumbling vibration that arises anytime the barchuk speaks and the far more powerful vibration of the lycanthrope’s immense heart thudding steadily away.

  It’s oddly soothing to Peragrine's shredded nerves, feels almost safe, but he knows that that this impression is a dangerous illusion to buy into.

 The pseudo pleasantness of the ride ends and reality comes crashing back in on the hospital roof when his sack is hooked to the rack in the police wagon. The sound of the steel doors slamming shut and the power plant warming up is an all too real reminder of his situation, he is fucked.

 He has somehow done something terrible and men died because of it, he is going to jail, actually he was going to a place far worse than any he had ever imagined entering, he is going to the juvenile detention center.


End chapter 2
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 This second chapter is one of mty sticky spots, I personally like a lot of it, but the interactions between our young hero and the good doctor fall very flat for me, my imagination having failed me terribly.

 If anyone out there has some information or ideas about interesting medical tortures give me some ideas please. Thanks to all. 

 cauldron36@hotmail.com

 Comments, ideas and intelligent criticism will be replied to, all flames ignored as too dull to acknowledge.




