Sometimes he forgets he’s even a wolf. He was not, of course, a true wolf. Jethro’s body was made in the form all but indistinguishable to the dire wolves of his heritage down to the genetic coding, which was one of the reasons that he’d been able to hold his own and with this supernatural world. But he was more than animal, and less, in some ways. There was another kind of instinct that waited always, crouched in the dark recesses of his brain. The knowledge lycanthropy imparted, which had but one commandment. The commandment of the curse came to the forefront of his mind. The commandment was simple, and it was this: thou shalt kill bloodsuckers. There was an irresistible urge inside them all, a fiery need inside them, to destroy, to claw, to tear apart and rend anything vampiric they came across. It was the same way dogs felt about cats, wolves about bears, and killer whales about great whites. That was just the way of the beast world. Human emotions do not have anything to do with the beast side of things, and a vampire and a werewolf is strictly beast. So this made Jethro want to to taste even more of the tar that came out of Wayne while pushing a large hairy paw into his chest, thrashing violently with much more size and muscle he’d had at a distance, and those unnatural wolf claws sliced into his skin.
Blood would have been bubbling up around them had Wayne been alive. But he wasn’t. No, the vampire was quite dead. Like every member of his species, he radiated no humanity at all. It’s strange the first time you notice: he would have never said another lycanthrope was human-seeming. Yet even werewolves gave off a kind of aura, a human-like scent, or perhaps just fucking body heat. A vampire had none of these. The only comparison anyone can make was that a vampire was like a marble statue of a person. Its lines and contours could be perfectly carved, immaculately replicated, but you would never mistake him for something alive. Wayne was like Michelangelo’s statue of David. Perfect but hard and cold. So hard the vampire’s skin resisted every assault, but then would split wide open and dark fluids—not blood, of course—grouted from each wound. Bites and scratches were appearing all over his abdomen and face, dozens of them spraying strips of skin and then bits of muscle tissue like cooked chicken—all white meat—sputtered out of them. But Wayne’s strong, supernatural hands gripped at the sides of Jethro’s heavily thick fur coated ribs, instantly stunning the wolf and making him yelp in surprise and pain. The werewolf leaned to one side, desperately shuffling to keep all four paws steady him so he didn’t fall over. He managed to do so, but only by spreading his legs out as far as they would go, his chest pressing on Wayne’s to keep him down at the same time.
It was an awkward, ungainly position and it did not allow the wolf to defend himself against what came next. Wayne rolled on his side, pulling Jethro with him. The wolf struggled wildly. His claws didn’t skitter they tore along the floor, unable to get up. He snarled and growled, snapping from side to side, trying to bite Wayne’s hands. Meanwhile, inside his head Jethro was reacting to the compromising position he was in could be his end. His left side was stinging from the flip but he could still turn and his back paws were free and in full command of its faculties. Rolling over (well, the incredibly uncomfortable way his waist twisted while everything upstairs kept the bloodsucker from getting his neck) his hind legs went into the soft part of the vampire’s stomach, hard, with his glass-edged back claws. They would then force a screw action until he’d got through the muscles into the wet privacy of his mutant organs.
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