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Comes The Dark	By : IcarusComplex Category: G through L > Ginger Snaps Views: 2073 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own or reap any financial profit from GINGER SNAPS or any characters from the movies. Hannah/Louise and all new characters and situations are mine.

Chapter List
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- 2
- 3
The Red – Chevelle

Chapter 2: Morphine Season
Louise exhaled, trying to avoid breathing through her nose, and ran her eyes around a stain on the wooden tabletop between her and Hunter so as not to look at him or the pool table near their booth at the back of a tiny bar in the backstreets of a country town she didn’t know the name of.
They’d made it three towns away from the ‘haunted’ estate before she dug her nails into Hunter’s thigh and told him to pull into the next motel. They needed to be out of the confined space of the jeep, away from each other, breathing fresh air… Louise booked a room (a Hunter splashed in drying blood was not a people-friendly Hunter). Breathing shallowly and avoiding each other’s eyes they showered off, changed, and went hunting for a different kind of prey. This kind came in a thousand shades of gold and brown caged in condensation-beaded glass. It was a step up from swigging rough whiskey from a waterskin as they trudged on foot across plains, up, down, and around mountains, and through forest and marsh in search of game that hunted them as often as they hunted it—but Louise couldn’t say she never missed the old familiarity of sweat, leather and woodsmoke soothing her to sleep at night.
She meekly trailed two steps behind her partner as he tracked down a suitable hole in the wall, got them each a brew, and sat them in a corner booth. This at least had its own kind of familiar rhythm. Mundane, if not comforting. They hunkered down away from the other patrons to sink into their own little world of focus on bringing back the ‘human’ in ‘humanity’. Hunter bunched his jacket on the bench beside him and Louise pretended not to notice the way his long-sleeved shirt bunched around heavily muscled arms. It wasn’t as if he did it deliberately…
That was two hours ago. Hunter had put away more beers than Louise liked to count. She wasn’t doing so bad herself.
The trail intersecting theirs in the estate had come from the north. The wolf had circled back just before they passed the house in the jeep the first time. Something must have scared him off – maybe a car backfire, or the greenwood smoke stink of someone burning garden waste down the street. Either way he’d swerved away from his den, much closer to fully turned, from the smell, and headed across the narrow finger of woodland towards the other estate as predicted. As the trail warmed up they moved faster until they were jogging along the track through the thickening snowfall.
A wailing up ahead had drawn them up short. When they slowed to a crawl to peer through the tree-line from behind a fallen trunk half buried in undergrowth, Hunter cursed. Between the sheeting snow and rapidly fading light, visibility had been failing like a car battery giving its last wheezy spark. Their nightsight was good, but it wouldn’t help them with the snow. Still, it would have been hard to miss this. Red, some chunky, some smoothly soaked into the snow, sprayed across the ground beyond the trees like a bomb blast in abstract. In the middle of it knelt a teenage boy, gathering up the torso of a sopping mop that might have been a Grand Pyrenees dog half an hour before. Hunter’s cursing was easily explained: he didn’t give half a damn about the dog, but the changeling was nowhere in sight.
Leaving the boy to his grief, they’d sidetracked through the trees until another trail sporting a fresh set of pink dimples speckled with fresh snow cut east into the trees the way they had come. Satiated, their werewolf had switchbacked to his den for sleep and digestion. Louise and Hunter knew this story. They exchanged looks and set off down the new path at a run, nostrils flared with the stink of blood, musk, and Frontline anti-flea gel billowing up at them from every drift they bounded through.
They caught up to him in the woods just outside his house. He’d caught the scent of another male on his territory on their tracks, and rounded on them to attack as soon as they came crashing through the snow on his heels. Hunter’s first shot from the shotgun caught him in the muzzle and ripped away half his jaw. He was almost completely turned, dropping down to four legs as he lunged at the aggressor in complete oblivion to his ruined face. Louise dodged off the path as Hunter ducked out of the wolf’s range. Suddenly off balance and at a disadvantage, the wolf struggled as Hunter came back at it with a knife, lodging it in the changeling’s shoulder and momentarily restraining it. The second shot, Louise’s, punched through its brain and put it down.
Hunter wriggled out from the werewolf’s dead bulk while Louise, flicking the safety back onto her pistol, picked her way back to the path over fallen trees.
Looking down at the dead beast, she’d said, “You know the problem now, don’t you?”
Hunter slung the shotgun’s strap over his shoulder and sighed. “I’ll go look for a sled or something.”
Normally, they would have burnt the body outside, but someone had to have heard the gunshots, and there just wasn’t time. They dragged the body back to the house on a makeshift travois jury rigged from garden hose and a couple of dead saplings and rolled it inside, into the bedroom. Louise opened windows and doors to let as much air as possible into the house while Hunter looked for kerosene. They doused the body on the bed, then every other room quickly and efficiently. The sun set long beforehand, and, skirting the milky streetlights, they were able to slip out like the memory of a shadow against the night.
The jeep was all the way to the town limits before sirens started up somewhere behind them and when whining away into the night in the direction of the estate.
A low rumble throbbed in Hunter’s chest. Startled out of her thoughts, Louise glanced up. A woman tottering by them to the washroom on aqua heels winked at Hunter and stuck out the little pink tip of her tongue. Louise felt her own throat vibrating before she realised what she was doing. Hunter’s eyes clamped down on her. Flecks of yellow spun through them like sparks from a fire spiralling up into the night.
Louise swallowed, reading tension in the set of his shoulders and the clench of his jaw, but didn’t back down. She shook her head minutely, unbound black hair tangled with shivering orange lights from the neon over the bar. More fire sparks. Hunter’s eyes narrowed at her and he took a deep draught of his beer. Assured he wouldn’t start anything, Louise tried to drop her eyes back to the mark on the table but they snagged on his chest, lingering stubbornly on the lines of collarbone, shoulder, throat, before she was able to force them down. By then the damage was done. Hunter hadn’t moved, but his eyes were still fixed on the part of her hair; Louise could feel them burning into her scalp. She swallowed and at the top of her vision, Hunter’s chest shifted as he leant forward.
A creak and a giggle and the tapping of worn heels—aqua platforms entered Louise’s range next to Hunter’s ribs at the same time a third heartbeat jumped out of the low haze of sound from all around them, Hunter’s heartbeat sped up, and her own groin pulsed. The glass cracked in her hand. Louise stuck her chin out and peered up at the woman in aqua heels and a too-small blue halter-neck from beneath her fringe. The fine hairs on the back of Louise’s neck stood up. The woman’s mouth was red; her lip gloss was cherry and she’d been drinking vodka and cranberry. Under the table, Hunter’s legs spread a little as he slouched and turned to accept the attention the woman offered, knees brushing Louise’s.
He didn’t smile; just looked lazily from the woman’s throat to the curve of her breast and then lips, and back again. Already tipsy, she looked like she was about to collapse into his lap and offer herself up like a sacrifice to the Horned God. Louise was taken aback when the woman’s heavy gaze slipped from Hunter across the table to her and that little pink tongue flicked briefly into view again. Louise exhaled and took a heavy breath through her nose. She almost gagged as hairspray, perfume and the greasy hamburger with rancid onions the woman had eaten for lunch assaulted her nose. Hunter had to smell all that too—but he’d be ignoring it, that little voice in Louise’s brain murmured. Because over everything else, so pervasive she almost overlooked it, was the honeyed smell of copious female arousal. It consistently amazed Louise that no matter how odious the person, arousal was always hypnotic. Like opium—or morphine. It swept in and carried the desire to do anything else away. It could be resisted, but that was the trick: part of that sweep was the desire to want to resist. Louise had never puzzled out why desire was such a magnetic force. Perhaps it was the power; the idea that if she only reached out she could have anything she wanted, anyone, anywhere—
She forced the loaded breath out again and looked at Hunter. He was fixated on the woman’s arched throat, running a finger over the ridges of cartilage pulled taut. Louise frowned at him. Then she slouched on her own bench, snaked a leg between his spread knees and pressed gently on the crotch of his jeans with the sole of her boot. She had the wolf’s attention now. Rolling her foot, Louise skimmed her eyes in the direction of the door. Hunter stared back at her without a change of expression and arched his hips into her boot.
Grown tired of the apparent staring competition, Aqua Heels draped a hand on Hunter’s shoulder and massaged it. “Want to go somewhere?” she rasped. “You can bring your friend.”
Hunter didn’t twitch but Louise was drawn back to the lush curve of the woman’s cleavage swelling out of her halter-neck. Saliva pooling in her mouth, she pressed a little harder than she intended to on Hunter’s groin and felt the low pitched rumble in her own chest rise to match his.
Hunter’s eyes had gone solidly yellow when Louise looked back at him and the tendons stood out on his free forearm where it rested on the table. He was fighting not to move. His other arm was inching towards the woman, but it was him that spoke. “Sorry, ma’am. I’ve already got my hands full.”
‘They’ll be full in a moment if you don’t make a move,’ Louise thought, and then rose as Hunter started to stand and gathered his jacket. A chill brushed up her spine like being rubbed the wrong way, a line of frost in the rising heat under her t-shirt. A bead of sweat trickled the other way, obliterating it. Everywhere her clothing touched her tingled.
Hunter moved Aqua Heels bodily out of his way, deaf to her protesting purr of, “Hey, if you’re looking for something a little…different, well, ‘three’s a party’.”
“Take it from me,” he growled, “we’re more ‘different’ than you can handle.”
Leaving their beers half-finished on the table, Louise pulled her jacket on and led the way past the pool tables with Hunter hot on her heels. Everything was too bright, too sharp, too loud—the lights, the smells, the shapes. She felt herself fading.
Snow hit her in the face like a wet-palmed slap outside the cosy bar. She turned away from the door into the soupy shadows of the alley between the buildings. Three steps into the black a hand caught her wrist and spun her into one brick wall, and then Hunter was between her legs, hot and hard and tasting of microbrew and metal, exactly where she wanted him. Louise hooked one leg around his hip and reached into his unbuttoned jacket to wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him closer. Hunter sliced into her upper lip and sucked hard on the cut to get blood. His growl was so loud and close it thudded in Louise’s chest like a psytrance bassline. In retaliation, Louise reached under his shirt, clawing at his lower back as she moaned and ground her crotch into Hunter’s.
The bar door swung open and Aqua Heels emerged, squinting around. Seeing them, she took one step into the snow toward them. The aqua stiletto vanished into a drift. “Hey,” she slurred out, “there is nothing I can’t handle.”
Louise’s head felt three sizes too big for her body. Colours and lines swirled together. Perception cut back to a throbbing behind her eyes, in her chest, in her groin; Hunter’s scent thick as molasses in her nose; stinging in her lip and the taste of hops in her mouth—and the overwhelming need for friction, frisson, sex, now.
She bared her teeth and snarled. Aqua Heels went white. Then red. Then green. “What the fuck--?” She stumbled backwards through the door.
Hunter’s hand on her thigh squeezed, and Aqua Heels was all but forgotten as Louise bared her teeth at Hunter now, and ground down on the ridge pressed between her legs.
Hunter hissed and dragged her leg higher. “She was determined,” he muttered, referring to Aqua Heels.
“She was a fool,” Louise snapped back. Hunter abandoned the wall beside her ribs to pull her t-shirt up over her breasts, sliding a hand under her bra and fondling one. He groaned against Louise’s neck when she felt her way to the top of his jeans and pawed at the buckle. Lost in focus, Louise scowled at Hunter’s ear. Shaking with cold or adrenaline Louise didn’t know, her numb fingers made short work of the belt and popped the top button of his jeans. Hunter dropped her leg. He had her fly unzipped almost before she knew what he was up to—and long before she cared. While he was at it, she slid her hand into his jeans and wrapped her hand around him, thumbing the head. Hunter bucked into her hand, trying to coax a rhythm out of her. She was so wet for him already. A fresh pulse of arousal zinged through her as Hunter growled into her ear and shoved her jeans down, letting them cling to her thighs. Too wound up to care about foreplay, a groan of satisfaction bubbled out of Louise’s throat as calluses rasped up her inner thigh, and then her panties were pushed aside and two fingers slid into the part of her that craved friction.
There were snowflakes melting on her cheeks, Hunter’s breath steamed against her neck, and Louise couldn’t have cared if a whole pack of changelings stampeded past them. Her legs shook. Hunter grinned into her neck and thumbed her clit again; pressure built at the base of her spine. With a frustrated snarl she arched into his hand, seeking more. The move seemed to be the breaking point for Hunter. He tore his hand away from her, jerking her away from the wall and extracting her hand roughly from his pants. Louise had a sudden flash. Campfire. Dead leaves. Lye and horsehair blankets. She blindly bent forward, reached out and braced herself against the brick wall she knew was there as the flashes kept coming. Sage. Charcoal and rendered fat mixed into paint. Black Bear. Dead pine needles and tiny stones bit into her palms as she knelt on hands and knees. Hunter pushed her jeans down further, line himself up and thrust into her from behind. Louise let out a sound half grunt half moan. Long hair and burning feathers. Blunt nails raking her breasts. She rocked as Hunter withdraw and drove into her again, struggling to keep herself grounded in the present.
Sharp-edged bricks dug into her forearms. Frisson zinged up her spine like a current. Louise reached down between her own legs and ran her fingertips through the slick wet to a tiny, hard nub at the top of her pussy. Hunter’s thrusts blurred together with her strokes and half a memory. Louise braced herself harder between the wall and the hands tightening on her hips and shoved back to meet him. Her fingertips circled her clit. The frisson in her spine intensified from pulses to a current, and then a hum that vibrated through her entire body. Campfire. Sage. Pine needles. She pressed down harder on her clit. Hunter panted behind her in counterpoint to the slap of their bodies meeting deadened by the falling snow. Bracing her boots on the outside of Hunter’s, Louise sucked in a breath and pinched.
The world flashed white closely followed by yellow-red-black. She felt Hunter tense. Felt the sudden heat, felt him pulse inside her. But she kept her eyes squeezed shut.
When she opened them, she would be in an alley in a small country town in twenty-first century Ontario. Hunter hauled her upright before she could make it into a mantra, brusquely doing up his own jeans, then hers, and steering her back into the cutting streetlight of the main road.
It wasn’t far to the motel. By the time they staggered onto the low patio and fell into their room though, Louise couldn’t get her clothing off fast enough.
All bets were off the moment Hunter laid eyes on Aqua Heels back in the bar. Naked, she bared her teeth at him across the room and got a snarl in response. It was his fault, for giving in. For dragging Louise down with him.
Louise had done worse to him in the fullness of time. Hunter had done worse to her in the time before the fullness of time. This was routine maintenance, to keep the equilibrium of things. This was morphine season.

Tepid light had begun creeping spindly exploratory fingers into dark room between the curtains when Louise was able to calm her racing heartbeat and ease herself down from the high. She was hazy on the past few hours, but that was nothing new. She lay naked on one of the queen beds with the thin sheet draped haphazardly over her hip and Hunter asleep on the other side of the same mattress, counting Hunter’s breaths. In to the count of seven. Out to the count of seven. Her heartbeat synced to the dull, steady drumming of the other wolf’s.
In to the count of seven. Snuffle. Out to the count of seven. Her eyes drifted closed. In to the count of seven. Out…

She was on horseback. Ahead, smoke threaded rapidly greying blue above the winter tree-line like a child’s stitches—uneven and sinuous.
Behind her, Patrick’s horse snorted in vague alarm and danced closer to her mount’s rump. Hannah glanced back. Patrick slumped over his saddle-horn with visible fatigue, but he was awake and alert, staring up ahead at the fort rearing out of forest like Mount Sinai. Strain from his wounds showed everywhere—his colour, lines around his mouth and eyes, the way his body seemed to curve away from his left side as if to escape the pain through distance. There was nothing Hannah could do until she replenished her dangerously low stock of medicinal plants. He’d survived two weeks in the open since the attack, fighting this infection every step of the way. Surely he could survive a little longer.
The question was: had something similar happened here? Hannah chewed her lip as she spurred her horse up the earth ramp to Fort Bailey and reached for her knife.
The horses were skittish, on the verge of panic but controllable.
“The ground…”
Patrick’s gravelly voice made Hannah wince. Even there the agony of his wounds showed, roughening his accent until it was so thick it seemed to almost catch in his throat. She followed the line of his pointing.
“Melt. Not something you usually see in the death of winter,” Patrick observed. “Churned up too.”
Hannah nodded, and looked up at the sturdy wooden doors with growing trepidation. Around the seam, the wood was knotted and splashed with black. It almost looked… chewed. But of more interest to her was the enormous log braced against the fort doors—as if bracing them. She frowned and nodded at it.
“Help me move that,” she said, dismounting and moving to assist Patrick to do the same. Together, they struggled to move the log.
It finally shifted a centimetre, then an inch, and then fell away and rolled across the sodden ground. Patrick was fading faster than Hannah realised—the effort required to shift the log had sapped the last of his daily reserves and he collapsed as Hannah turned to say something. She fought his larger bulk back into his saddle and tied him in.
With Patrick unconscious, Hannah was on her own again. Not an unusual state of affairs in these past days, but additionally disquieting right at the moment. Drawing in a bracingly cold lungful of air, she took his horse’s reins in one hand and her own in another and led them into Fort Bailey, heart in her mouth.
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Comes The Dark