Richard’s wolf suit didn’t fit anymore. He hadn’t gotten fat. He’d gotten thick. He worried the pelt would burst at the seams before he could leave his dressing closet, let alone before they reached the club.
You’d make a better bear, he thought, sitting on his stool. A black bear, too, not a grizzly, plopped on its ass eating berries while Ted chased Helen around the grounds.
His wife called up from the front foyer, “You coming? I hate being late.” Her doe hooves ticked on the marble tiles.
“Stop!” Richard wanted to yell. “You’ll scuff the floor.”
What he thought was, “He’ll be here soon enough.”
What Richard said was, “One second, Helen.”
Unlike him, the wolf suit had grown thin. It felt like a dishrag flopped over his lap, limp and moist, the tail half-bald. Its patchy fur revealed a dozen scars carefully repaired. And blood marked the throat where Ted had bitten him last year and pinned him till he’d rolled over.
He’d gotten slow too.
The doorbell rang. “Ted’s here!” Helen cried, hooves tittering. “Oh, and Ann.”
Richard huffed. She could at least try to hide how much she wanted Ted to beat him again, and win the right to bring her down. Richard watched himself slump in his mirror. He couldn’t blame her. Look at you, he thought. Your belly. Your boobs.
Perhaps he wouldn’t have minded if Ann would dart and bound and he could lope after her, blood hot, breath steaming in the moonlight, but Ann would only take two steps off the clubhouse patio and freeze. Stalking Ann was like stalking a shrub. He couldn’t blame Ted either for wanting Helen and her perky little horns.
Maybe you should sit out the hunt this year, Richard thought. Save yourself the embarrassment. Besides, everyone eventually has to stop hunting.
“Except Ted,” he said as he heard the front door claw, then Ted leaping inside, his back claws scraping the marble. Helen skittered away as if the hunt had already started. Richard almost smiled. That was Ted for you. He still had it. His suit probably fit him beautifully.
Richard looked at the garment bag where he stored his own. Hang it up, he told himself. Literally.
Then Ted howled, Helen bleated, and as their cries echoed through the master suite, conjoining and wild enough to ruffle the sheets, Richard couldn’t help crouching.
“No,” he snarled. “Not in my house.”
He wriggled into his suit, carefully zipped it up, and jammed his wolf head on. He flexed his claws and clacked his teeth. Still sharp. Damn the pelt, he thought. His fangs would be enough.
Richard dropped to all fours but didn’t howl. There’d be time for that later. He stalked through the master suite, hackles raised, nostrils flaring and filling with Ted’s heavy musk, his instincts taking over. He went to the top of the stairs, pissed on the newel post, then padded slowly down, eyes blazing, looking for the moment to strike.
