A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 10: Dealing with Wolves

Michael had been stepping up his search for werewolves over the past month, and finally, he'd found what he was looking for—a pack. Nestled in a shadowy corner of the Nightside, this particular group operated in a part of the city that most people avoided. It was their turf, their rules, and they made sure everyone knew it.

Michael approached with caution, keeping his movements steady and unthreatening. He wasn't stupid; werewolves weren't just dangerous—they were predators. He needed something from them, but he also knew that walking into their territory was like stepping into a lion's den.

Michael paused just outside the boundary of their territory. Even without signs or markers, it was obvious he'd crossed into dangerous ground. The air felt heavier, thick with an unspoken warning. The buildings here were darker, shabbier, their windows broken or boarded up, and the streets were empty, too quiet for the Nightside. It wasn't just abandoned—it was claimed.

The faint smell of wet fur and blood carried on the air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Somewhere in the distance, a low, mournful howl echoed, a sound that sent a shiver down Michael's spine. He forced himself to keep walking, his footsteps steady despite the growing sense of unease. Every instinct told him to turn around, but he clenched his jaw and pressed on.

He didn't have to wait long.

From the shadows of an alley, three figures emerged, their movements slow and deliberate. Even in human form, they radiated a quiet menace that made Michael's heart pound. The tallest one led the group, his sharp eyes glinting like a predator's in the dim light. His companions were no less intimidating—one wiry and lean, the other broad-shouldered and hulking, their presence filling the empty street with an oppressive weight.

"Well, well," the leader said, his voice low and rough, curling with amusement. "What's this? A little lamb wandered into the wolves' den?"

Michael stopped, forcing himself to stand his ground. His coat concealed the weapons he'd brought, but he wasn't naive enough to think they'd give him much of an edge if things went south. "I'm here to make a deal," he said, his voice as calm as he could manage.

The three wolves exchanged glances, their smirks growing wider. "A deal," one of them said mockingly, stepping closer. "You hear that, boys? This lamb thinks he's got something we want."

"Or maybe he's just here to amuse us," the broad-shouldered one added with a low chuckle. "I'm in the mood for a little fun."

The leader raised a hand, silencing them. His grin faded as he stepped into Michael's space, towering over him. "You've got guts, I'll give you that," he said, his sharp gaze raking over Michael. "But guts only get you so far. You're standing on our turf, human. That means you play by our rules—or you don't play at all."

Michael's heart was hammering, but he forced himself to meet the wolf's gaze. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I'm here to buy something."

The wolf's eyebrows shot up, his grin returning. "Buy? That's a new one. What do you think you can buy from us, little lamb?"

Michael reached into his coat slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves. He pulled out the thick wad of cash, holding it up for them to see. "Five thousand dollars," he said evenly. "For a pint of blood. Fully transformed."

For a moment, there was silence. Then the wolves burst out laughing, the sound echoing down the empty street. Michael's jaw tightened, but he held his ground, his fingers brushing the flashbang in his pocket.

"Five grand?" the wiry one sneered, stepping closer. "You think we're some back-alley blood donors? You think you can just walk in here, wave some cash around, and we'll roll over?"

"Maybe he thinks he's buying from some other pack," the broad-shouldered one growled. "The kind that doesn't bite."

The leader's grin vanished, replaced by a sharp, predatory intensity. "You've got a death wish, lamb. Blood like ours isn't for sale. And you'd better have a damn good reason for even asking."

Michael's fingers tightened around the flashbang. "I'm not here to insult you or waste your time," he said, keeping his voice steady. "I need it for something important, and I'm willing to pay for it."

The leader stepped even closer, his face inches from Michael's. "You don't just ask for werewolf blood, human. You earn it. And looking at you, I don't think you've got what it takes."

Michael swallowed hard but didn't back down. "I came prepared," he said, his tone hardening. Slowly, he pulled the silver nitrate flashbang from his coat, holding it up for them to see. "I didn't come here to fight, but I will if I have to. This won't kill you, but it'll hurt like hell. And I've got more."

The wolves stilled, their expressions darkening. The broad-shouldered one growled low in his throat, his fists clenching. "You threatening us, lamb?"

"I'm stating facts," Michael said, his grip tightening on the flashbang. "I'd rather make a deal and leave in peace. But if you want to test me, go ahead."

The silence stretched, the tension thick enough to choke on. The leader stared at Michael for a long moment, his sharp eyes searching for any sign of weakness. Then, to Michael's surprise, the wolf chuckled, his aggression receding slightly.

"You've got guts," he said, his voice laced with grudging respect. "Stupid, but gutsy."

"Five grand's too low," the wiry one interjected, crossing his arms. "Blood like ours is worth more."

Michael clenched his jaw. He didn't want to push his luck, but he couldn't walk away empty-handed. "How much?"

"Sixty-five hundred," the leader said, a faint smirk returning. "Non-negotiable."

Michael hesitated, his mind racing. It was steep, but he had the money. And the blood was worth far more to him than the cash. Finally, he nodded. "Fine. Sixty-five hundred."

The wolves relaxed slightly, the tension easing as the deal was struck. The wiry one disappeared into a nearby building, returning a moment later with an IV setup and a bag.

"Fully transformed," Michael reminded them as they prepared the setup. "That's the deal."

The leader scowled but complied, stepping back as his body began to shift. The sound of cracking bones and tearing flesh filled the air, the transformation grotesque and brutal. In seconds, the tall man was gone, replaced by a hulking, fur-covered beast with glowing eyes and razor-sharp claws.

Michael's heart raced as the werewolf sat down, baring its arm for the IV. Even after everything he'd read about werewolves, seeing one fully transformed was something else entirely. He forced himself to stay calm, his hand still resting on the flashbang in his pocket.

The blood flowed steadily into the bag, its dark, viscous color almost mesmerizing. Michael stood nearby, watching closely, ready to act at the first sign of betrayal.

When the bag was full, the wolves disconnected the IV and handed it to Michael. He inspected it carefully before nodding and handing over the cash.

"Pleasure doing business," he said, tucking the blood securely into a padded container in his bag.

The leader, now back in human form, smirked at him. "You've got what you wanted, little lamb. Now get out of here before we change our minds."

Michael didn't need to be told twice. He turned and walked away, his swarm buzzing faintly in his coat, ready to defend him if necessary. His heart was still racing, but he kept his steps steady.

He had the blood. The next phase of his plan could finally begin.

Michael sat in his apartment, the room dimly lit except for the focused glow of a small desk lamp. On the table in front of him were the tools for his latest experiment—carefully labeled blood bags, syringes, a tray, and a small machine to mix the blood gently back and forth. The werewolf blood was dark and viscous, almost unnaturally so, but it held the potential for everything he needed: an edge.

The visit from Walker had made one thing clear—he was a target. The families of the two men he'd killed wouldn't let it go, and the Nightside didn't have a statute of limitations on grudges. Michael needed to be harder to kill, to stand a chance when things inevitably went sideways again. The werewolf blood was his gamble, his hail Mary.

He took out the bag of werewolf blood, its label marked with bold red ink, and paired it with a bag of his own blood. Careful not to mix anything up, he set them both into the tray machine—the kind he remembered from nurses' offices that rocked blood bags gently to keep them viable. He let the machine do its work while he began chanting under his breath, a spell he'd crafted specifically for this process. The chant was crude but functional, designed to keep the blood stable and its properties intact even through all the steps he'd planned.

The bag sloshed back and forth, the two fluids beginning to blend. The color changed slowly, darkening into something unnatural, almost black. He injected some of the mix into a bag of saline, watching as the mixture shifted again, its consistency thinning slightly but maintaining its ominous hue. The spell hummed faintly in the air, and for a moment, he hesitated.

"This is it," he muttered, his hands shaking slightly. "No turning back."

He prepared a fresh needle, drawing from the last saline-blood mixture. He stared at the syringe for a long moment before injecting it into his arm. The effect was immediate. His heart felt like it was gripped in a vice, and his chest tightened so much he thought it might collapse. He gasped for air, doubling over as a wave of pain coursed through his body. It felt like fire running through his veins, burning him from the inside out.

 "It's not enough," he rasped, his vision swimming. His shaking hands reached for the bag again, fumbling with the syringe as he prepared another dose. He injected it, and the pain doubled, his body convulsing slightly as he struggled to stay upright.

The third shot felt like he was being torn apart, every nerve screaming in protest. The fourth left him barely able to move, his vision tunneling as he fought to stay conscious. On the fifth shot, something shifted. The pain began to ebb, and he felt his heart slow, the grip on his chest loosening.

He glanced at his hands, his breath catching as he saw his nails darken, growing slightly longer and curving into faint points. It wasn't much, but it was enough to tell him it was working. Then the pain came back, sharp and relentless, threatening to overwhelm him again. He gritted his teeth, pushing the sensation into the hum of the swarm. The insects responded, their collective noise rising to match his agony, grounding him as he fought to maintain control.

But something was missing. He glanced at the table, at the pages of notes he'd written, and then it hit him. The book had mentioned the full moon—a critical component of werewolf transformation. Of course. He cursed himself for the oversight, struggling to his feet as the pain surged again.

With great effort, he dragged himself to the rooftop, every step a battle against his own failing body. The cool night air hit him like a balm, and he staggered into the moonlight, falling to his knees. The light of the full moon bathed him, and the transformation settled. The pain ebbed, replaced by a strange, calming clarity.

His heartbeat slowed, becoming steady and powerful. The world around him came alive in vivid detail—the faint rustle of leaves, the distant hum of the Nightside's chaos, the sharp scent of the cool air. Everything was sharper, clearer, more real.

Michael sighed, letting out a ragged breath as he sat back on his heels. "That was... dumb," he muttered to himself, laughing weakly. "Forgetting the moon... idiot."

He drew his knife, testing his new resilience. With a small motion, he cut into the skin of his left arm. The wound stung but didn't bleed for long; within seconds, the skin knitted itself back together, leaving no trace of the cut. He stared at it, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"It worked," he whispered, the weight of his gamble finally hitting him. "It actually worked."

He leaned back, staring up at the moon as he let himself rest. He'd done it. He wasn't invincible—not yet—but he was harder to kill. And in the Nightside, that was everything.