Please feel free to comment if you feel that there's something missing, or if you like it. I want to thank roughboy18 for his excellent help!
One more chapter will follow to give my sweetlings a happy end!
I am writing in a foreign language, and it takes its time :( Sorry for the waiting, I hope you like it!
Small disclaimer:
Suspension of disbelief is recommended. All characters are 18+.
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~*Carl*~
Carl's mind had never been stable, but it had totally crashed and crumbled a few months before what he used to call "the wife-incident". Everything had been alright as long as his late Beta, George, was there, second-guessing every order Carl gave, making him realize what was normal and which orders were too harsh.
Curling his upper lip Carl rammed the shovel into the sandy ground and heaved another pile of dirt out of the hole he was digging. Dark memories always made him moody, but at the same time he couldn't stop them from coming again and again.
George had always been his conscience, and they had worked so well together. When George had found that little runt of a street urchin eleven years ago, Carl had been happy for him and his wife, since they couldn't have children of their own, and he had cried and mourned with George when his wife had died a few years later. But where Carl had been able to go on living and find a wife of his own, George had never stopped mourning his spouse's passing. His heart had been broken, and shortly after his body followed.
A cry of pain echoed up the hills to where Carl was digging, and it stopped him in his tracks. Some lower sounds followed, but they were indistinguishable, and the cry itself hadn't reminded Carl of anyone. Could be Trevor, or Darwin, if that bastard had survived the beating. Carl's rational side urged him to go take a look and find out what had happened, but his mind didn't hold enough sanity to listen--it hadn't for a long time. He was digging a hole, and he didn't want to leave any work unfinished. It just wasn't right.
Not right.
Like George abandoning him two and a half years ago. A stroke, a damn stroke had taken his best friend and confidant away, and it had changed their relationship forever. It hadn't killed George, but it might as well have, leaving him incapable of moving freely or defending himself. Carl had never felt so lonely before, and even though he'd had a wife at the time, she had never been a fit replacement for George and his ability to stabilize Carl.
And when his wife had betrayed Carl, George hadn't been there. Nobody had been there to talk him out of it, to quench his rage or stop his battering fists, to keep him from doing something he would regret for the rest of his life. And when all was said and done, when his wife had been no more, reduced to nothing but a slimy, bloody pulp on the floor of his home, Carl had raged even more because George hadn't helped him, and they had both become widowers.
He had seen the true face of life, and it had made him weep and cry. He had sworn to himself he would never ever forget about the truth behind the happy facade the world was showing, and he had sworn to end it, because it just wasn't right.
The small grave was finished, and Carl climbed out of it with a low growl. What was taking Trevor so long? Now that his work was done he finally admitted to himself that it probably would be a good idea to investigate the sounds he had heard before, so he made his way downhill. There were no more screams, just the soft, lonesome sounds of creatures of the night, and the whispers of an autumn breeze in the trees. It sounded right. The woods also looked right, but the smell was off.
Blood was in the air that beautiful night.
When Carl finally found the ripped up pieces that once had been Trevor, the strong smell of fresh meat and blood had sent him into a hazy trance, making it hard to notice the details. He had to retch and spit five times to get the taste out of his mouth, the smell was that intense, but when he finally had his wits about him, he only needed one 360° spin to put the pieces together.
Werewolf attacks were pretty easy to identify, once you learned the signs. The cut up abdomen, where the body was most vulnerable, the broken neck that at least had granted Trevor a merciful death, and the claw marks. They were everywhere, not only on the body parts, but also on the ground and a nearby tree. Only one pissed off werewolf could wreak this much havoc in such a short time. Carl knew that, because he had been there more than once. It had taken him more than a year to get some kind of control over his rages without George's help. To not make that kind of a mess anymore.
Now Carl killed with control and precision, and it made his life so much easier.
Had Darwin done this to Trevor? Trevor had neither been the sharpest knife in the drawer, nor the biggest hunk in the pack. There were a few werewolves able to subdue Trevor, but to rip him up like that? Carl sniffed thoughtfully, then turned to scent the claw marks at the nearest tree trunk. There was a note of Trevor and Darwin, but another scent mingled with them and it made Carl's head spin for a second, raising his hackles and eliciting a deep, low growl from him.
Alpha.
He didn't think about it, he just opened his trousers, whipped out his dick, and pissed over the marks until his own pungent smell covered everything else. There was no way he'd let that strange stink stay as it was, not when he had to call in someone to help clean up. Another Alpha had metaphorically pooped on his front porch, a direct challenge to his reign, and any dominant smelling that other presence would automatically take it as a sign of weakness in Carl.
When the task was done he turned around and walked back towards the house. Since Trevor was obviously out of the picture, he'd have to think up a new, believable tale for his pack. They'd never understand if he told them the truth, and he needed them to follow his orders. Everything depended on it. Everything!
