Hoot and Howler

  A Witch in Wolf Wood short story

  Lindsay Buroker

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Hoot and Howler

  Author’s Note

  “Hoot and Howler” takes place between Books 3 and 4 in my A Witch in Wolf Wood series. It’s our first time seeing the world through Amar’s eyes. I hope you enjoy the story!

  Hoot and Howler

  Amar Guerrero removed two gas cans from the bed of his old truck, his nose wrinkling at the strong scent that wafted from them. The fuel was a necessary evil for his chainsaw and the wood sculptures he crafted with it, but his sensitive nostrils would never grow accustomed to the astringent odor.

  Fortunately, twilight was descending on the hilltop where the old barn and farmhouse resided, and he could soon head into the woods to hunt and leave the noxious scents of mankind behind. As always, he looked forward to shifting into his wolf form and immersing himself in nature. He would lope into the woods and breathe in the stimulating scents of the firs, ferns, and whatever prey he chanced across. He would—

  Hoo hoo!

  Amar halted two steps from the barn door, his lips rippling with displeasure. The hoots were coming from inside. He didn’t need superior lupine hearing to know that.

  Hoo hoo!

  He growled. He’d built a nesting box for that owl and even climbed a tall cedar to tuck it into a sheltered spot under a stout branch. Not only that but he’d filled it with wood shavings and shreds of old shirts to make it an enticing place for a bird to roost.

  Amar wouldn’t do all that for just any owl; normally, he would turn into a wolf and eat an owl that vexed him. With great relish and chomping of his jaws. But this was Zorro, Morgen’s familiar, and she would be appalled if he captured and ate her feathered companion.

  But the cursed thing kept sneaking into the barn to hunt, regurgitate owl pellets, and molt on his woodworking projects. Not to mention the droppings.

  Hoo hoo!

  Amar set down the gas cans and shoved the door open. How did the owl keep getting inside? He’d repaired the windows, as well as the rest of the damage to the barn, damage done by werewolf-hating sisters from the local coven.

  He growled again, reminded of the night the flames had leapt from the roof and the three witches had tortured him as he tried to put out the fire. How the hell he’d ended up dating a witch, he didn’t know.

  No, that wasn’t true. Amar touched the amulet that hung around his neck, magically protecting him from mind-control spells, and smiled fondly over at the farmhouse. The light was on in the kitchen, the window open to let in the pleasant evening air. His nose wasn’t as good in human form as it was when he turned into a wolf, but it was still far more sensitive than typical, and he caught her scent and knew she was inside, either working on her database project or getting ready to prepare one of her loathsome vegetarian dinners.

  To be fair, the cooking didn’t taste loathsome. It was actually quite delicious. Her refusal to add meat to it was what made his lip curl. As if a meal was complete without a venison steak or slab of liver.

  Hoo hoo!

  “Or an owl,” he grumbled and strode inside to drive out the unwanted intruder.

  Owls had quieter wingbeats than crows and seagulls and other large birds that flew through the area, so he almost missed hearing Zorro’s approach. But he spotted the owl sailing toward him, his eyes keen even in the gloom. His hunting instincts almost prompted him to spring up to catch the bird, but he clenched his fists and kept himself to another growl as Zorro soared past him and out the door.

  He could not kill Morgen’s familiar. He liked Morgen and wanted to entice her out into the woods to have sex with him on a bed of ferns. That was unlikely to happen if he mutilated her owl.

  Still, he couldn’t help but scowl as he turned on the lights and found evidence that Zorro had been making himself at home. A fresh owl pellet lay on the cement floor, and the table Amar had been varnishing had little brown feathers stuck to the top. He gnashed his teeth and eyed the windows and back door, making sure nothing had been left open. It hadn’t. Maybe familiars had some magic they could use to sneak into locked barns.

  Amar strode back outside, spotted Zorro perched on the roof, and pointed at the nesting box hanging in the cedar. He thrust an arm toward it.

  “That’s your home now. Go molt in there.”

  Zorro rotated his neck to look down at him with unperturbed brown eyes.

  “It’s protected from the elements and predators, it provides a view of the rat-filled garden and lawn, and there are bits of cotton and wood shavings inside. It’s posh as hell. Like a four-star hotel. All it’s missing is room service.”

  Hoo hoo!

  “I don’t know what you could possibly be complaining about, but you better stick yourself inside before I—”

  A cabinet door thumped in the kitchen, and Amar cut himself off.

  Morgen’s hearing wasn’t as sharp as his, but he didn’t want to risk her hearing this rant. She already accused him of being grumpy. Maybe there was truth to that—it wasn’t as if he’d had an easy life—but he didn’t want her to think he was an unbalanced beast out here raving at the wildlife. She was the only witch who saw him as a person and not a vile creature of the night to be feared. Or—worse—a potential guard dog to be ensorcelled and used as a tool.

  Not that such things should happen anymore. He touched the talisman again. As long as he had it, he would be protected from being used as a witch’s plaything. And Morgen had made it for him. He owed it to her to try to get along with her owl—or at least continue to resist the urge to wring his neck.

  Zorro’s head rotated again as he scanned the lawn. Looking for dinner?

  “Maybe room service is what you want,” Amar grumbled, eyeing the nesting box.

  Would Zorro be more likely to move in if someone delivered mice to the door?

  “Hm.” Amar stroked his chin as he contemplated whether he could lower himself to catching mice. If any other werewolves were around, he wouldn’t consider it. To hunt such tiny insignificant prey was beneath a wolf. Wolves hunted elk and moose and bear, not rodents.

  The barking of a dog came from the house, and Zorro flapped away into the night. Lucky was almost as obnoxious a familiar as Zorro, but at least he respected Amar. He recognized a superior and dangerous predator when he saw one. The owl was simply… impertinent.

  Still, maybe this was worth trying. Amar could get over the impertinence if Zorro located himself appropriately in his own nesting box and left the barn alone.

  He checked the twilight sky, though his instincts already told him it was dark enough to shift, and removed his jeans and leather vest. His ribs twinged when he bent to untie his bootlaces, and he grimaced. The injury was better than it had been, but he likely had another week before he could move without any pain.

  Amar tossed his clothing onto the hood of his truck but paused before shifting. A shadow had moved in front of the kitchen window. Morgen.

  He rested a hand on the truck and puffed out his chest. Maybe she would happen to glance out and see him naked, be overcome with desire, and rush out to kiss him. To more than kiss him.

  They’d been on the verge of having sex for the first time the night that demon had been unleashed in the graveyard in town and a witch had interrupted them. Since he’d broken his ribs in that encounter, sex had been off the table, not that he hadn’t been tempted to go against Dr. Valderas’s orders to avoid strenuous physical activity. But he admitted wanting to be fully recovered and fully capable when they finally enjoyed each other’s company horizontally. After what she’d done for him—and the other members of the pack that she’d made talismans for—Amar wanted to make sure it wasn’t just about him sating himself but that she enjoyed herself. A lot.

  He smiled smugly, certain she would. Alas, Morgen didn’t look out the window and see him in his nude magnificence.

  He gave into other instincts and let the power of the wolf overtake him.

  A different kind of pain came over him as his bones magically shifted and re-formed, fur sprouted from his skin, and all of his senses sharpened. Thoughts of sex disappeared from his mind, replaced with the craving to run through the wilds and hunt for prey.

  A distant howl sounded far out in Wolf Wood, and he almost sprang into the trees, shedding thoughts of owl room service in favor of joining his brethren on a hunt.

  But a nagging hoo hoo came from the barn roof, reminding him of his mission. He couldn’t fling an elk into Zorro’s nesting box. Mice would have to do.

  This time, when he rumbled with displeasure, his growl had a more ominous ring to it. Zorro flapped away, well aware that Amar was more dangerous as a wolf than a man.

  Now on four legs, Amar prowled toward the spot where he knew tonight’s minuscule and measly prey lurked. Since the construction crew that his pack mates operated had renovated the old farmhouse, there were fewer ways for mice to get in, but they lingered in the crawlspaces beside the root cellar and under the floorboards.

  He found an opening that led under the house, caught the scents of mice hunkered below, and attempted to pry the metal grate off with his teeth. Belatedly, he realized the task would have been easier if he’d brought his tools over and done it as a man.

  His beast side was always much closer to the surface when he was in wolf form, and he quickly grew impatient with the obstacle. He gnashed down and tore the grate free with a wrenching sound. When it came to hunting
, he could wait for prey in a thicket for hours, but when he had to deal with the contraptions of men, his patience evaporated. He would fix the grate in the morning.

  The frame scraped at his furry sides as he eased through the opening. The scents of mice and their droppings intensified as he entered, his pointed ears brushing the beams supporting the floor above.

  A creak sounded, Morgen walking around in the kitchen. The tiny patter of smaller footfalls came from the crawlspace. The mice had sensed his arrival and were scurrying away.

  Amar crept forward, ears and nose guiding him. They wouldn’t escape. His size hindered him in a tight, confined space, but he was still a mighty hunter.

  When he nosed aside old insulation that the mice hid in, two of them scurried out. With lightning speed, he lunged. He bumped against ductwork drooping low above him, but that didn’t keep him from reaching his target. He snapped his jaws and caught one of the mice.

  Though he wasn’t hungry, the urge to bite down and consume the small meal came over him. Ancient instincts reminded him that winter was only a few months off, and game could be scarce then. Wolves could go hungry.

  Only by reminding himself that he was a man most of the time and could shop in grocery stores did he keep from eating the mouse. This prize wasn’t for him. Besides, mice were inferior food, far better suited to owls than wolves.

  He turned around and crept back out from under the house.

  To his surprise, Morgen had come outside. She stood highlighted by the landscaping lights, with her antler-tipped staff raised in both hands, as if she meant to crack him over the head with it. Power emanated from her, as it did from all talented witches, and even though his rational mind—his man’s mind—knew she was an ally and wouldn’t hurt him, his wild instincts reared up again. He crouched low and growled a warning before he caught himself.

  “Amar?” Her brows rose, and she stepped back in alarm.

  He halted the growl and willed his hackles to lower. She carried within her blood the power of her ancestors, but she was a new witch and barely knew how to harness that power yet. Besides, she’d made it clear she wouldn’t use it on him. They were allies. More than allies.

  He padded closer, breathing in her familiar scent as the aura of her power washed over him. As he so often felt when she was near, Amar had the urge to stand at her side and face enemies with her while protecting her. Logically, he understood that her magic drew him, like a moth to flame, but he didn’t care. Besides, they had effectively fought together several times that summer, and he knew she would watch his back even as he watched hers.

  “I heard a noise under the house.” Morgen still gripped her staff, but she lowered it, and her threatening posture relaxed. “I thought you were a rat. Or maybe something larger. Like a possum.”

  Indignation flared in Amar’s chest. A possum? He was far superior to some scruffy possum.

  “Sorry.” Morgen lifted a hand, correctly interpreting his indignation through his furry features. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Uhm, what were you doing under the house?”

  As a wolf, he couldn’t have answered her even if he hadn’t been gripping a mouse between his jaws.

  “And, er, is that a tail hanging out of your mouth?”

  Yes, it was. Amar padded forward with the dead mouse. He could have spit it out at her feet, but it wasn’t some regurgitated owl pellet. It was a prize he intended to use to lure her familiar into his proper nest.

  Her eyes widened slightly as he drew close, his head coming up to her chest. As a werewolf, he retained his human mass when he transformed, so he was a substantial wolf. Most humans feared him, and when he got close, they ran in the other direction.

  Morgen hesitated, then rested a hand on the side of his shoulder. Wolves were not dogs and did not crave human attention or anything so demeaning as pets, and yet he found himself inching closer and lowering his head. She slid her fingers along his back, smoothing the hackles that hadn’t fully settled.

  The faintest tingle of magical power flowed from her touch, and he leaned into her, resting his head against her chest. She always seemed unaware of her power and still a little skeptical that magic truly existed. He wasn’t. It had been three decades since he’d been turned into a werewolf, and he was well aware of magic and power and had learned long ago to be wary of it. Magic could be used as a weapon against his kind, a weapon that claw and fang couldn’t overcome. But he didn’t feel that way about Morgen’s power. Hers wasn’t painful. It was soothing, and her touch was more than a little mesmerizing.

  As always, he worried about losing something of himself when he was near her, but not enough to step away.

  “You don’t usually let me pet you,” she said quietly, running one hand down the side of his shoulder. “Are you feeling okay?”

  He shifted so that his muzzle was above her hand, then deposited the dead mouse in it.

  She stiffened but didn’t drop it as he thought she might. He backed up and shifted back into his human form so he could speak to her and complete his plan.

  “If this is meant to be a gift,” she said, “I much preferred the bench swing you made for the porch.”

  “It is not,” he said when he once again had a human tongue.

  “Why did you give it to me?”

  “I didn’t have pockets.”

  She glanced down his naked form, though she quickly looked away, a blush turning her cheeks pink. “You still don’t have pockets.”

  “True.”

  He wouldn’t have minded if she looked, but she never did. She wasn’t like the witches he’d known in the past, those who’d ensorcelled him and used him to kill or forced him to risk his life protecting them from enemies. Or those who’d ogled him openly and treated him like a servant, binding him with their power and calling him to the bedroom. He liked that she wasn’t like them, but he wouldn’t mind if she admired him. And reached out and touched him.

  “This is gross, Amar.”

  “I assume you mean the mouse and not me.”

  “Yes. You aren’t covered in blood and saliva with your dead body stiffening in my hand.” She grimaced, genuine distress in her eyes as she avoided looking at the mouse.

  “I’m not,” he agreed and took it from her. “And this is for your familiar, not you. He is why I skulked under the house and hunted such measly prey.”

  “Oh?” Her distress faded as she looked hopefully at him. “Are you trying to win Zorro’s affection with gifts?”

  “Something like that.” Amar strode across the lawn toward the cedar tree where he’d mounted the nesting box.

  Morgen, with her curiosity piqued, trailed after him. When he glanced back, he caught her checking out his ass, and he smirked smugly. She might not brazenly look at him out of some sense of social propriety, but she was interested in him.

  She watched as he climbed the tree and artfully draped the mouse over the roof of the nesting box. He dropped back down, landing in a crouch, and faced Zorro, who had returned to perch atop the barn. He watched them—or, like Amar, perhaps he watched Morgen, being drawn to her power in a similar way that he was. When she’d performed a ritual to summon an animal out of the woods to become her familiar, he’d sensed her power from afar and been drawn away from his hunt to come to her fire. That power had entranced him but also scared him—the thought that she could even unintentionally use her magic to make him want to serve her was alarming—and he’d summoned his will to flee from the area.

  “Have you seen him using the nesting box yet?” Morgen asked.

  Zorro was watching the lawn now, as if he preferred to get his own mice.

  “I haven’t.” Amar squinted at her. “Can you tell him to use it? That it’s like a four-star hotel with room service—” he pointed up at the mouse, “—and that he should stay in it instead of defiling my projects in the barn?”

  “Ah, I don’t know if that would work. Despite being my familiar, he’s got a mind of his own. You’ve seen him be impertinent with me.”

  “But he doesn’t fly into your house and molt in your sweater drawer.”

  “Probably because he doesn’t want to be barked at and chased by Lucky, not out of respect.”