Chapter 23: Shuck

My Boy Jack: Prequel to The Chimera Cycle

Table of Contents

The Shuck ambled through the darkness in silence, its inky-black coat merging with the night. Invisible to the human eye. She smelled the stench of the humans, their livestock, heady on the air; it painted a picture—an extra dimension of sensory perception, resembling noise and colour combined with shape and depth. Her eyesight improved on these special nights when the urge grew, and her mind sharpened, but her nose and her ears worked better still. Men set traps. Their stink lit them up like fire to her. Odd shapes, unnatural things. Simple to avoid. She growled a sound she remembered him making: laughter. She recalled his strange bark and a need for his friendship, but the hunger drove her to hunt. Later, she thought.

One night, she came across an immense man-made den. Nearby, she took a sheep from a field and filled her belly. A peculiar odour touched the wind, so very faint, and yet almost familiar. A howl—a cry like her own. Another of her kind? She pressed closer to make sure.

A lie.

Young creatures—pups compared to the others that lumbered around the big pile of stones. Different in other ways. Quick, light on their feet—strange; they carried next to no scent—of their own. She sniffed strong odours of dried hide and wool, almost hiding a taint of human and something else. A sharp, sweet, intimate, and familiar stench. Like her own, but not the same. Related, the thing that made her special.

The Shuck hung back, smelling, listening, watching. Could these young see her, even in the dark—hidden by her black cloak? Instinct bit. She stayed clear and averted her bright eyes, lest they reflect the moonlight.

So she kept away from the strange ones.

As the nights grew colder and longer, a new thing. A pup would shed its funny borrowed skin and run around the fields near its big den, alone.

For a time, she ignored this, then her curiosity got the better of her, and she edged in closer. This way she learned their individual scents, and so their number.

One found something in the dirt: her footprint. He raised his lips and called. She heard her own voice—almost, not clever enough to fool her ears—but she felt it still. A primal pull reverberating in her chest, her belly, and her mouth opened. Saliva dripped, and she fought the urge to answer. The dogs in the yard did, howling.

Then they all came.

Anger from deep within her. They pretended she belonged to them, stealing her voice. Now they moved together, as a pack, hunting her. She turned and ran; they could not catch her—two short puppy legs, no match for four long limbs.

They made the call again, every howl pulling at her, like a dog on a leash. She grew angrier at these silly puppies. She decided they needed their ears bitten. Time to make the pups behave.

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Chapter 24: Hunted