The first scene was the gas station.
Abandoned now. Yellow tape fluttered in the breeze. I ducked under it, boots crunching on broken glass.
Bloodstains still marred the concrete floor behind the counter, dark brown and sticky. I knelt, brushing two fingers lightly across the dried pool, letting my senses reach outward.
Nothing human.
No rage. No hunger. No mindless fury like a normal werewolf.
This felt... cold.
Calculated.
I rose slowly, heart ticking faster.
This wasn't just some wild beast. It was something that chose its kills.
And it was still close.
I could feel it.
The second scene—a suburban house with a sagging porch—offered even fewer clues. No signs of forced entry. No alarms triggered. Claire had simply been found in her bed, heart neatly excised, sheets still tucked around her like she was sleeping.
It sent a shiver down my spine.
Whatever this thing was, it could get in and out without leaving a trace.
The third scene was a truck stop just off the interstate. Tommy's rig was still parked out back, abandoned.
I climbed into the cab, the stale scent of diesel and cheap coffee hitting me like a wave.
Blood stained the driver's seat. A lot of it.
But something else prickled at my senses.
A scent.
Faint. Sharp.
Not blood. Not decay.
More like... ozone?
I frowned, reaching out with my mind. The steering wheel lifted an inch off the column before I dropped it, heart hammering.
Telekinesis was good for more than just party tricks. It also made me a damn good tracker when I concentrated.
I closed my eyes.
A thread. A trail. Faint, but there.
Leading away from the truck stop.
Into the woods.
Of course.
Because nothing good ever happened in the woods.
It took me an hour to follow the trail—through briars, across a shallow creek, over rocky outcroppings slick with moss.
Finally, I found it.
An old barn, half-collapsed, crouched at the edge of the treeline like a wounded animal.
The thrum in my head was louder now, almost painful. Something was inside. Something powerful. Wrong.
I circled wide, coming up on the barn's blind side. Peeking through a crack in the wood, I saw—
Not one creature.
Two.
Their forms were twisted, part human, part wolf, but... off. Skin too smooth. Eyes too bright. Movements too jerky, like marionettes strung on invisible wires.
Frankenstein's monsters, all right.
No wonder silver hadn't worked.
I drew my machete—a new one, blessed and etched with sigils Bobby swore would work on anything stitched together wrong.
Time to find out if he was right.
I kicked the door in.
Both creatures snapped toward me, snarling—high, keening sounds like feedback through blown speakers.
I didn't hesitate.
First move: telekinesis. I hurled one of them back against the far wall with a bone-jarring crash.
The other lunged.
Enhanced agility kicked in. I ducked under its claws, rolling to my feet and driving the machete up into its chest.
It screamed, the sound warping the air, but the blade sank deep—and the thing spasmed once, twice, then crumpled.
One down.
The second was already charging.
I flicked my wrist, snatching up a fallen beam with my mind and smashing it into the creature's side, buying precious seconds.
It recovered fast. Too fast.
Fine.
I grinned grimly, flipping the machete into a reverse grip.
"Come on, ugly," I whispered.
We met in a clash of claws and steel. It slashed my arm—shallow cut, already healing before the blood even welled up.
I drove the machete into its throat with a snarl of my own, twisting hard.
The thing dropped, convulsing.
Silence fell, broken only by my harsh breathing.
I wiped the blade clean on the tattered remains of its jeans.
Job done.
For now.
But that creeping sense of wrongness didn't leave.
If anything, it got worse.
Because stitched into the chest of the second creature—half-hidden under torn flesh—was a sigil.
Not just any sigil.
A summoning mark.
A beacon.
I stared at it, stomach sinking.
This wasn't random.
Someone was building monsters.
And they knew exactly where to find me.
—
Back at the motel, I scrubbed blood off my hands and arms, hissing when soap hit raw skin.
I sat heavily on the bed, flipping open my phone.
One missed call from Bobby.
Two texts.
Bobby: "You alive, ya idjit?"
Bobby: "Call me. Now."
I stared at the screen for a second longer.
Then, with a sigh, I dialed.
Bobby picked up on the first ring. "You took too damn long."
"Yeah, well, I was busy not dying."
"Find anything?"
I glanced at the cracked motel mirror, meeting my own bloodshot gaze.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "And it's worse than we thought."
A pause.
"How bad?" Bobby asked.
I leaned back against the headboard, feeling the weight of the day settle into my bones.
"Someone's making werewolves now," I said. "Custom jobs. Frankenstein style."
"And you?"
I smiled thinly.
"I'm fine."
The lie tasted bitter.
Because if someone had my scent... if someone knew about my powers...
This was just the beginning.
And whatever game Kharon was playing?
I was right in the middle of it.
Again.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
After that, there was something dangerous that I sensed now, something like an abomination in this motel but before I could realize...
silence.
Then—
A wet, ragged sound.
Clapping.
From the shadows, a figure emerged.
Lab coat. Gloves. And a face I'd seen before—in Bobby's files.
Dr. Elijah Hess.
Mad scientist. Occult dabbler.
Supposedly dead since '93.
"Remarkable," he breathed, staring at me with something like worship. "Absolutely remarkable."
I raised my blade. "Who are you? how did you get in here.. Oh wait are you the creators of those frankenstein? What now, are you gonna kill me?"
He smiled. "Oh, Marcus. This was never about you killing my creations."
A click behind me.
I turned—
—just in time to see the syringe plunge into my neck.
The world went black.
******
If you enjoy what I do, consider supporting me on patreon
If you want read advance chapter please visit my patreon
pat-reon.com/FrogKing36
And don't forget some powerstones for this little old me