Free Dying Bites: The Bloodhound Files-1 by DD Barant

just the intensity of his lust that I felt; it was the depth. That’s the only way I can put it. All men have that automatic hindbrain trigger that fires whenever they see a beautiful woman, but if you could decode that signal and put it into words it would just come out as “want sex now!” in a demanding, Homer Simpsonesque voice.

    Tanaka’s signal was more like Barry White crooning in my ear. “Hey, baby. I want you. I want you bad. I want you all the way, every inch of you, inside and out. I don’t care how Dying Bites – Bloodhound Files 01
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    long it takes; I don’t care what I have to give up to get it. I’ll do anything, to anyone, just for the chance of spending one minute naked with you. Oooh, baby . . .”

    There was more than just desire in that burst of emotion. There was patience, and yearning. There was fascination, and hunger. And most of all, there was this tremendous focus, as if I were the last woman on Earth and he’d just gotten out of prison.

    “You have some prawn in your hair,” he says.

    “Uh, thanks,” I stammer. What the hell was that? Did this guy just gobble a handful of Viagra, or whatever the werewolf equivalent is?

    An explanation occurs to me, but I’m a little too rattled to be subtle about confirming it.
    “So. You’re a lycanthrope. Don’t know a lot about you people. Are you more like wolves or humans?”

    “That is a matter of much debate. Most consider themselves enhanced humans.”

    “Enhanced, right.” I try desperately to push away the image that comes to mind. “Are you—I mean, is there any downside to that? Disadvantages?”

    “I’m not sure what you mean.”

    “You know, biological stuff. Like having to shave hard-to-reach areas, or midnight cravings for rabbit, or . . . or certain times of the year making you, uh, behave differently.”

    “Yes, of course. Lycanthropes celebrate their heritage every lunar cycle with the Moondays festival. It’s quite the celebration—”

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    “Do you go into heat?” I blurt out.

    There’s an endless moment of silence as he considers his response and I wait for the Earth to swallow me up—unlikely, since we’re actually in the air by now. Strangely, I don’t feel nearly as embarrassed as I should; Tanaka certainly isn’t, and his calm amusement seems to be dampening my own sense of discomfort. The lust is still there, but it’s not nearly as intense as when we touched.

    “Ah. Not as such, no. The tides of the female body, though, are still tied to the moon, much as they always have been. And the males of our kind are . . .”

    He hesitates. He meets my eyes. Another surge goes through me, nearly as strong as the last.

    “Civilized,” he says, “but still wild at heart.”

    I smile weakly, and change the subject.

    After that I retreat to a far corner and spend most of the flight fiddling with the cell phone Eisfanger gave me before we took off and reviewing materials on my laptop. Tanaka leaves me alone; I don’t know if he’s sensitive to my mood—God, I hope not—or if it’s just some Japanese protocol thing, but I’m grateful for the solitude. Eisfanger’s doing something strange with chanting and incense in his cabin, while Charlie’s disappeared into the cockpit.

    There’s a lot of data to go over, including the recordings of the two killings the killer made and posted to the Internet. Gretchen’s working on that angle, but she told me before we left that she isn’t having much luck. “He’s using magic to cover his tracks,”
    she said. “Fox virus, looks like. Damn thing keeps doubling back over its own trail.”

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    I watch the recordings, over and over. The first one begins with a simple wire cage, maybe fifteen feet long, five feet wide, and six feet high, against a backdrop so white and featureless, it looks artificial. It’s lit by a single bright