Her guts ached. 

Her guts ached in that way that special way guts ache after someone had been throwing up for hours at a time.  Because she had been trying to throw up for hours at a time, in addition to dealing with what acted like the worst sinus infection in the history of the universe, eyes that felt like someone put ghost peppers in the pepper spray that had been dumped on her face, and steel wool being shoved into her lungs and pulled back out by Evel Knievel's motorcycle on his Grand Canyon jump.  

When she had finally passed out it had been a relief.  Waking was far less traumatic, but no less distressing.  The effects of the wolfsbane had worn off, but her situation was not an improvement.  Anyone who had went through the trouble to collect that much wolfsbane pollen had an agenda and currently she was the victim of that agenda.  Her mother had taught her how to act during the kind of situation she was now in, so panic was not an option.  

Eyes the color of faded blue jeans slowly took in the room, studying it and its contents carefully.  Two air ducts, across from each other, with powerful and active fans that ran very quietly to draw air from two vents along the floor.  White tile with polished grout along the walls, all the way to the glossy white paint of the ceiling.  The floor looked like white marble, but it was not glossy; it looked like the polish had been etched or eaten away in the area around the X-shaped St. Andrew's cross she was currently bound to.  A long folding table along one wall held many metal basins of varying shapes and sizes, three trays of surgical equipment of varying types and designs of which she only recognized a few obvious pieces.  A heavy steel door painted glossy white with a shuttered glass window, secured by a set of electronic locks that looked intimidating.  The usual one-way glass mirror facing her.  Finally, a simple folding chair, which was bolted to the floor and upon which was sat a red headed human girl perhaps a little older than herself.

Avoiding her own predicament in favor of the entirely unexpected presence in the room, she puffed a lock of her dark hair out of her eyes and studied the girl in the chair with frank appraisal.  Short red hair in tight ringlets, blue eyes the color of a newborns, a swath of freckles across pale skin.  A simple black turtle-neck sweater and black button-down jeans held up by a black weave-style belt, black socks, and incongruous Chinese slippers.  Also black.  Fingernails cut short, no make-up, no perfume, not even scented shampoo.  Sixteen, maybe seventeen years old.  Her hands quickly worked a weird silver-and-black puzzle that turned and shifted in directions a normal Rubik's Cube did not, though the principle seemed similar enough.  

Finally she took stock of herself.  She was wearing a simple green hospital gown, which was not tied n the back at all.  That was the only thing she was wearing, a fact she tried very hard to ignore.  The metal of the St. Andrew's cross was warm against her skin, which meant she'd been here for hours at the very least.  Her wrists, ankles and waist were all bound to the cross by metal cuffs that were literally bolted to the cross itself, though there were a couple of foot plates she was standing on.  There were other screw holes in various places at for people with thicker wrists and ankles, and also to bind them by the upper arm, chest, upper thighs, calves, and head.  None of those were in use on her.  There were also holes for repositioning the foot rests.  All of the metal – cross, bolts, cuffs – was a weird brownish color, and didn't feel like any metal she'd ever been in contact with before.  

It was a very disheartening appraisal.

She blew the offending lock of darkness from her face again and turned her attention back to the other girl.  “Hey.  Hey, you!”  The only response she received was a sidelong look from the girl's darker blue eyes.  The look didn't even reach her waist before being focused on the shifting puzzle.  “Hey, can you talk to me at least?”  There was a fraction of a second where the shifting blocks of the puzzle slowed, but it was quickly gone.  “I'm not gonna try to make you help me escape.  I just want to know where I am!”

Her brusque demand slowed the puzzle-work, and a flat, toneless voice emerged from the girl's unpainted coral lips.  “Not talking to monsters.”  The delicate fingers pushed and prodded the puzzle into shapes that the captive was certain had little to do with actually trying to solve the puzzle, and they picked up speed once more.

“I'm not a monster, I'm a girl like you.  I just want to now where I am.”  She forced her voice into a more friendly, soothing tone.  “I promise, I won't try and escape, just tell me where we are.”

The blue eyes slid sideways again, and then back to the puzzle, almost stopping their work entirely.  “Homo sapiens lupus colloquial werewolf, gender, female, age fifteen and one twelfth per lunar calendar, hair black, eyes blue, skin tone Pantone PMS 719 light peach.”  the puzzle moved quickly for a few seconds, but the red head hesitated suddenly.  Speaking in the same flat, nearly monotone voice, she added:  “Monster.”

The absolute certainty with which the girl spoke set the captive girl's hair on end.  The use of the lunar calendar was what truly spooked her; everything else could have been easily figured out with time and effort, but her age – her correct age as opposed to the fourteen years and eight months humans measured by – was something no one but her mother should have known.  “So, they have a scientific name for us...?” she asked quietly.  

The hands slowed their tireless work, and the voice that issued from the soft lips was a meek, barely audible one.  “....not talking to monsters....”

“All right, just, please tell me what city I am in at lea-”

The coral lips parted and both girls said in unison, “Not talking to monsters,” though the werewolf n human guise added, “I know, I know.  Fuck!”

That earned her a suspicious and not entirely friend;y sidelong glance from the puzzle addict.  The locks disengaged and the puzzle addict shrank down in her seat, her fingers speeding up as she worked the puzzle into new configurations faster.  The sour, chemical scent of her fear was dulled but the scent of her sickness, a scent not entirely physical in nature.  The captive twisted her wrists to test the gaps, but the cuffs were snug and not padded at all.

“That's right, Halcyon.  No talking to monsters.”  The man who walked into the room would have been one to catch the werewolf's eye, if the situation had been less ominous.  Like he'd walked off the set of a cigarette or Viagra commercial, he was wearing faded blue jeans, cowboy boots, a black wife-beater which showed off an impressively and functionally muscled body as opposed to the chisel physique of a show-off bodybuilder.  There was also a horn-handled bowie knife sheathed on his right hip, though with all the other tools on the table there seemed little point to it.  He was clean shaven, his blond hair was slicked back and held in a short pony tail by a hair tie, and his brown eyes were sharp and alert.  

Warily the captive watched him, taking in the scents he wore and exuded:  a sharp, astringent aftershave; a musky-metallic deodorant; fabric softeners and soaps galore; the rich musky scent of a man; the faint smells of his woman. The strongest scent was the acrid scent of chlorine; specialized cleansers from recent hand washing.    His clothes were freshly put on as well, since his own scent hadn't had time to soak into the fabric.  It was worrisome, that he had to completely change clothing just for this....whatever he was planning.

She was trying really hard not to think about the vast array of surgical equipment and it wasn't working.

He immediately walked over to the table and looked at the array of equipment laid out, which naturally drew her eyes and mind to it as well.  Still she kept her silence, her faded blue eyes moving from him to the surgical equipment that he seemed to have taken a special interest in.  Her sharp eyes immediately separated the silver from the steel; the latter having a brighter polish but a more dull color.  Silver dulled quickly and the act of sharpening the blade often left the polish the worse for wear.  Despite his study, he picked up nothing and touched nothing.  Finally he picked up the simply folded rubber apron, tying it behind his back as he turned to look at her directly.  

As he studied her, she could smell his interest, not all of which was clinical.  The soft clicking noises of the puzzle's pieces being rearranged didn't seem to bother him, but the stink of fear emanating from the girl in the corner intensified in leaps and bounds.  “What's your name?”  She could see the near-instinctive desire to add some extra name, some epithet or cute nickname to the question, and how he forced himself to not do so.  Dehumanizing the inhuman, which was pointless in her eyes, a wasted effort.  She could smell the desire to deal in pain and death and lust all over him.  His attempt to dehumanize her was a cheap scare tactic, nothing more. 

“Cinnamon.”  Her terse answer seemed to take him by surprise.  She frowned at his reaction.  “That's my name, my real name.  What humans call me doesn't matter.”

He smirked at her declaration.  “Not even going to make a pretense at humanity, Cinnamon?” he asked as he pulled on the first of a pair of arm length rubber gloves.  “Unusual.”

“You used wolfsbane to catch me.”  The violent allergic reaction had left her helpless of hours, he could have easily killed her.  He wanted things from her, and she suspected that one of those things was her agonized screams.  She did not bother to mention her mother had been adamant about immediately caving in under the threat of torture.  The longer Cinnamon could conserve her strength, the better her chances of escape were.  “It would be stupid to lie.”

Giving a slight nod of satisfaction, he worked on pulling the other glove on.  “Well, then, tell me how many are in your particular pack.”  Her interrogator – and most likely the man who had hunted her – studied her, the hospital gown making her body a shapeless mystery.  

“My mother already told you, it's just me and her.  There's no such things as packs anymore, that's a stupid idea that got left behind when people like you started killing us off.”  She tried to rein in her anger, but it was difficult with the way he was looking at her.  Like she was something interesting to play with, like she was a tasty piece of meat.  

“Half-true.”  The flat but definitely unhappy voice of the older teen huddling on her chair made the man grin unpleasantly.  Cinnamon shot an angry glance at the fearful autist, and the hunter followed her gaze.  

“Halcyon is a particularly gifted young woman.  She has very special talents, that once made her a danger to ordinary people.  It's amazing what some insulin-convulsive therapy and a little frontal lobe repair can do for a disturbed individual.”  Anger dissolved into horrified pity, and Cinnamon felt her already empty stomach clench once more.  “Now she helps us find other threats to the human race.  Now, let's try that again.”  He stepped over and picked up a steel scalpel.  “How many werewolves in your pack, Cinnamon?” 

The werewolf growled softly at the human monster, “My mother and me, there isn't anyone else.”  Cinnamon half expected the frightened, damaged girl in the corner to claim otherwise, to deny the truth somehow, but she remained silent.  

“Interesting.  The thing I most expected you to lie about turns out to be the truthful part.”  He reached up and took the collar of the gown she was concealed behind and sliced it easily down the front, baring her youthful body.  She was very fit, and she looked closer to Halcyon's age than her own, and with a few more curves as well.  “You're a well developed girl for your age.”

Cinnamon fought the urge to growl again.  “Big surprise.”  She could tell he wasn't surprised, and he frowned as he sliced through the sleeves, leaving her naked in the bright light of the interrogation room.  Her breasts were grapefruit sized and firm, and she was definitely more hippy than the broken psychic in the corner.  There was only a dusting of black hair upon her soft pubis though, and her skin was smooth and fair.  Cinnamon tossed her head to move stray locks of the wild black silk of her hair from her eyes.  “I bet you've caught younger than me with that trap.”

The faint smile that touched his lips was cold, and it didn't reach his eyes, which were lit by an emotion far removed from amusement as he studied her athletic young frame.  “Only a few boys, never a girl.”  The declaration made her go cold inside as he ran one gloved hand along her soft belly.  “Usually with their mothers.  It takes other kinds of bait and traps to catch the men.  Ah, here it is....”  He went to one knee and studied her left hip, his gloved hands roughly pulling at her body to turn her a little.  “Now, what does this mean?”

She struggled a little, managing to make his hand slip, but the feel of cold steel along her thigh made her freeze.  Cinnamon 'allowed' him to pull her hip around, to show her mark to the unseen audience behind the mirror.  At first glance it was a crescent with a single line on either side of the middle of the crescent, paralleling the tips of the crescent.  Ignoring the divots along the inner and outer edges of the crescent in varying sizes it could easily have been mistaken for the red symbol for that of the Eurodollar.

“It means I'm not allowed to mate with male werewolves,” she muttered unhappily.  When he looked up at her, she really didn't like the look in his eyes, the suspicious, dangerously unhappy look in his eyes.  When he glanced at the obsessed redhead, his unhappy expression became outright dangerous.  He studied the mark, which was about three inches across in the longest dimension, and then pressed the scalpel to her soft skin.  “Hey, what aaaAHHHHHH!”  

Carefully he slipped the scalpel into her skin, careful not to cut too deep.  The scent of her own blood filled the room, and the coppery scent was cloying and thick.  She clenched her hands and struggled not to move.  The scalpel was cold, but it lacked the burn, the sinister coldness of silver, which meant her flesh healed very quickly. 

It took him three tries to cut all the way around the mark.  Then he slipped the scalpel under the lines of open skin, and began to slice into her skin directly.  That prompted another, much more real scream, and she tilted her head back and strained all her muscles trying to ignore the pain.  The feel of his fingers sliding into the open wound was agonizing, and he pulled, tearing the square of skin from the layer of fatty tissue beneath.  

She only relaxed when he'd torn the scrap of tattooed skin from her trembling body.  Cinnamon struggled not to sob; the pain was fading already.  Glaring at him as he placed the tattooed skin sample in a plastic container, her anger turned to shock when he commented idly, “We'll get that analyzed and see what the dye is made of.  I didn't think your skin could take dyes.”

“It's mercurochrome!  I could have TOLD you that!”  Her thigh was starting to itch badly as her skin slowly repaired itself, and she squirmed in the restraints, the closest she could come to scratching that itch.  She knew that he was planning to torture her for information, but pointless torture was something she couldn't wrap her mind around.  Even after her mother had explicitly explained what would happen if she were to be captured it had made no sense.

He set the case aside, on one part of the table, and placed the scalpel next to it.  “Really?  How interesting.  We'll have to try it.  I see that it doesn't exactly regrow, however....”  The hunter picked up a square of gauze and wiped the blood from her leg, though he did a poor job of it.  Most of his attention was on her healing flesh.  

Cinnamon bit back a sharp response, settling for a less vitriolic one.  “You know what doesn't regrow already.  I'm surprised you didn't pack it with salt to see what happens.”  

Standing up, he walked over to the girl sitting in the corner, who cowered as best she could without looking at his approach.  The girl he called Halcyon was practically balled into the chair, her lets tucked close and the puzzle clicking and twisting in staccato bursts as her terror interfered with the attempts to change its shape.  “I have,” he remarked casually, “along with a number of other materials.  On others of your kind of course.  Silver powder seems to leave the most interesting scars.”  He picked up the chair with the girl in it, and she gabbed the seat in panic as he carried her to sit in front of his captive.  

She wasn't sure which made her nauseous:  the idea of powdered silver being applied to an open wound; or that despite Halcyon naming her a monster, it was this human that terrified the damaged girl.  “I'm gonna throw up,” she said weakly.  She'd felt silver before, had silver blades in her flesh, felt it pressed against her skin.  The very idea of powdered silver in her body was horrible beyond measure.

The hunter stood up and walked over to her, and the puzzle's clicking once more filled the room.  “Well, we can't have that.  Let me distract you a little.”  Cinnamon's eyes were closed, so the feel of his rubber gloves sliding between her legs was more that startling.  

She struggled and pulled against the tight bindings.  “WHAT THE FUCK!?”  His fingers lingered, stroking her sex, and she struggled harder, teeth bared.  She could smell only the faintest of sexual arousal from him – the smell of her own blood still permeated the room, making her nearly scent-blind.

“There, no more nausea,” he pointed out, smirking.  “Now....tell me what you meant, exactly, when you said you couldn't mate with male werewolves.”  His fingers slowed, merely stroking the soft outer labia, smearing traces of wetness along her skin.  Only traces; she wasn't even close to being aroused.  His voice had gone cold and analytical again, but his fingers lingered, and he placed one foot on the base of the cross' support.  “And before you try it, let me explain that this device is made out of an alloy of rhodium and titanium.  It was taken from a mold, because it is so hard that it can't even be machined.  A laser had to be used to smooth out the edges.  So if you transform, you're going to lose your hands and feet.”  His eyes were cold, but there was that curiosity in them, that wondering thought....'would she do it anyways?'  

Her heart was beating fast and hard, and his touch was doing things to her body that she really wasn't happy about.  What was worse was Halcyon was looking up at her, the dark blue eyes, eyes of a baby that has just been born, flicking over her bared body, her nipples, her healing thigh.  Never Cinnamon's face though.  The puzzle had stopped moving, a simple cube made of differing sized mirror polished steel.  “If a male werewolf mates with me, the baby will be deformed.  Like inbreeding.”  She tried not to squirm, especially when one rubber-coated finger slipped back into her delicate folds, stroked her inside.  “Fuck, that's the truth!”  

“I know it's the truth.  But that implies that you can mate with other people and carry children.”  The accusation nearly froze Cinnamon's heart.  She hadn't expected him to make that kind of connection, and with his pet psychic present, she couldn't see how to avoid answering more questions.  “So....what kind of person can you mate with and carry children?”  His finger slipped deeper, and she jerked involuntarily as he brushed the delicate closure of her maidenhead.  That made him grin.  

“I can't....I'm not able to mate with non-werewolves and bear children.”

Halcyon spoke softly, almost fearfully, though her eyes were fixed on the gloved hand molesting Cinnamon.  “Insufficient data.”  Cinnamon grit her teeth, baring them at the other girl, but she didn't say anything.  

“Explain yourself, or I will have to switch to another method of coercion, one you won't enjoy nearly as much.”  His voice was pleasant, pleased even.  She could smell it now, with her thigh completely healed, how he was interested and aroused by this act, the torment of using her body.  His finger slipped over her clitoris roughly and Cinnamon yelped, not out of pleasure at all.

She closed her eyes and snarled softly, “There are human....bloodlines that carry the – ah! – re-recessive gene.  Ch-children would be....be either humans w-with the recessive gene or w-werewolf....”  His stroking of her sex became more intimate as she continued and she could smell his arousal, even over the thick scent of Halcyon's sickness and her own blood.  The feel of rubber covering her breast brought her eyes open and she snapped at him.  “Goddamnit, leave me alone!”  

Her captor's grin was amused and cool.  “You are awfully well taught for your age.”  His finger retreated again and he massaged the soft mound of her pubis.  Cinnamon could feel herself getting whet and she tried not to whine or beg.  “This seems to be getting much better results than torture would,” he said slowly.  “How do you identify these human bloodlines?”  He massaged her breast slowly, and she struggled a little, especially when he firmly squeezed, her still-growing breasts sensitive.  “Is there a test, a method of finding out?”

Cinnamon hesitated, but the feel of his fingers parting her sex was enough to make the words spill out quickly.  “It's the same as the test of blood type compatibility!”  His hand stopped moving but before Halcyon could comment on the lack of completeness in the information, she continued.  “You mix human blood with werewolf blood and if it bubbles and turns black, it's incompatible, if it bubbles but remains red, the recessive gene is present!” 

He leaned into her, keeping his face out of reach of her teeth, which she was unhappy about.  She could escape, it would just be horrible, and biting his face would have given her time to do it.  Of course he'd know that, this was what he did for fun, and she hated him for it.  “Very good.”  He gave her another stroke with her finger and her knees buckled as she cried out in unwanted pleasure, immediately following it with a few choice words of invective.  “How quickly does the test work?”  

This line of questioning was startling to scare Cinnamon.  “Three, four minutes....”  He stepped away from her, and took a silver needled syringe.  “Silver corrupts the blood!” she exclaimed in a panic.  The hunter looked at Halcyon, who was simply staring at her silvery cube.  He snapped his fingers and the psychic lowered the cube in a daze.

“Say it again,” he instructed Cinnamon.  

“Silver would corrupt the blood, it would be useless for the kinship testing,” she said compliantly.  

Halcyon didn't react, and lifted the cube, staring into the silver and black pattern.  

“Too bad.”  Returning to the table, he exchanged syringes, and then walked over to Cinnamon.  Rather than go for her arm or her leg, he brought the needle up to her breast, using his other hand to squeeze the soft mound hard.  Cinnamon squealed in pain, the cruel force bruising her soft flesh even as it allowed him to locate veins.  He deliberately speared one, and drew a few droplets worth of dark blood.  He had to repeat the process seven more times before he had a single cubic centimeter of her blood to work with, each time adjusting his cruel grip and stabbing her soft tit far more deeply than he would have needed to.  

Stepping away, her torturer stripped off the gloves and apron, and boxed the syringe.  He also took the tattoo he'd flensed from her thigh, and left her bruised and bleeding.  The young werewolf had the sinking feeling he would be back all too soon, and blinked back the tears of pain.

“That fucking bastard is going to kill me....” she muttered, trying to twist her wrist in the cuff.  It was skin tight and snug, and her bones wouldn't let her turn her wrist.  It was more a complaint than a supposition.  

“False.”  

The simple declaration brought Cinnamon's attention to the damaged teen.  “What?”

No answer was given, but she was still gazing at the mirror-like puzzle cube.  Cinnamon licked her lips.  “Can you help me escape?”  The thought was too good to be true, but she had to ask.  

“Don't talk to monsters,” was the reply, but her expression was hesitant, the scent of confusion wafting from her.  Cinnamon seized on the thought.

“The hunter is a monster,” she declared.

Halcyon's coral lips parted, and her brow furrowed.  She closed her mouth, opened it again, and the look of anguish that crossed her face would have broken the heart of anyone less interested in securing their own survival than Cinnamon was.  

“The hunter hurt you before and will hurt you again.”  Her soft words were sharp and she knew it was cruel, but she had to take advantage while she could.

The pale redheads eyes closed tight and she mouthed words she couldn't actually speak.  Her hand clutched the puzzle so tightly her knuckles were white.

“I won't hurt you.”  

The unnaturally blue eyes opened, and the stricken girl looked into Cinnamon's softer blue eyes.  Cinnamon jerked back, her head filled with thunderous noise and white hot fire, the screaming agony of the psychic trauma Halcyon had endured at the hands of the human monster etched into Cinnamon's nerves by the brief mental contact.  She accepted it, absorbed it.  Held onto it, and weathered it.  Cinnamon's mind was as resilient as her body, but the things she learned about what he had done to Halcyon made her truly sick.  

As she struggled to keep the dry heaves under control, she heard the soft, flat voice murmur “You taste good.”  

“Thanks,” Cinnamon replied shortly, after her already too-empty stomach finally untwisted.  The puzzle was clicking softly again, the blocks sliding and rotating in ways a Rubik's Cube did not.  After the momentary glance into the other girl's head, Cinnamon was not sure 'psychic' was the appropriate term for what Halcyon was.  

The door opened, and Halcyon curled up into the chair again, her fear washing over Cinnamon.  The hunter was back, but this time, he was bare chested, and his expression was grimly amused.  He wasn't wearing any shoes either, and bright girl that she was, Cinnamon understood immediately what he'd learned.  It wasn't hard to figure out what he was going to do next, either.  

“You're sick,” she said, and there was a moment of brief exhilaration at his surprised expression.  

His expression hardened, and he smirked at her, a self depreciating smile that told her everything.  “Perhaps, but it is a valid experiment.  Seeing if I could properly raise a werewolf  to hunt your kind would make my work a lot easier.”  His broad, muscular chest was amazing, and he had some kind of military tattoo on each arm.  But the network of scars – knife, claw, and claws from something not werewolf – was much more impressive.  He undid his trousers and pulled them and his underwear away, baring a half-hard erection and more scarring along his legs.  

“So you're going to keep me prisoner until you get me pregnant with a werewolf that you hope you can teach what it needs to know to just survive as an experiment?  I'd say you're just making excuses, but I don't think you'd need one anyways.”  Her nausea was back.  Helpless to stop him, all she could do was wait.  It sucked, it sucked worse than knowing he killed her mother and was going to rape her.  “....in front of the lobotomized girl too.  You're not sick, you're just....”  She didn't complete the sentence.  Halcyon wouldn't contradict her.

He smirked and moved close.  “Pity I have to keep you in that.  It makes things difficult.”  Her tormentor ran his fingers over her still bruised breast, though the bruises were nearly gone, and she winced.  “But we'll make do.”  

Halcyon was watching them again, her puzzle once more a cube, and her expression blank.  She watched their bodies move, more than anything else.  How his hands slid up Cinnamon's taut belly to caress her breasts; how he stood before her, his prick at full attention; how Cinnamon's hands clenched, her toes curled.  Halcyon watched, and waited.

For her part, Cinnamon closed her eyes and grit her teeth.  Theoretically, every werewolf's first time was rough, but this was rape.  That his calloused hands felt good cupping her breasts, lightly squeezing, caressing her nipples was irrelevant.  The wetness she felt beginning, as he slowly slipped his hand between her legs, was humiliating, but inevitable.  Humans didn't understand that, but she was neither human nor ignorant.  The feel of his rough fingers exploring her soft folds and sensitive clitoris was far more exciting to her body now that he'd discarded the unnecessary gloves. 

Cinnamon clenched her teeth every time she wanted to moan, to gasp.  Her breath still caught as his mouth covered one nipple, his tongue playing delightfully along her nipple, against her aureole.  She breathed rapidly through her nose, her body tensing as he tenderly explored the barrier of her hymen.  His other fingers caressed the soft skin of her groin and outer labia as his middle finger teased, played with her.  

When his finger slipped free of her sex, she relaxed....and then shrieked in pain as he clutched both of her sensitive young breasts in his hands, nails digging into tender skin.  He rubbed the length of his cock along her belly, leaving a wet smear of his precome along her navel.  He smiled at her, and she ground her teeth together, tears burning in her eyes as he twisted her sensitive nipples painfully.  

The hunter released her breasts, going to his knees before Cinnamon, and to her shame she whimpered as his hot tongue parted her nether lips, slipped inside her sex, tasted her virginity.  Halcyon watched as though she could see through him, her hands idly twisting her cube , rotating sections of it in unnatural silence.  Despite the aching burn in her breasts, the feel of his tongue stroking her inner labia, the tender, sensitive flesh around her clit, teasing at the opening of her center....it felt good.  It felt really good.  Only the terrible fear that he would hurt her there prevented her from fully enjoying it.  

A fearful whine escaped her when he began to nibble delicately along her clit, and she jerked at the brush of his teeth against that supremely sensitive flesh.  He did it again, more firmly, and that did hurt her, though it was a momentary and quick kind of pain soothed by the application of his tongue.  She started crying, sobbing softly, when he pressed his teeth against her soft flesh, running his lower teeth against her labia, her tender places.  She didn't beg him to stop – it wouldn't have done any good at all, and might have induced him to bite.  

Then he suckled on her clit – not a gentle, sweet, tender suckling, but a hard, purposeful suction that made her buck her hips to try and git his mouth off of her.  He reached behind her and clutched her derrière, his nails digging in hard as he sucked even harder, made her flesh burn and swell, bruised her sexually.  She screamed, really screamed, when he pulled his teeth along the flesh he'd suckled into swollen redness to let it slip from his mouth.

 He stood up grinning, and positioned the head of his cock against her entrance, rubbed it slowly and firmly until he felt her opening about his glans.  He reached up and grabbed her head, his fingers gripping her skull and burred in her thick raven-dark hair.  She opened her eyes reluctantly as he held her head steady.  If it kept him from hurting her again like that, she could manage this.  Then he hurt her another way, and she cried out, a gasping sob as he took her virginity and took her.  

The feel of his cock tearing that delicate flesh was not excruciating, but it did hurt.  She felt raw, wounded inside as his prick drove deep and hard, sliding in easily and deeply.  The position was such – almost missionary, for that matter – that he couldn't hurt her inside at least, a fact that she was thankful for.  The werewolf sobbed as he looked into her eyes, his prick sliding in and out of her tightness easily.  Blood and sex mingled in the air and she inhaled deeply, smelled it, smelled him.  

Cinnamon took it, accepted what was happening, and slowly the pain faded to a slippery heat inside her body.  She took slow, deep breaths, taking in the musky scent of his lust, his masculine scent.  The blood that he'd spilled, not just copper but copper mixed with her own musk, her own sexual scent.  She felt her body warming to his, accepting the natural act performed in the most unnatural of situations, relaxing and feeling pleasure start to build.  She could feel him tensing against her, feel his cock start to pulse. 

“Harder,” she whispered, forcing shame into her voice.  “Fuck me harder,” she asked meekly.  He grunted laughter, and she felt him tense harder, controlling his orgasm.  Making him restrain himself.  She needed more time.  

Halcyon was watching still, fascinated by their movement, the colors that they were making between them.  His crimson nimbus streaked with the violet-green of his hate and insanity, the werewolf's deep red and gold nimbus streaked with deep blue of her concentration.  The damaged mage could see their colors mingling, and she continued to twist her Toy, sympathetically loosening the bolts that held the good monster captive in a way that would be undetectable.  

Utterly absorbed in his passionate act, the hunter thrust harder, his hands moving down to grip the athletic young girl's hips hard, hard enough that his nails cut her.  She whined, and squirmed, her cunt clutching his cock even more tightly as he abused her.  Keeping her around would be interesting, he could tell, and that made him more eager.  He rammed his cock into her harder, making her yelp with each crush of his groin to her bruised clitoris and swollen labia.  

Cinnamon could feel herself losing it, could feel her body tightening, her inside turning hotter and wetter.  She closed her eyes, and held her breath.  When she clenched her hands tightly, and tensed her body to bear down on his cock, she felt the cuffs around her wrists shift ever so slightly.  Cinnamon sobbed, relief in the chance of escape doing more to give her sensation from his brutal fucking than anything else had.  Her eyes opened as she felt herself clench deep inside, felt her body contract even as he spilled his seed into her body, grunting heavily as his cock spasmed and spit into her body.  

He groaned, pleased, and opened his eyes to look at her....and she gazed back with yellow-green eyes and a mouth full of elongated teeth.  

Her orgasm overwhelmed her control, as she knew it would.  Her mother had not finished teaching her that level of self control, and when she lost control of the pleasure and it overwhelmed her, well....as a werewolf she lost ALL control.  

Halcyon stood up behind the staggering hunter as he pushed himself away from the werewolf, his cock covered in come, blood and slick wetness, bobbing madly as he tried to recover his balance.  Cinnamon's body was writhing, twisting, bones snapping and cracking inside as they rearranged themselves, her face elongating and her eyes rolling wildly.  Not even the drugs in her system could prevent that change, any more than they would have worked on a full moon.  As he stared, fascinated, no longer fearful since she was trapped in the frame, he wondered what his son would be like.  

That is when Halcyon slammed the corner of her metal cube into the base of his neck, cracking vertebrae and sending the entire right side of his body into spasm.  

She stood over him and he toppled to his knees, her deep blue eyes emotionless, her expression blank.  He looked back at her, dazed, the entire right side of his body bathed in pins and needles as he struggled to rise from his knees.  Then Halcyon looked at Cinnamon, and his gaze followed.

The werewolf – truly becoming a werewolf now – had ripped part of the skin from her hands as she yanked them through the loosened cuffs.  Cinnamon's cream and grey fur rippled along her skin as it formed, her athletic human body giving way to a lanky young monster with elongated limbs and talons, her belly near hollowed and her breasts barely evident along her chest.  She planted her taloned hands on the apex of the A-shaped base of the cross and pushed as she pulled her legs up, the skin of her feet tearing and foot-bones cracking as she ripped them free of the lower cuffs.  

The hunter grabbed for his pants, his right arm flopping uselessly....and then remembered that he'd left his knife elsewhere in his sickened rage after he discovered the truth of his family line. Lunging for the table, his right leg betrayed him, and he fell to hands and knees.  He heard the soft hiss of Cinnamon's breath and felt fiery pins and needles where her fangs started to press against his neck, but the partial paralysis freed him of the true agony of feeling his neck crushed under her assault.  

A few hours later, and full for the first time in what felt like days, Cinnamon leaned back against the wall, breathing hard.  She had regained her human form, but she was utterly exhausted even if she was well fed.  Halcyon was sitting in her corner again, far away from the blood and gore that used to be the hunter, and once more the small room was filled with the clicking noises of her puzzle.  Cinnamon wasn't quite sure who else might be in the complex, but she suspected that there really wasn't anyone else in this place.  No alarms had gone off, no one had come in from the neighboring room, and at the moment she was as helpless as she could be.  

“Halcyon....can you open the door?”  Cinnamon staggered to her feet, and picked up the man's pants.  It took her a while, but she managed to pull them on, while Halcyon obediently walked over to the electronic lock and pressed her Toy against it.  A makeshift belt of chains from the table and the rubbery apron served as clothing, at least until she could find something more suitable.  

The sound of frying circuits and the stench of ozone and burning plastic preceded the sound of the door popping open, and Cinnamon smiled.  “Thank you Halcyon.”  

“You taste good,” replied the broken girl flatly, and Cinnamon smiled faintly.  

“If you say so.  Come on.....I'll take care of you.”  She didn't try to touch the girl, but led her out of the room, cautiously padding down the hall in search of freedom.  Halcyon followed, her strange mind seeing hope in their futures.

Behind the one way glass, the video camera continued to film the empty room.  

~XS