VINCENT WOLF suspected the weight of a life was about a large stone's worth – twenty pounds, give or take. That should do it.

He rolled the rocks into the dark frothy waters of New York's Hudson River with a large kerplunk. Watching the rope follow as he booted the oversized vulture tied to it. It hit with a satisfying plop. Inky feathers swallowed by the black water – two shadows reunited – as it disappeared, slowly dragged to the bottom.

Food for the fishes.

"Stupid buzzards." His brother Ryan kicked the second bird tied to another rock, teeth flashing in the dark with all the glee of two murderers, out for a late night dump at the docks. His mop of brown hair haloed by a boathouse light behind him like a violent angel.

They'd carried the bodies a short walk up from pier ninety-eight in the meatpackers district, just past where the boats pulled in. The midnight air tinged with the taste of salt and cod, as the toll of ship bells resounded in the distance. Lights flickered over the water like mechanical fireflies where ships anchored off piers on the far side of the river.

There was a time and place for these sorts of dastardly deeds – devilry under twilight and such. Decades of bloodshed and turf wars lay at the bottom of this watery boneyard, and now Vincent had added a few more. To any onlookers, dumping an over-sized bird carcass wouldn't be cause for alarm, beyond littering, and perhaps an animal rights protest. No one would know that they were magical creatures – shifters.

"Good thing these buzzards spent most of their time as birds. I hate it when they die in human form." Ryan wiped his hands on his dark jeans like they'd been diseased. "Foul, fowl." He snorted a laugh, impressed at his own witty joke.

Vincent was not. "We wouldn't be doing this at all if you'd been there to get the shipment when I told you."

"I was five minutes late!" Ryan whined. "And it's Roman's job anyway to grab the drugs. I'm busy making sure your company stays afloat with my big beautiful brain, okay? Just cause I have the muscles of a herculean god doesn't mean you get to abuse them." He wrapped his arms around himself in a display of scandalous mortification.

Vincent stared dead-pan. "I'm convinced you're adopted."

"I'll remember that the next time you ask me to dump a body."

"Hopefully, there won't be a next time."

New York City was home to several types of shifters: wolves, birds, bears, cats, the elusive dragons, and the odd variants – usually European – among other supernatural beings, that typically kept to themselves.

Most shifters preferred the woods of Colorado or mountains of Wyoming, any small town, really. But a stubborn few had stayed as cities and human populations grew around them, into concrete jungles. Finding solace in underground clubs and warehouses, where they could stretch their claws and fangs without fear or prejudice. Larger beasts adapted, shifting less and less, leaving the ledges of skyscrapers and back-alley streets to the birds and cats.

To keep the peace, districts and boroughs had been divided into territories. But as soon as the greedy vultures found the shipping route for Vincent's monopoly on the drug empire; they'd been keen to steal a piece of the pie – or should he say pixie dust – resulting in a turf war. A minor inconvenience, really. Obnoxious birds, but with little power or influence to make any waves beyond the ones their bodies did when they hit the water.

Mob boss might be the most apt description for his place in his family's line of work – they did run in a pack. But Vincent would always refer to himself as a businessman if anyone asked. He had other ventures, after all. Night clubs, restaurants and his baby; a software security company that went public on the New York Venture stock market last year. No, Vinecent Wolf was not a mobster. He was a man of means. A visionary, an entrepreneur, a leader...with just a touch of maiming and murder if the occasion called for it.

The sound of boots on gravel alerted both brothers, heads turning to see a bald-headed man clad in a dark leather jacket materialize under the boat house floodlight; a black bag slung over his shoulder.

"Roman." Vincent regarded his underling, posture relaxing with recognition. Sweat beaded off the bald man's face, slipping down the side of his neck where the tattoo of a wolf's jaws opened slightly as he inhaled. Gold chains covered the rest of his neck, disappearing into a dirty wife-beater under his jacket. Roman huffed, shifting the weighty bag on his shoulder, before dumping it unceremoniously at Vincent's feet like a cat depositing a bird for its master.

"Had another sniffing around this morning by the warehouse. I think we'll have to move the drop point at this rate." Roman's Russian accent, tinged with annoyance and exhaustion, as he opened the zipper at the top of the black waterproof bag. "Had a missed call from Roger too, you might want to check your phone."

"Yeah, I left it in the car. I'll head over now. Been a while since I visited Grace and the kids, too." Vincent's gaze slipped down to the opened bag.

Ryan shone his cell phone light on the contents, instantly recoiling. Vincent only caught a glimpse of the hacked up limbs. White bone and muscles glistening and wet, parts looking like large chunks of meat, arms and legs stuffed together at odd angles to fit. Another vulture, decidedly human. Roman was deft with the knife and seemed to have made quick work of this one.

"Oh, fucking hell." Ryan ran a hand through his hair. "You were saying about next time?" His eyes flicked to Vincent with 'I told you so.'

Goddess, he's such a brat. It's a shame their parents had passed, so he couldn't confirm that adoption. "Why are you smirking?" Vincent nodded toward the bag. "You and Roman are taking care of that one." A smile ghosted his lips as his brother's face fell.

"I hate you."

"Yes, yes. Tell it to your therapist. I'm heading to Rogers. I'll see you at the office tomorrow."

"Go then. Leave me with psycho Vin Diesel and the soggy body parts." Ryan waved him off. "Now I gotta find a bigger rock..." he grumbled, looking around the edge of the shoreline.

Vincent shed his long trench coat, pulling at his tie and unbuttoning his dress shirt, holding them for Roman to take as he undressed till the late summer breeze kissed his skin – au natural.

"Take the fucking car, you exhibitionist!" His brother yelled when he noticed.

"It's a full moon," Vincent nodded to the white eye in the sky, the call of the beast just rippling below the surface. And what's the harm when there were no humans around to witness? He hated to admit it, but his brother had more control in that respect. Needed to shift less to satisfy the itch.

Even in the dark, he could see the roll of Ryan's brown eyes. "Fine. Go get your jollies off, then. I'll just be here cleaning up everyone's mess." He sighed, turning back to rock hunting, while Roman clutched Vincent's clothes in a strangle grip with his big meaty hands...He'd take it for dry cleaning later.

"I want twenty-four-hour surveillance on the warehouse till we find a new drop point." Vincent barked at Roman as his limbs popped and stretched with the familiar ache, fur rippling and growing as it pushed through skin.

"Yes Alpha." Roman nodded solemnly as Vincent sank to all fours, shaking out black fur. The smell hit him quite suddenly with his heightened senses. Coppery blood, with an au de feathery musk wafting from the bag and he snorted, clearing out his nose. Definitely vulture. He trotted his way down the harbor before dipping in between rows of tall, red brick buildings. Roger's place was a short jaunt from the harbor, nestled in midtown around 59th Street and 10th where he and his wife Grace owned a pizza parlor.

His stomach growled as he dipped around a corner at the thought of food. When was the last time he ate? Between brokering contracts for his company and various meetings with his other ventures, he'd scarfed a danish at his secretary's behest with a coffee. Food sounded divine right now.

A meat lover's pizza, perhaps?

Roger always added a little extra bacon for him. He snapped his jaws as they wet with the promise of a meal, plus he could get an update on the kids while he was there. Roger's place acted more like a halfway house for strays than the Italian eatery it was supposed to be. They took in all kinds of pups and cubs. It didn't matter what breed. Any orphaned shifter seemed to find its way into their home while waiting for a family to adopt or foster them.

Silent paws padded faster now across the pavement with practiced ease as he criss-crossed through alleys, taking care to avoid well-lit streets and trying not to disturb the homeless curled up in their cardboard shelters. The last thing they needed to see tonight was a large black wolf marching around their territory. But as with most humans, when faced with the supernatural, they find a way to rationalize–explain away the oddity of it. Several times he'd been mistaken for a large dog, people grumbling at one another to 'keep him on a leash', not really sure whose dog it was. A few eccentric street people had chased him down side-roads, screaming 'demon'. At least they took a guess.

The orange glow of the neon sign 'Roger's Pizzeria' came into focus just a block down. Meat lovers, with extra bacon...Vincent was practically drooling. He entertained the thought of sharing for a moment, but Ryan can get his own damn pizza.

Vincent skidded to a halt, hackles rising as his sensitive ears picked up a muffled scream nearby. And then he smelled it. That familiar cloying scent. The stench of decay mingled with a syrupy sweetness.

Goddess, no! Not again.

He broke into a run, startling a young couple exiting a coffee shop. Her scream of surprise barely registered as he blurred past towards Rogers.

No. No. No.

He slipped down the side alley toward the back service door, his tail whacking off the trash cans startling several rats to surrey under a pile of cardboard boxes.

The putrid aroma pooled stronger at the back door, and his stomach dropped. Another blood-curdling wail erupted from inside, causing his fur to stand on end. He scratched at the metal door anxiously.

Footsteps shuffled on the other side. The door swung open with a creak, Roger's bearded face shadowed by the light from behind. Despite the low light, even Vincent could see the dark circles stamped on his face. The fear in his eyes, in his scent. His gaze lit slightly with what looked like hope when they fell to Vincent.

"Thank the goddess you've come! I tried calling so many times. I couldn't reach your phone or Roman. I didn't know who else to- I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do." Roger's voice shook as he moved his bulky frame out of the way.

Vincent stepped in, his body contorting with an audible pop and snap as he shifted quickly. Painfully. Stretching out as human limbs replaced paws on the linoleum floor. He rolled his shoulders back, working out the lingering ache, as keen eyes swept the restaurant.

Tables had been overturned and claw marks ran through the wallpaper, trailing all the way into the kitchen. Vincent stood among the carnage of broken pots and dishes, forgotten in the chaos.

Roger pulled a long, black robe off a hook on the wall, tossing it to Vincent, who shrugged it on with a mumbled, "thanks." He was happy Roger always kept a spare. A small boy–shaggy mop of brown hair covering his eyes–placed a pair of brown loafers at his feet. 

Vincent recognized him. The bear cub Roger had picked off the streets in Brooklyn last month. The boy's eyes darted to Vincent's feet before scampering out of sight down the basement stairs. Vincent graciously slipped them on, a size too small so that his heels hung over, but it was good enough to navigate through the landmine of shattered dishware towards stairs tucked at the side of the kitchen.

Roger nervously twisted a broom in his hand, his eyes a silent, desperate plea. His mouth opened and closed several times as if struggling to find the words before hanging his head in defeat. Vincent understood what his friend couldn't voice. He swallowed hard, offering Roger's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, schooling his features to be in the impassive mask of a leader, an Alpha, but his heart was in his stomach. Vincent made his way up to the living quarters.

Though his nose was not as sharp in this form–thank goodness–he could still smell the aroma, growing stronger with each step down the dark hall. All thoughts of food banished from his mind as he struggled not to heave, a hand coming up to cover his mouth as he pressed on. A single light shone out of the door on the far right of the hall, pained moans echoing off the walls and escalating as he neared the source.

Stepping over the threshold, his eyes were not prepared for the scene before him, his legs stiffening, not able to take a step further into the space.

An older woman lay strapped to the bed. Bound by her ankles and wrists with rope, she thrashed and moaned against the restraints. His heart sank.

Grace... no.

A young woman sat by her side with a water basin, pressing a wet cloth on Grace's naked body, all the while cooing words of comfort. The elderly woman was covered in oozing red blisters and bloodied brown fur.

She was a twisted mess of human and beast, limbs bent all wrong and bones sticking out hideously beneath the deluge of skin and fur. Drool leaked uncontrollably out of a mouth that was neither human nor wolf, the jaws not quite fitting together. One eye was completely covered in a massive sore, oozing red sludge, marring the side of her tanned face. The other eye was perfectly clear; the blue orb stared at him, unblinking and swollen with tears, silently begging for salvation.

The disease always seemed to flair with the rising of the full moon. Symptoms hastened when a wolf's power was at its peak. She was fifth, and the worst case of Moon Sickness yet. The name they'd given this hideous disease. And she would be dead before dawn.

His expression must have given that away, as the young caretaker suddenly hung her head and started sobbing into the water basin. Rage burned in his veins at the sight of yet another of his kin on death's door.

Goddess, give me strength.

His fist balled tightly at his sides. Blunt nails, still sharp enough to draw blood, dug in as the sight and saccharine smell, mixed with rotting flesh, consumed him. Vincent had seen enough.

He turned and stomped his way back downstairs, breathing in the slightly less toxic air. Roger paused his sweeping when he saw him, his eyes filled with hope that Vincent couldn't give. Though he'd been working with one of his more talented wolves, a bio scientist, for a cure, they'd yet to identify the cause or even come close to an effective medicine.

Vincent gripped Roger's arm roughly. All the pain and frustration spilling through his crumbling control. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? She's at least five days in! We could have–"

The words died on his lips as he noticed his furious gaze reflected in Rogers' bloodshot eyes. Could have what? None of the others had survived, despite the testing for antidotes, the blood transfusions- none of it. What difference would it make if she died at a lab or at home? At least this way she was with the ones she loved. Was that what Roger thought too? Or had Grace hid it from him as long as she could, so he wouldn't worry. That sounded like her.

"I know." The words gushed out like a geyser. "I know I should have told you as soon as I suspected, when she -she started acting more anxious, more volatile. I told myself it was stress. We've both been overworked lately. I planned a trip for us, as a surprise next month. Michigan. She loves the lake view, you know. But I–I should have known Grace would– I should have..." Roger dropped his broom, burying his face in his hands. Vincent didn't need to look to know the man was crying.

What does one say to a broken man? Vincent stood awkwardly in front of the sobbing middle-aged man for several moments, trying to collect his thoughts. He couldn't fathom the depths of Rogers' grief. With the death of his own parents, he was too young; too old a wound to draw empathy.

"...I'm so sorry Roger. Anything the pack can do for you. Anything you need to get through this...this time." Roger hiccupped a sob into his hands. "I will sort this out," Vincent promised, instead. "Mark my words, she will be the last." 

He gave a squeeze of reassurance before releasing the shoulder of the soon-to-be widower and headed toward the back kitchen door, not knowing what to do with all the anguish, the rage, the helplessness he felt. His blood boiled. What had they done to incur the wrath of their goddess to plague their kind with such a wretched death? He had to figure it out before there were none left.

"I'll gather everyone next Friday at Caesar's," Vincent said, desperation and frustration sharpening his tone. Roger nodded stiffly in response, head still hanging with grief.

The least he could do was give them privacy now. Hand on the door, he glanced back at his friend. "Roger," he spoke softly this time. The man lifted up his head, eyes spilling fresh tears. "Don't let her suffer any longer. You should-" He swallowed the lump in his throat, "you should call Nymira." At least the dream witch could send her peacefully into death's embrace; ease her suffering. Grace deserved that much.

Tipping his head in understanding, Roger trudged upstairs to spend what little time he had left with his beloved before the old creole witch came to whisper her into eternal slumber and slip liquid wolfsbane in her veins.

Vincent dropped his robe as he shifted to all fours. Shaking out his fur, he pushed open the door and disappeared into the night. He broke into a run, breezing by city streets and dimly lit sidewalks as a dark blur.

Faster.

He pushed his legs to carry him farther. Skidding sideways when the headlights of the taxi came into view. The driver screeched his brakes with a loud horn honk as he almost clipped him.

Faster.

Away from the stench of death. Away from the burden that he carried. Forcing his mind into silence, he focused on his senses; the feel of his blood pumping, the sirens echoing down from a distant street, the smell... that smell.

He cut up and through Central Park and by the time he slowed, Vincent had run out of his territory finding himself on the side streets of Harlem. Further up than he'd ever traveled in this form. Perhaps it was fate guiding him as he rounded a corner to a row of warehouses. Fate that he picked up that sickly sweet scent that was attached to every case of moon sickness. Fate that he followed it as it collected at the back of a warehouse door.

Or perhaps the goddess was finally giving him a sign as he caught wind of something else mixed with the syrupy scent—a smell he'd almost forgotten. It was bright and crackled with energy like the sky before a storm.

Magic.

The weathered company sign flapped in the wind against the metal siding with a rhythmic thump that matched his pulse, the H almost worn off completely. Hoodman Group...

Vincent started at the sign, heart thudding heavily in his chest as the wheels churned, and then back at the locked doors of the building, where the scent pooled inside.

Perhaps this was no mere sickness after all.