A Werewolf Blog in Brooklyn

Blood Lust | January 27, 2010

Blood lust

the word rings through my brain.

Blood and Lust.

Combined together.

It doesn’t gross me out. It actually sounds….nice. Because the werewolf part of me knows blood, likes blood, understands blood and when the time is right, even, wants blood. The werewolf me, also understands and enjoys, lust.

More often than not.

I guess it could be another name for what us werewolves refer to as lunar lust. You know, when the lunar week is on us and we all but get consumed by sexual energy and need. Only I’m not sure that’s quite accurate enough. For one thing, our eyes don’t bleed, blood when we’re super horny.

I think blood lust has more to do with blood than sex but I’m sure it combines the two as well. At least, this is the case I’ve been given the impression of. Not that I know any that have this affliction.

From what I’ve been told about Blood lust, it’s somewhat of an affliction, condition that is not unlike having your own overwhelming obsession. Of the blood kind. So it creeps me out, somewhat, that a shape shifter I don’t know has unwittingly taken a likening to me.

All because he hates the Alpha werewolf of the Manhattan Pack, my boyfriend, Paris.

I’ve been told that werewolf blood lust, is like embracing the love of rage. You get swept up in it and you let it take you over, completely and you enjoy it. It’s like letting the werewolf you really, have it’s hunt and kill, fix, that it doesn’t really get these days. It’s passion at its most violent, was the term I remember being used to describe it’s essence. I mean, we have to live in a civilized world so that kind of behavior is off the cards and not allowed.

And whilst Black Dog isn’t a werewolf, he does carry wolf in him, so I’d assume he react the same way as a werewolf.

So those urges, on a normal day, to hunt prey and take sport in the kill, are minimal, tiny even. Because they’re suppressed, by us barely acknowledging them, or allowing them to exist within our hybrid psychological make up. The feeling only sort of stirs a bit when we get excited about meat, or you know, in lunar weeks. But it’s not like none of everyday werewolves, don’t know the art of control. Or of ourselves.

But I don’t know anything about Black Dog, he doesn’t sound all that stable from the brief comments Paris has shared about him. So to hear Paris speak about Black Dog having blood lust, for me, it just weirds me out.

I sip on my alcoholic vanilla milkshake. Another lunar week, another night out at Crescent. I turn around to head back over to Paris and his friends. When a figure bumps straight into me.

Almost causing me to spill my milkshake. Almost.

I look up at the guy. The hair on the back of neck is pulling at my skin, dragging it to attention.

I can smell lupine but it isn’t Breukelen lupine scent, not that’s a surprise since I’m spending another night in Manhattan. There are other scents mingled and mixed in there, but it’s really hard to differentiate what they are.

Because they’re like specks, tiny, tiny specks of this and that. I can make out something like licorice. Of course, that could just be the smell of the dry ice in the air of the club. Or someone else’s bad body odor. Or his base scent.

I’m not truly freaked out, until he smiles at me and his eyes bleed red.
Bleed.

Not all messy and smearing out of the corner of his eyes kind of thing. I mean, the red drips down from under his eyelids around the whites of his eyes, leaving the irises, untouched, until all around it is blood red.

Blood lust.

“Everybody here calls me Black Dog, what’s your name pretty wolf?”

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