Phrases marked with (t) will have a translation at the end of that section.

Into the Woods

Oh, shit. Ohshitohshitohshit.

The litany ran through Blair Sandburg's mind as he crashed through the brush, listening for the sounds of pursuit. He'd remarked once to Jim that everyone interviewed for supermarket tabloids after a near fatal accident seemed to have been thinking Dear Lord or God or Help me, Jesus during their moment of crisis. First Ellison had asked him why he was wasting good money on tabloids when they already had a good supply of toilet paper. Then he'd offered his opinion that a lot of them had probably been thinking something much earthier, but that the journalists didn't want to deal with censorship hassles. In Blair's case, at least, his theory was being proven correct.

Was he headed back toward the hunting lodge? It was so damn hard to tell. Every direction looked the same. The moon might be full, but it's beams scarcely penetrated here in the deepest part of the forest.

He wished Jim were here. With his Sentinel powers, Ellison would have no trouble finding the way back to the lodge, or the little bed and breakfast nearby. But Jim wasn't here. Jim was lifting a few tankards in the local tavern. Blair could have been right beside him, choking down room temperature beer and coughing on pungent smoke from ornately carved pipes, if he hadn't gotten that fucking romantic notion to take a moonlit stroll.

Romance. Deadliest fucking concept known to man. An errant branch lashed back in his face as he tried to burrow through a particularly tangled section of brush. He gave an involuntary yelp of pain at the unexpected sting, then bit his lip in dismay.

It wasn't as if he weren't making enough noise already, blundering through the undergrowth. The sound of his pursuer had been, he thought, growing a bit fainter. That single cry could draw attention again. Blair forced himself deeper into the thicket, ripping himself loose from brambles that caught at clothing, and hair, and tender skin. He didn't cry out again, even though he ended up with a dozen bloody streaks on arms and neck.

When he reached the densest part, he crouched low to the ground. He drew his body up into a compact bundle, making himself as small as possible.

Blair tried to quiet his harsh, panting breath, but it felt like liquid fire in his chest. There was a throbbing ache to go with the stitch in his side, and he thought vaguely that last fall he'd taken had probably busted a rib. He could feel a million different sensations, along with the pain. There was the trickle of cold sweat running down his back, the tickle as a night breeze blew a strand of his long, curly hair across his face. The crumble of the soft, gritty loam beneath his hands.

And the smells: ripe decaying vegetation, a hint of wood smoke apple, they're burning apple wood, and a sour, salty tang that he believed was the smell of his own terror.

His eyes were adjusting to the dark of the heavy cover now, and he could make out tiny details. He hadn't seen nature like this since he was a child. He'd spent idyllic days on his stomach in the grass, examining in microscopic detail the workings of the world at ground level. Now his eyes picked out the delicate veining on the underside of a leaf that trembled before him at eye level.

A hot, coppery taste was filling his mouth, and he spat. The sharp scent immediately assaulted him. Blood. He'd bitten his tongue somewhere along the route of the chase. The metallic taste blended with the lingering acidity of the wine he'd had at dinner.

Blair held his breath for a moment, listening. The night sounds of the forest surrounded him. There were countless subtle rustles. But which were merely branches in the breeze, which were harmless night creatures going about their business, and which might herald the coming of his pursuer?

Blair shivered suddenly, violently. Sensory overload, probably from the adrenalin rush caused by his danger. Dear lord, Is this what it's like for Jim? This overwhelming wave of sound, taste, smell, vision, sensation, crashing and rolling over him, all day, every day? No, it must be worse for Jim, much worse. His senses were more attuned than Blair's to begin with. No wonder he went a little crazy some time. No wonder he needed Blair to keep him grounded, focused. Blair's respect and admiration for his partner grew in those few seconds when he suffered a pale reflection of what the older man had to go through every moment of his life.

Blair heard a twig snap. Something about this small sound set it apart from the usual forest drone. Something heavy had broken it.

Ohshitohshitohshitohshit. Where are you, Jim? Where are you, man?

Decision

Shit, maybe I made a mistake. I should have taken the kid to Mexico, like he wanted. Jim sighed, and took another long pull from the stein of foaming dark beer. He was sitting alone at a back table in the German tavern, working on his second round.

Alone, that was the operative word here. None of the locals were inclined to intrude on the hulking American with the ice blue eyes. He seemed to be brooding, and when such men brooded, it was wise to keep your distance.

Alone, because Blair was still pouting about the place Jim had chosen for their vacation. Christ, why was the kid being so snotty about it? Jim was the one footing the bill, he should be the one to choose where they went, right? He'd spent one brief tour of duty stationed in Germany when he was younger, and had fallen in love with the place. When Simon had threatened to suspend him if he didn't take some R and R, it had been the first place he'd thought of.

There'd been no question of traveling alone, of course. Blair was his Guide, his anchor. Jim needed him nearby at all times. Blair had been excited about the trip: three weeks to do as they pleased, not worrying about crooks or psychopaths or terrorists. He'd brought home brochures featuring sun washed beaches and ancient, vine draped stone temples. When Jim had told him that he'd already booked them for Germany, his face had crumpled like a kid who had just been informed that Santa Claus is just a wino in a red suit, and dad puts those presents under the tree, and you're a little old to believe in that, aren't you, sonny?

Blair had tried to talk him around. He'd coaxed and wheedled, going on about the therapeutic value of sun, sand, salt water, and tropical drinks featuring tiny paper umbrellas. He'd played Jimmy Buffet on the stereo till Jim was ready to use the CDs as frisbees. As the departure date drew closer, Jim had started to weaken. It was the thought of Blair on the beach that was doing it.

He could picture his young companion stretched out on a blanket, surrounded by blinding white sand, dressed only in a pair of minuscule Speedos. He could imagine that straight, slim body slowly toasting to a delicious brown, the light sprinkling of hair on his arms and legs and belly turning to spun gold. The sun would bring out the red highlights in his tumbling mane of dark curls...

Jim shook his head rapidly, dispelling the image, and took another hasty swallow of beer. His mouth had gotten very dry all of a sudden. It did that when he thought about Blair too much. It did that quite often these days.

Blair. Exasperating, endearing, hyperactive, constantly yapping little puppy. Never stopped moving, never shut up. If Blair were there right now, he'd be talking a mile a minute. He'd be commenting on the local drinkers, complaining about the taste of the beer, relating German folktales he'd gleaned from his studies, challenging Jim to a game of darts that he knew he couldn't win... But he wasn't here. Dammit.

Jim took another gulp, and wondered how drunk he'd have to be to excuse what he wished he had the nerve to do. They had a single room, to spare expenses. They had a single large bed, same reason. At least that was what Jim had told Blair.

Truth of the matter was, this was an excellent excuse to finally get to lay down beside the young man who had been steadily driving him crazy with lust. Jim was considering going back to the b and b drunk, crawling into bed, and rolling on top of Blair. Just to see what would happen. If Blair pitched a fit, well, hey, sorry. Damn, I was drunk. If he didn't... Jim had never been too drunk to fuck, and he wasn't about to start now.

The strong German beer was giving him a mild buzz. He thought about Blair, back at the b and b. Was he in bed yet? Blair slept in his skivvies, and he favored silk boxers these days. Jim remembered one particular pair. They weren't the baggy white type he was familiar with. No, these were black emblazoned with tiny red chili peppers. And the soft material clung, rather than bagged...

Jim started for the door, tossing a few marks on the bar to cover his bill.

Reflections

Baron Frederick von Glower stood at the window of his room in the hunting lodge, gazing out at the surrounding forest. There were few visible gaps in the trees. One was where the land fell away to a steep ravine, another held a small bed and breakfast. A little farther off there was open space, but the forest ran right to the edge of the village about a mile away. It had always before been secluded enough for his purposes. But now that security was threatened. Threatened by forces both within and without his life.

Baron Frederick von Glower was a werewolf. No, not quite the angst ridden hairy faced sort portrayed by Universal, cursed by the piercing of an errant fang. He was pure, a born werewolf. His father had acquired the family curse when he molested a young gypsy girl, and the ignorant slut killed herself. Stubborn people, the Rom. They held a grudge. His father, who had gone by the sobriquet The Black Wolf, was cursed to take the form of the beast his actions resembled. He had become a werewolf.

But, being a baron, he had acted with impunity for several years. He escaped retribution for his crimes long enough to sire Frederick and see him grow to the age of reason. Long enough to tell his son what they were, and prepare him for the change that might otherwise have killed him, or driven him mad. But it couldn't go on forever. It had ended in 1758 with his father howling away his life in cleansing flames, placed there by a schattenjaeger.

"Schattenjaeger." Friedrich was unaware that he had whispered the word. Schattenjaegers were born to seek out and destroy evil in all it's many forms. A schattenjaeger was, by definition, the enemy of his kind. Frederick shook his head, dark curls ruffling. It was just all so unfair.

He didn't feel evil. What he was... what he did. The stalk, the hunt, the kill... He was a wolf, and the humans were his for the taking. It was only right, it was only natural. But it was a lonely existence.

Wolves were not meant to live alone. They thrived in a pack. And Frederick was alone, had been alone for most of his long life. Human companions aged and died, and there was always the danger that the wolf in him would see them as prey. He'd tried to make others of his own kind. His luck had been spectacularly bad.

Every one he chose either did not survive the transformation, or went mad soon after. And when they went mad, he had to find a way to destroy them. It was difficult. He couldn't kill his children himself. The curse would have wreaked the same damage upon Frederick that he visited on one of his bloodline. He was forced to employ human agents to dispose of his sad, suffering offspring, and it broke his heart, every time.

He had begun the hunt club in a desperate effort to find the sort of men who would be most likely to survive the transformation intact. He'd developed the club's philosophy of living fully in the moment, disregarding the outdated concepts of good and evil, and extending one's physical being in order to expand one's spiritual being in an effort to prepare their minds. If their minds were already more wolflike when the gift was bestowed, would they not be more likely to retain a grip on reality?

Garr Von Zell had been his fondest hope. Garr. Frederick closed his eyes, remembering. He'd first met the young man on the club circuit. It was his physical presence that attracted Frederick first. His blonde hair was worn long, in a fashion that had flourished in Frederick's youth, and had now returned to popularity. And his eyes were dark, hot pools that missed nothing. They most especially did not miss the baron's interest.

He was impressive. Near Frederick's own height, broader. His shoulders filled the well tailored jackets, the custom made pants showed off long, strong legs. When they were closer, later, Frederick reveled in the smooth sweep of his chest, the ridged abdomen, the tight, hard butt. From the first time they came together physically, a sweaty rutting in a secluded steam room, Frederick had known that there was already more than a little of the animal in Von Zell's nature. It had made him hope...

Von Zell absorbed the philosophy, espousing it without reserve. When von Glower felt he was ready, he revealed his true nature. And he prayed that he would not have to slay the young man who had become his friend, and lover. He was relived when Von Zell expressed nothing but joy and excitement, and begged for the blessing of Frederick's mark.

It had been good for a time, so good. The baron closed his eyes, sighing in sweet pain as the memories flooded back. Racing through moonlit forest with the large brown wolf keeping pace at his side. Playing with some pitiful tramp, herding the prey between them till it fell in gibbering terror beneath their fangs. Rutting, in animal or human form, on forest bed or silken sheets. It had been glorious, and he'd been happy, for a time. Then it had soured.

Garr had not escaped the madness. He'd become most difficult, moody and insubordinate. He chaffed at Frederick's rules, unmindful that they were in place for their own protection. The cattle must not be overly frightened. Yes, he and Von Zell were the hunters. But even hunters could not survive the panic of a maddened herd.

When the mutilation killings had started, he'd known deep inside that it was Von Zell. The sham of the escaped zoo wolves was so pathetic. Only the blind public could believe such shit. But Frederick had willed himself to not see it. He had been willfully ignorant. Because if it were Garr responsible for bringing so much unwanted, dangerous attention, then von Zell would have to be dealt with, with finality.

So he had ignored it as the body count mounted, and danger drew closer. But he had been reviewing the other club members, trying to decide if any of them were ready to take von Zell's place at his side. Perhaps Pryce, if he could be persuaded away from his whores...

Then an angel had walked into the hunt club. A vision. He'd heard Xavier arguing with someone in the lobby, and had gone out to investigate, and there he was. Gabriel Knight. Frederick was bemused by the brash American. Gabriel was, quite simply, a beautiful man. He was a half head shorter than von Glower. Just the size, Frederick had thought, to fit comfortably. He was strong, sturdy. There'd be no fear of injuring this one unduly in love, play, or battle. His hair was a russet spill, the lights picking out gold and red strands in the tresses that brushed his shoulders. The face was handsome, and the mouth was delicious: wide, well formed, lips forever curling in an impish smile. The voice was a thick, honeyed drawl that made von Glower long to hear what he would sound like panting and moaning.

With no hesitation, Frederick had invited him back into the sanctum, invited him into the club and into his life. Garr had not been please. He was jealous of course, but he was also suspicious. Normally, von Glower would have put this down to the paranoia that had accompanied his lover's other emotional problems. But to be safe, after his new friend left, he had made some phone calls. What he'd found out had troubled him, but fascinated him even more.

It seemed that the young man from New Orleans was a schattenjaeger. In fact, he was a descendent of the very man who had delivered Frederick's father to the tender mercies of the villagers. Frederick didn't hold that against him. After all, it had been many lifetimes ago. But his status opened up intriguing possibilities.

Gabriel, like himself, had ties to the supernatural through birth, through his very blood. It did not stretch logic to believe that this might allow him to not only withstand transformation, but actually thrive. A schattenjaeger must already possess the nature of a hunter. And Gabriel had a shrewd, sly nature. It was obvious beneath his charm.

Before they had finished sharing their first stein of beer in the club's common room, Frederick had determined that Gabriel Knight would be his next companion, and lover. He had hoped to have time for seduction, but it seemed that von Zell had removed that possibility.

Gabriel had come to him that afternoon, ashen faced. He had been near speechless with horror, able only to stammer about something in the forest. He had led von Glower to the hidden cave, and waited outside as Frederick entered, and saw the festering remains of von Zell's secret victims. Foolish, foolish child, Frederick had raged silently. Greedy, mad, pitiful child. There was no choice now: Garr must die. Wasn't Friedrich lucky to have the perfect agent at hand?

The sun had gone down as he stood by the window, reviewing the past and contemplating the future. Near dusk, a pair of hikers had entered the clearing around the lodge, only to be turned away by Pryce. They had been a handsome pair. One was a tower of lean muscle, dark hair cropped brutally short. His companion was slim, smaller. His dark brown hair tumbled past his shoulders in curls and waves. There was an unspoken physical communication between them that hinted at something more than friendship. Interesting.

Just before it was time to meet Gabriel in the stables and begin the hunt for von Zell, one of the hikers returned. It was the youth. He skirted the edge of the clearing around the lodge, keeping near the trees. He alternated between staring at the ground and gazing up into the full moon. His body language bespoke someone who was feeling very sorry for themselves. Where was his hulking companion? Didn't he know it wasn't safe to allow such a little sweetmeat to wander alone at night? Had there been a lover's quarrel? Frederick watched him disappear into the woods, and frowned. The boy was heading toward Garr's lair.

The Hunt

moon the moon calls answer A long, low howl reverberates in the wolf's throat. It is oddly musical, almost gentle. It is a lover's call. He raises his head and spins out the sound. letting it spiral up to the silver disk floating over head. The moon, his only mistress.

The thing that is often mostly wolf, and sometimes mostly man, but never again wholly either, melts between deep pools of forest shadows. Black eyes that should be luminous green or yellow lift again to the agent of his change this night. The trigger, yes, but not the source of the hot, sweet madness that runs through his blood and buzzes in his mind. That source has blue eyes. blood for you tonight moon yes he thinks. Or does he think? Sometimes he only is. But, images, sensations remembered, or thoughts, they are there. blood for you tonight and for Him

The wolf has crawled from the stinking cavern that is his lair. He has left behind the half gnawed, putrescent remains of an arm that once belonged to a tourist, a very careless tourist. He could have finished it easily, snapping the bones in strong jaws to feast on coagulated marrow, but he did not. Tonight, he must remain empty till the right meat is found. Tonight, he hunts special prey. He hunts the human slut who has captured the heart of his Master and lover.

The scent is here, thick on the ground. Yes, The Slut has been here. Von Zell saw him this afternoon, saw his pale, shocked face loom over the feeding pit. Then he was gone, and Garr did not pursue, not then. He knew, and the wolf knew, that Gabriel Knight the slut would return when his mistress rode the night sky, and the change was smooth and easy. And von Zell would tear out his throat for daring to fascinate the man he belonged to, who belonged to him.

Another howl, mournful and raging, bubbled up. Frederick black wolf, how can you? How can you want that whey faced smirking bitch? I will gut him, then I will fuck him. (t) Das wird es dir zeigen, Meister. Oh, but the beast withing has it's limitations. The human part of the mind can hold an intention, but the animal part is easily distracted. It lives in the moment, and at this moment there is something... interesting nearby. He can smell it. He moves stealthily through the bushes, following the rich, warm scent that the night breeze has brought him. Prey.

He finds him easily, and keeps pace with him at a distance: observing, drinking in sight, smell, sound. A young man, more a boy, really. Alone. He is dragging his feet in the forest cover of leaves and twigs, now and then heaving a sigh. Why would one so young and bursting with life feel sad?

He catches the soft mutters, and there is still enough of his human brain left to understand them. "Dammit, Jim. Why d'ya have to be so godawful dense? Why do I have to be so fucking shy? Why aren't you here with me?"

So, Garr was not the only one with an obstinate lover. He felt a pang of kinship with the young man, and in an instant his focus shifted. He was still prey, yes. He would always be prey. But prey of a different sort.

They were too close to the lodge. He needed to drive the boy deeper into the woods. It shouldn't be hard, he need only show himself. He cut around until he was between the youth and the safety of the clearing. Then he leaped from his cover, directly into the startled boy's path. The immediate reaction was as it should have been.

Blue eyes flew wide in terror, and a shout of alarm arose as he stumbled back, turning to run. Von Zell snarled, and leapt. He hit the boy in the small of the back, driving him to the ground. He stayed on top of the thrashing body, catching the back of his soft T-shirt in his teeth and ripping it half away. Then he closed his jaws over the nape of the delicate neck, his fangs coming to dimple the tender skin of his throat on either side. The boy went limp. good pup The brown wolf tightened his jaws a fraction, letting the boy know what was possible. The slender body was wracked by a bone shaking tremor, but otherwise he didn't move. This one knew the signals of domination and submission. Garr slowly released his grip, then licked the exposed neck and back. He lapped intently for a moment, tasting the salt of sweat, and the indefinable tang of terror. It was an intoxicating mixture.

Perhaps that was why the boy managed to escape. He convulsed suddenly. Von Zell, happily bemused by his delicious taste, was taken unaware, and thrown off. Even before he could right himself, his prey had gone, running before he had even fully gained his feet.

It was to be a chase, then? So be it. The end result would be the same. Garr hunted his quarry through the hushed cathedral of the wood. Sometimes the boy drew ahead, but von Zell never lost track of him. Finally, when he must be near collapse with exhaustion, his prey went to earth. He chose a thick patch of bush and crawled inside, curling up small, hoping to evade his pursuer. Von Zell found him easily. His scent was too raw, too powerful to miss.

Remembering how the boy had thrown him off the first time, the human part of the wolf's brain suggested that strong arms and legs could hold better than merely jaws. And it would be good if the boy survived at least long enough for Garr to spill himself into his body. Living heat was preferable to cooling flesh. So von Zell transformed. It wasn't as easy shifting back to human form under his Mistress Moon's gaze as it had been letting his wolf self emerge, but he did it. He stood up from the ground as a man, in outward appearance, at least. He spared a thought for his lover, back at the lodge. Perhaps he was even now burying himself deep in the honey voiced American. . (t)Du bist noch nicht zufrieden, Frederick? Das bin ich ebenso wenig.

There was a small rustle as he neared, a quiet panting. The childlike voice said plaintively, "Jim? Ellison, that you, man?"

(t)"Nein, das Kind, ich nicht dein Jim." Von Zell pushed aside the last branches, and there he was, crouched on the ground. The youth looked up quickly, and a fleeting second of relief washed over his expression at the sight of a man instead of a ravening wolf.

The young man's thick, dark hair was tangled and filled with twigs and burrs. lines of blood marred his face, neck, and arms where he had been lashed by branches and thorns. He was quite, quite beautiful.

The boy pup started to smile tentatively. Then he saw von Zell's eyes, and screamed instead. Before he could scramble back into the thicket, Garr pounced and caught his ankles. He dragged the kicking, squirming man out into the moonlight of the open space between trees, then he fell on top of him.

(t)"Mein armer, schatz kleiner Kerl, nich ein Stuck zartlich Fleisch. Und ich bin sehr, sehr mager."

Translations: "Das wird es dir zeigen, Meister." A lesson for you, Master.
"Du bist noch nicht zufrieden, Frederick? Das bin ich ebenso wenig" You are not satisfied, Frederick, neither am I.
"Nein, Kind, ich bin nicht dein Jim." No, child, I am not your Jim.
"Mein armer, heiher Kleiner. Du bist ein leckeres Steihen Fleisch, und ich bin sehr, sehr hungrig" My poor, pretty little beggar, another piece of tender meat. And I am very, very hungry. 

Apprehension

Jim could move quietly when he wanted to, and he wanted to tonight. If Blair was asleep already, he didn't want to wake him. He'd need a little time to screw up his courage to do what he'd decided to do on the way back to the little inn.

Jim had decided that, finally, he was going to make love to Blair. That was, if Blair would have him. Jim really didn't want to think about what would happen if Blair didn't want him. He'd never used force to satisfy his physical desires. But then, no one had ever turned him on like Blair did. Truthfully, Jim was a little afraid. Afraid of what he might do if he was rejected.

But he knew Blair was gone before he reached the room they shared. The sound of the reassuring heartbeat, the rhythm that had pulled him back from dangerous distances in his mind and soul, was absent. His scent lingered in the room, that distinct, special Blairsmell, but it was fading a bit. He'd been gone for a little while. The covers of the big bed were smooth, unrumpled. Where was he?

Jim didn't feel alarmed, not just yet. After all, they weren't genetically joined at the hip. Blair needed time alone, occasionally. But... but he was in an alien territory. Jim didn't like the thought of him wandering around, alone, in a strange place. Especially with the woods so close by. While the near tamed German forest could not compare to the Peruvian jungles that had honed his sentinel sensibilities, still... Forests held dangers. That was a truth that would not change as long as man walked the face of the earth.

Unwilling, indeed unable, to wait for his companion's return, Ellison went back down stairs to the lobby. The elderly manager was, as always, on a stool behind his desk. He was patiently carving a block of dark, dark wood. Shavings curled around his feet and on the counter. He looked up with friendly inquiry as the big American approached. (t)"Gutten aben."

"Gutten aben," Jim answered. (t)"Haben Sie meinen Freund gesehen?"

The old man scratched his chin, and smiled. (t)"Den heirhen Jungen?" Jim flushed a little, but there was no condemnation or cynicism in his manner. (t)"Haben Sie beide sich gestritten?"

Jim's flush deepened. (t)"Nein." But under his breath he muttered, (t)"Er ist nur eine Nervens."

The old man shook his head, shrugging. (t)"Er ist noch jung und voller zermut Er ist spazieren gegangen."

Great, Jim thought. A walk, at this time of night, in the woods. (t)"Danke."

As Jim started to turn away, the innkeeper said, "Herr Ellison?" When Jim looked back at him questioningly, the old man looked grave. He held up what he had been carving. It was a small figurine of a wolf. The man was talented. The lupine form captured in the dark wood was sleek and powerful, almost elegant. The woodcarver said quietly, (t)"Es ist Vollmond heute Nacht. Der Schwarze Wolf wird auf der Jagd sein." There was no teasing in his voice, no amusement in his expression as he said, (t)"Finden Sie Ihren Freund besser schnel, Herr Ellison."

There's no need to panic, Ellison, he told himself as he headed for the exit. But he found his steps quickening, and when he went through the door into the crisp night air, he was moving at a fast trot. He headed off along the path that led to the hunting lodge he and Blair had discovered that afternoon. This was where the scent was freshest.

At the lodge, the trail veered off into the woods. No, Blair, Jim groaned inwardly. How many times have I told you about the forest, the jungle? How many times have I warned you? And you probably went in just for that reason, didn't you? To show me. Sulky, stubborn...

His keen vision picked out crushed blades of grass, bent twigs, easily marking Blair's passage. When I find him, he thought angrily, I think I'll whip his luscious little butt for scaring me like this.

Then all irritation was driven from Jim in a sweeping wash as he caught the other scent. It was strong, feral...dangerous. And it intersected Blair's path.

"No!" Jim cast about wildly, frantically sifting through the sensory details that threatened to overwhelm him. That heavy animal smell was bad, but the worst of it was an underlying, sour stink. Jim had smelled it before, when he was dealing with madmen. It was the smell of violent insanity. The mingling was like nothing Jim had ever experienced: horrifying, nauseating. And, dear God, there was also a heady whiff of what could only be pheromones. Whatever it was, man, beast, or some ungodly combination, it was lusting. And it had found Blair.

Translations "Haben Sie meinen Freund gesehen?" Have you seen my friend?
"Den heirhen Jungen? Haben Sie beide sich gestritten?" The pretty boy? Did you have a fight?
"Nein. Er ist nur eine Nervens" No, he's a pain in the neck.
"Er ist noch jung und voller zermut" He's just young, and full of mischief."
"Er ist spazieren gegangen." He went for a walk.
"Es ist Vollmond heute Nacht. Der Schwarze Wolf wird auf der Jagd sein." It's the night of the full moon. The Black Wolf will be hunting.
"Finden Sie Ihren Freund besser schnel." Find your friend quickly.