Moon - The natural satellite of the Earth
Spell - Magic, a way of controlling or affecting something.
Blood - that's what it all comes down to. Bloodlust and craving and agony and ecstasy. And the moonspell, which brings love and hatred and pity in equal amounts.
My city is dark - I'm sitting here on a street corner; shadows dancing a conga as the breeze moves the skeletons of the trees. There's a snow tang in the air - I can smell it already, even though I'm still sort of human. And up there in a minute, the moon will rise - full and silver against ebony black cloud streamers.
I'm starting to pant - no breath heavily, because I'm still human, and I watch. The clothes don't cover my body properly any more and my muscles are screaming with impatience as they feel the moonbeams holding them in a web of silver. How silent this city was a second ago and how keen my ears are now. In the streets, a cab horse nickers nervously and I smile. It's blood, and it knows it.
Oh, yes, I'm human. I could be driving that horse raising a child or working in the market and you wouldn't know. But right now, I'm more than human. I won't be a wolf - I'm human in a wolf shape. The sweet tang of blood in my jaws, neck and shoulder muscles rippling in the kill and bones crunching, lupine sensations felt by a human mind and loved.
There are others like me. I can see one now, an old bloke, whose wolf form limps as he runs. There's a little child as well, no more than a puppy and she tears at my heart - she's too young for this. And there is Tazor; of course there is Tazor, all young male pride and lust and arrogance, beautiful, beautiful in the night. And me? I lead them all a dance, shimmering, glittering, in my city with Tazor at my heels.
I'm holding my breath. My clothes itch and I tear them off, stand naked in the dark, only I'm not naked. Silver fur, prickling as though it's made from needles reaches through my skin. I crouch down, doubled over as I change. Teeth grate; my tail curves a sickle in the night and nails scratch on the ground. I take the wolf form and embrace it with all my heart.
Tonight, I'm not hunting at first. Running instead - paws eating up dirt roads, brown streaked muzzle lifted to drink the wind until the moon sets. I will not tire - wolves never do. A werewolf might as well be immortal, and as the moon rises completely, I rise from my hunches and move off.
The city seems alive now, and Tazor lopes past me, head high. As we run together, silver and the need for blood hold us. Our jaws water and we howl to the wastes around us, to the men who don't believe in us. The howl echoes until Tazor snaps a challenge at it, and I know - with a human mind - that he is moon maddened.
I leap and snap at the moonbeams, glorying in the flight. No human ever had strength like this, power and speed and yet they call us victims. Warm, salty blood flows down my throat as I steal something from Tazor's jaws; tendon and sinew a taste beyond that of any feast for mankind.
In wolf form, there is no desire that you cannot take, physical or mental. Tazor and me are equal in moonlight, but at other times he is untouchable. In this form, I am his until the very end of time. When he is human, he is engaged and it is not to me that he has given his heart.
Together, we sate our desires. We run and hunt and feast on raw flesh. Golden eyes pierce the darkness; coats and teeth gleam and speeding paws beat a rhythm of elementary life.
Held by the moon, Tazor and me are locked together. We live and we are. After the dawn, I will stand in a factory and sow cloth. He will lounge in his father's palace, yellow eyes assessing the throne. But tonight, I love him and he is mine in the moonlight.
Werewolves are not victims - we have a life beyond yours, deeper and more vital. We have the moonspell and all that it brings. And I have Tazor, now and forever, until the moon fails.