I’d
like to welcome Paul McHew of Leading the
Pack by David J. O’Brien.
RW: What’s your story/back story? Why would
someone come up with a story about you?
PMCH: Am I allowed to say, because I’m a very
interesting man, with a very interesting story? I am one of a race of people who
have been feared, persecuted and killed for centuries by other humans, just
because of a very slight difference in our genetic make-up. This gives us a
very strong lunar rhythm, and a few extra hormones and neurotransmitters that
give us extraordinary strength—and a penchant for going a little crazy during
the full moon.
We are what you would call werewolves. We are not the
beasts, nor the shape shifters, that people believe us. We might be a little
bit hairier than most but the lies of us changing into animals were invented to
foment fear, because people don’t like anyone who’s different, who might
worship something other than their own god, who might seduce their daughter, or
their wife… We suffered for it. Our numbers were reduced to but a hundred
individuals, but now we are regaining ground and have retaken the streets of a
new city, far from our home on the Hungarian Plain and the slopes of the
Carpathian Mountains.
RW: During what time-period
does your story take place?
PMCH: It’s happening right now. The first book began back in the late eighties,
when I was leaving my pack to start a family with my wife, Susan. The second
book takes place just around the time of the stock market crash of 2009, when
my oldest son, Patrick, began to run the city during the full moon. The last
book details a problem we had a couple of years ago with some old…acquaintances,
let’s say…from our ancestral home. But we go on yet, through the silver nights,
side by side with the rest of humanity.
RW: What problems do you have to face and
overcome in your life?
PMCH: The greatest problem we face as a culture is
the conflict between remaining invisible among you, and finding mates from
outside our clan, necessitating we reveal our most guarded secret—a revelation
that engenders fear and abhorrence in most people. For me, that was the most
difficult time of my life. But problems come in threes, they say.
Watching my own son go out and make the same mistakes
I did, and more that I didn’t, was difficult. Seeing him struggle to control
his own pack in a city full of cameras recording our every move hurt me almost
as much as not knowing what to do with my own pack when I left them. It seemed
like nothing could be as difficult, until that other problem surged with those
parasitic scumbags arrived from the old country.
RW: How
are you coping with the conflict in your life?
PMCH: Most conflicts can be avoided. A stern look is
usually enough. People don’t want to press the issue to the point of physical
pain. It is sometimes entertaining to let conflicts flare a little, of course.
When I want to conclude them, I can snuff out the flames without much effort.
Violence is a tool we are most adept at using to our advantage.
The issue of whether to intervene in the goings-on
of a whole new pack, though, generates a conflict within myself:
on the one hand, no alpha can stay in power unless he is truly respected—and/or
feared—by his subordinates. On the other hand, the whole clan is watching, and
their future depends on things going smoothly as much as on the future of that
inept Alpha.
RW: Can you tell us about your hero/ine
PMCH: My mother has always been my hero. She died
when I was a young boy after having returned to Hungary during the Second World
War in order to try to save some of our family who would have been easily
targeted by the Nazis. She was taken for a gypsy and sent to the gas chambers
with them. She never tried to save herself for fear others of our race would be
exposed. And neither did the gypsies give her up to try to barter for better
conditions or even their lives, for which I will always owe them a debt of
gratitude.
She is an example to us all of self-sacrifice,
and a demonstration that the individual is not important; what matters is the
pack, the clan, our survival as a race.
RW: Ocean or mountains?
PMCH: The Mountains, without
a doubt. It’s nice to watch the moon rise over the ocean, to swim a little in
the oily deep. But it’s so much more inviting to run across the mountains,
through the forests, beneath the trees in the dappled silver shadows and to
hunt and chase the fleet and watching creatures as we did of old.
RW: City
life or country life?
PMCH: Ah, there’s the conundrum for our young cubs… We are
wild like the forests but find our most interesting prey amid the concrete. It
requires control, balance, and experience to keep the wildness inside while
walking the streets. Sometimes we have to escape the confines of the buildings
and take to the forests, simply to stop ourselves doing something that might
draw too much attention.
RW: Where do you live?
PMCH: I have a house near enough to the city that I can get there quickly,
either by car, or running if necessary.
Yet it’s far enough away that it feels like the
country, for the city holds fewer attractions to me nowadays—I leave that all
to the young pack. Apart from the horses and cattle, we have some wild animals
with which to entertain ourselves of a full moon. And the grounds are enclosed,
to keep things private.
My family likes to entertain, and the house is
comfortably suited to gatherings of the whole clan.
RW: Black
or red?
PMCH: Black. The full moon makes many shadows, and we seek
to become part of those shadows. Red attracts attention, which is not what we
want. It is illuminated by the silver light and we avoid that, within reason.
RW: If
you came with a warning label, what would it say?
PMCH: “Treat with the respect he deserves.”
It’s so easy to have manners, but I find that many
people nowadays have forgotten theirs. And it’s upsetting. Sometimes I perform
what I consider my citizens’ duty, and remind people how to be nice. They
usually get the message.
RW: Satin
sheets or Egyptian cotton?
PMCH: During the full moon, if I am sleeping alone, I
almost prefer the forest floor. If not alone, then cotton. I find them more
durable than satin; sometimes you need traction, and satin usually ends up
getting ripped.
RW: Those
are all the questions I have for you. Thank you for speaking to me.
PMCH: It’s been a pleasure, Rochelle. Thanks for
inviting me.
David J. O’Brien
About David:
David is a writer, ecologist and teacher from Dublin,
Ireland, now living in Pamplona Spain. He has a degree in environmental biology
and doctorate in zoology, specialising in deer biology and is still involved in
deer management in his spare time.
As an avid wildlife enthusiast and ecologist, much of David’s
non-academic writing, especially poetry, is inspired by wildlife and science.
While some of his stories and novels are contemporary, others seek to describe
the science behind the supernatural or the paranormal.
A long-time member of The World Wildlife Fund, David has
pledged to donate ten percent (10%) of his royalties on all his hitherto
published books to that charity to aid with protecting endangered species and
habitats. Ten percent (10%) of his royalties on The Silver Nights Trilogy
will also be donated to Survival International, the movement for Tribal
Peoples.
You can find out more and read some poems and short stories
at http://davidjmobrien.wordpress.com.
Leading the Pack
Alphas aren’t elected; they’re self-selected.
Life has been good since Paul McHew left his werewolf pack
twenty years ago and married Susan. Patrick is the eldest of their four
children and feels the pull of the full moon earlier than his father had.
Patrick itches for the city, but things have changed since
his father’s time. The economy is booming and everyone has a smart phone. But
in a post 9-11 world, where security cameras abound, everyone is being watched.
Patrick must make the city streets his own as the eldest of a
new generation. To do that, he must learn to control his own impulses and those
of his pack mates, if he hopes to become their leader.
Encountering a potential mate and facing a definite rival,
can Patrick be the alpha everyone expects him to be?
Ten
percent (10%) of the author’s royalties will be donated to
WWF, the World Wildlife Fund, and to Survival International.
An Excerpt:
The man lifted himself up and held the limp
animal by the ears. He exposed the throat. With his two left canines he ripped
a hole through the soft skin. Blood started to drip. He put the opening to his
mouth and sucked up the flowing liquid. Then he lifted the body up over his
head and raised his mouth to drink it all, taking the legs between his fingers
and pulling, to push the blood through the limbs and torso.
When the corpse ceased dripping, he put his
fingers through the hole and ripped off the head, tossing it aside. Then he
pulled the skin back off the muscles in one piece. The animal skinned, he bit
into the muscular back legs and tore off strips of raw meat. Barely chewing, he
swallowed hard on the flesh and walked through the paddock under the moonlight.
He caught the scent of the cattle and deer on
the wind and, coming from the other side of a hill, heard the neigh of a horse,
then a long, drawn out howl. He grinned to himself. The blood still on his lips
dripped to his chin.
The animal consumed and his stomach filled, the
man wondered what to do now that particular desire had been satiated.
A voice whispered to him.
He’d been told the voice would come. He’d been
instructed to ignore it—it was just in his head. He was curious, though. The
voice had a soft tone; seductive and conspiratorial. It was his friend—at least
that’s what it sounded like. The voice told him that the people in the big
house he could see half a mile off, a pale sentinel in the moonlight over the
fields, were all against him. He should stop listening to them. They were only
trying to control him because they feared his power, his ability. He was a
hunter, a wolf. The voice said he didn’t need them or anyone to take down a
deer—or a bull, if he wanted to. And he didn’t need to obey their rules. They
were merely jealous of his prowess.
He looked at the house. No doubt those inside
watched his every move through the meadows. His bedroom was in there, at the
extreme end of the right wing. It had been easy to leap down from the second
floor. He could climb back up there, too, quite easily. But the voice was
right. Why would he want to do that? Just because the other inhabitants said
that was best?
He turned his back on the big house. What was
it, really, but a prison? Yes, it was his home. The only home he’d ever known.
Yet tonight it felt like a prison: one that had held him for too long. It would
hold him no longer. Not for this night. Tonight he would run. The voice was
right; he could escape.
Energy surged through him. He ran. Through the
trees, faster and faster, dodging trunks, leaping over deadfall. Deer skittered
ahead of him through the dappled silver. He suddenly came to a wall and stopped.
It was a very high wall—probably twice his height.
The ground sloped down toward it, making it higher
still at its base.
The city lay beyond the wall. Running a few
miles more would take him there.
He imagined the city, the streets, before him.
He could sprint though them, seek more seductive objectives; find more exciting
pursuits than hunting and killing hares and deer.
He could make it. He could leap onto the wall.
He stepped back and took a run. Jumping from a
few feet out, he hit the smooth stone with one foot, bounced off that and
stretched his hand out. Grabbing the top edge, he easily pulled himself up. He
stood on the wall, grinning triumphantly. He was free. He’d escaped the prison
that sought to encircle him, to bind his life inside.
He readied himself to drop onto the narrow road
running along the outside of the wall, then looked back, as if to say goodbye.
As he turned, however, he noticed another figure standing on the wall, not ten
feet away.
“Get down from the wall, Patrick,” the other man
said.
A thought flashed through Patrick’s mind—that
he could attack. He instantly rose up on the balls of his feet and tensed his
muscles. He could pounce, like he’d pounced on the hare. Two quick steps along
the top of the wall, a powerful leap through the air with a twist, and he’d
land his feet on the other man’s chest: kick him clean off the wall.
The voice in his brain told him to go ahead.
But the thought disappeared just as quickly. He
had no real fear of the man, but he did have knowledge of his ability; his
fitness, his prowess. He was not big. He was, on the contrary, deceptively
small. The body contained a power difficult to comprehend. This man would react
faster than the hare had. And he was ready for Patrick, prepared for an attack.
Though older—more than twice Patrick’s age—he was yet in his prime. He had
leapt onto the wall just as easily as Patrick had himself; more so, since he’d
not made a sound. The fight that would ensue from any aggression would leave
both of them badly injured, and Patrick perhaps maimed.
“Which side?” Patrick asked.
“Whichever you want. If you get down on the
same side you got up, you can walk back to the house. If you get down on the
other side, I’ll have to carry you. You’ll have two broken legs. And you won’t
be out catching rabbits tomorrow night.”
His tone was not angry, nor even very menacing.
But the matter-of-factness chilled Patrick even more than an overt threat. Or
fury.
Patrick knew he could not fight the older man.
However, he could, perhaps, run. Maybe he could outpace him, flee to the city.
But the other man would catch him. Before
Patrick had gone a mile, he’d have reached him, and he’d drag Patrick back. And
yes, he’d have broken legs when they arrived.
Patrick heard a woman’s voice, then. Hearing it
made his mind up for him. “Don’t hurt him, Paul,” it said.
The woman who spoke knew the threat the other
man, Paul, held.
Patrick stood down from the balls of his feet,
relaxed his muscles and bowed his head in defeat. “Okay, Dad.” He nodded, then
stepped off the wall and lightly dropped to the grass beneath.
The woman stood off under the trees. Patrick
could just see her in the shadow, her long hair and full figure. Her hands
rested on her hips, as if cross; unwilling to put up with this behaviour.
She had positioned herself far enough away that
she’d be out of view of any fight, but easily within earshot in the calm, quiet
night. She also didn’t want to see Patrick’s naked form, he assumed. He didn’t
want her to see, either. There was a time when he’d been perfectly comfortable
with her seeing him naked, the same as he’d seen her.
It still felt natural to be naked. Just not
within her view.
“Run up to the house now, and have a drink,
Patrick,” she said. “There’s a pitcher of beer on the porch.”
Patrick nodded. “Thanks, Mum.” He started
jogging off under the trees.
“There’s a pair of shorts there, too, if you
want to put them on,” she called after him.
He halted. “Why?” His father was as naked as
he.
“Practice, Patrick; practice.”
Contact
David:
Website
& Blog: https://davidjmobrien.wordpress.com
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/DavidJMOBrien
Amazon
Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/David-J.-OBrien/e/B00M60M6Y0
Book
Links:
Amazon US:
Amazon UK:
Ed. Note: You’ll notice I placed the publisher’s buy
link first. That’s because authors receive 40-50% of the book price from the
publisher. Editors and cover artists receive 5-10%. When you buy a book from
Amazon, Barnes & Noble or another third-party vendor, they take a hefty cut
and the author, editors and cover artists receive their royalties from what is
left. So, if a book costs $5.99 at E-BookPublisher.com and you buy from there,
the author will receive about $2.40. If you buy the book at Amazon, the author
will receive about $0.83.
When you buy
directly from the publisher, you download the book onto your computer as a
mobi, prc, e-pub, pdf, or html file. You can download your books onto your
computer using “Save As” to a “Books” folder you create and sort them into
sub-folders by genre, author, or however you wish before transferring them to
your e-reader. That way, if there’s a glitch with your e-reader, the books are
on your computer. My publisher gives you each book in all available formats. I
suggest downloading all of them. You never know when something may happen to
your e-reader and it will be replaced by one that uses a different format. If
you’ve downloaded all formats, you won’t need to buy another copy—you’ll
already have a compatible copy in your Books folder.
Downloading
the file from your computer to your e-reader is as easy as transferring a file
from your computer to a USB flash drive. Once you’ve saved the book to your
computer plug the larger USB end of your e-reader’s power chord into a USB port
on your computer and simply move the file from the folder you created on your
computer to your e-reader’s “Documents/Books” directory. Voila! Happy reading!
