Chapter 2

Charlotte is one of my favorite names. I hope to have a daughter someday so I can name her Charlotte.

Chapter 2

 

            For as many legends and myths as there are that surround our world, there are just as many truths that might shed light upon those misconceptions. In most cases, we are relieved by the misconceptions as they act as a veil to the truth. Despite our desperate amour for humans, there are things that exist in our world that shouldn’t exist in theirs. For that reason, we try very diligently to draw a line in the sand and keep ourselves restrained to one side. To keep the myths alive and the secrets well guarded. Humans, in general, are in no way ready to face the truth of what exists beyond their realm of understanding in their world.

            The amount of legends that relate to Lycanthropes are as numerous as the stars and most are entirely fabricated and false. But there are a few, foremost, that should be acknowledged and justified.

            A silver knife or bullet may kill a Lycan. Well, there is some unfortunate truth to this, but it is not so mystical as legends would suggest. It is a genetic disposition of our kind to have an extreme allergy to silver; much like a human might to bee stings or nuts, and the result is anaphylaxis shock that can potentially kill if left untreated. The treatment is simple, as it is in humans, and shots of steroids might reduce the symptoms. While simple skin-contact does not harm us, exposure to the blood stream initiates the anaphylactic response that can be deadly. There have been a number of abuses of this very precious information; syringes filled with a liquid form of silver injected into the body from which there is no recovery and the result is inescapable. Also, silver bullets tend to be a very common weapon against us, being that the legend is a bit more common and the result no less effective. Despite our best efforts to keep this genetic defect a secret, I’m afraid there are very few in the world who have not heard it once or twice.

            The full moon might change us into our wolven skin, beyond our ability to control it. This myth, in particular, intrigues me simply because of how very far from the truth it has evolved. It is natural for humans to paint what they do not know and cannot understand in shadow and horror, but to be taken from protector to predator is quite a leap. It is exceedingly rare that a Lycan should attack or harm a human. Doing so is in direct violation of the laws laid down by the Goddess at our beginning and is punishable by death or exile. Not to say that it hasn’t happened, there are always deviants and delinquents in every race, but its occurrence is far too unnatural and rare to have caused the vast bloom of common acknowledgement this myth has received. I’ve seen the images of the “wolfman” and the gruesome situations it implies and am adequately horrified at the portrait that is painted of us. Something so grotesque and utterly foul, imperfect and deformed is nearly insulting.

While the full moon, being the symbol and soul-bonding tether to our Goddess, does heighten our strength, it has no effect on our ability to refer to our natural wolf-like form. It does, however, signal a hormonal shift in our blood that is on a monthly cycle, much like humans experience these same hormonal cycles, and during that night of the full moon’s light is the one and only time when our bite is considered venomous.

I say venomous, but my own research has proven that this complex, which appears in our saliva only once a month, is a very elegant substance with a single purpose. With so few of us in existence, even from the beginning, it was necessary that there be some kind of failsafe in case our numbers dwindled and we came under threat of extinction. This venom is that failsafe and, should there be a lacking of males or females that threatens the longevity of our race, we are supplied with an alternate means of producing offspring to help regain our numbers. But the process of that transformation is highly dangerous and very few who undergo it actually survive. The ones that do may or may not be mentally stable. There seems to be, through the historical documents I was able to find, a trend of suicides afterwards that relates to the inability of the human mind to embrace what it hasn’t felt before. Some are able to overcome this, but only a very few and the ones that don’t are reduced to psychosis and usually take their own life.

These unnaturally made Lycans, or Lessers as we call them, are not pure blooded and so are not as strong as those who are born into this race. Their senses tend to be less acute and they do not enjoy all of the long years of life that our kind typically are endowed. But they are capable of producing or siring natural and pure blooded Lycan pups and so therein lies their purpose and by extension, the purpose of our venom.

There are laws in place to protect humans from those who might try to raise an army of these Lessers. Or who might seek turn a human into a Lycan for their own selfish gain. There are laws for human protection and for our own protection, but as is ever repeated in the volumes of history…laws that should have never been challenged are often broken.

 

~>*<~

 

Morning found Charlotte cold and eager to get into the shower. She bathed, taking careful time to comb the tangles from her long dark blonde hair and assemble the wayward soft curls into some kind of order. Kimberly had insisted all through high school that Charly should wear makeup and so finally, she had conceded to a few modest things. She would powder her face only lightly, apply a very small amount of blush to the very corners of her cheeks, and paint brown mascara carefully onto her long gold lashes. That done, she was forced to agree with Kim that the makeup did make her look a bit more civilized. A bit more grown up.

            She dressed herself in a scoop-neck sweater of lavender colored knitted wool and a pair of dark jeans, pausing before her mirror to eye her narrow, willowy frame with a scrutinizing eye. From a small, polished wooden jewelry box she drew out a dainty silver heart-shaped pendant lined with tiny chips of sapphire on a long sterling chain and clasped it about her neck. It had been a birthday gift from Kim several years ago and she’d taken special care to keep it clean and as pretty as the day she’d gotten it.

            Tucking her cell phone into her back pocket, she descended the stairs to the sound of her mother clamoring around in the kitchen again. The lingering atmosphere of the previous night’s discussion drove Charly to the front door to slip on her tennis shoes and tuck her coat under her arm before she went outside. She had little interest in trudging through a conversation with her mother, pretending that she hadn’t heard anything from the night before. Today, she doubted her skills to efficiently cover up any lingering emotions about what had been said.

            The air was still starkly chilly outside despite how late in the morning it was. It was nearly 10:30 and she pulled her car keys from the pocket of her coat, unlocking the driver’s side door to her 1989 Dodge Charger. The vehicle lacked everything in presence and sophistication; it was bulky and large with an engine that snarled like an angry bear. The silver coloring was due to the color of the metal it was made of, rather than any sort of paint. The interior was threadbare silver fabric and smelled strongly of gasoline, gun cleaner, and oil but it was more or less clean. Its short, stocky structure could turn on a dime and the loud, roaring engine earned it the town-renowned name of the “beast.”  But what it was lacking in aesthetics, it more than compensated for in efficiency. The 4x4 had yet to come across terrain it couldn’t cross and her father had insisted that it was the safest vehicle in all of Westcliffe. That, by extension, made it more suitable to be Charly’s primary mode of transportation.

             Setting her coat on the passenger’s seat, Charly cranked the beast to life and the old truck snorted and choked to life, soon growling with a vengeance.

The racket brought her curious mother into the doorway, tipping her head to the side and wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Where are you going?”

Charly made a diligent effort to cast her a genuine smile, “Meeting Kim in town. Be back later.”

Her mother didn’t question her further and ducked back inside the house, leaving Charly to back out onto the gravel driveway and begin the drive into town. Hermit Road was a long and unbearably straight drive that led straight from Bellamy farms to Westcliffe, passing a few smaller farms that were scattered along the way. Most were friends of her fathers and people she’d known all her life. The Sangre de Cristo Mountains scraped the cloudless blue sky in her rear view mirror, majestic white-capped giants that shielded the tiny town from the rest of creation. Wild and untamed, for the most part. Filled with wolves, cougars, and god knew what else. They were her relentless Cerberus, guarding the passageway into the world.

Silver Stone stood on Main Street right in the center of town and Charly was able to make the drive in only fifteen minutes. She parked the beast on the lonely street, hardly a soul stirring in the already meagerly populated place, and didn’t bother to lock the doors as she made her way up the sidewalk towards the little café. There wasn’t much to it, but it was something of a local favorite.

Inside, Kimberly was already perched a table by the window, pecking away at her cell phone with her legs crossed and her posture perfect. Of the two of them, Kim was the more dainty and elegant choice. She was taller and far more graceful, her hair of dark brown always flat ironed to perfection with her few little bangs assembled into bobby pins. Her makeup was always flawless and her clothes impeccable. It might have made any other girl check herself and steer away, feeling perhaps too inadequate to be seen around someone like Kim. But Charly was rarely intimidated by anyone or anything and she’d known Kim long enough to attest to her friend’s good heart and generous spirit. Kim was an incessantly good person with a sunny disposition, to Charly’s experienced knowledge, and was hardly able to see a fault in anyone, even if they should have many.

Kim looked up to smile broadly as the little shop’s bell tinkled over the door announced Charly’s arrival. She tossed her phone into her purse, standing quickly to embrace her friend.

“I ordered for you already, the usual of course.” Kim beamed, looking over Charly’s face and taking sudden interest in her transparently quiet mood. “What’s wrong?”

Any other person who might’ve asked after the gloom in her attitude would have been met with a shrug or a deflective shy smile, but Charly knew that wouldn’t work for her here. But in Kim’s case, she was relieved to be in the presence of her confidant and sat down across from her at the little two-person table by the window, looking down at the tabletop and gathering her words.

Kim was patient and knowing of her friend’s quiet disposition, waiting and resting her elbows on the table, dark brown eyes curious and concerned. A waitress came, balancing a round tray with two frozen coffees and two bowls of chicken and cheese soup, setting them on the table between the girls and leaving without a word. There was a simple sort of understanding in the town in regards to the conversations between Miss Charlotte Montgomery and Miss Kimberly James; everyone knew that there was absolutely nothing that was important enough to interrupt them. They were two giggling conspirers better left to their own.

“My mother.” Charly started, once the waitress had left, her green eyes downcast and thoughtful as she stirred her soup with a spoon. “She was talking about Sam to my dad last night.”

“And you were eavesdropping, accidentally as always.” Kim was already thoroughly involved with her frozen coffee, stirring it with a straw and tasting it. “I might’ve known this is what it was. Is he coming this year? Usually he’s already causing you grief by now.”

Charly smiled faintly, nodding a little as she swirled her spoon in the thick yellow soup. “I think he’s still coming. He’ll be here soon; in the next few days.” She took a tentative sip of the broth, looking up to meet her friend’s inquisitive dark eyes. “I think I’m going to let him like me. Or love me, depending on the severity of his disillusions about his feelings for me.”

Kim’s eyes widened, her face falling from a bemused grin as she stared at Charly from across the table. “That’s a horrible joke.”

“You have no idea.” Charly’s voice was quiet with defeat, “But I don’t know what else to do. I think it’s time I take an objective view of my life, before it’s too late. If I had more in the way of beauty, personality, or a skill that might justify me in fending him off, I wouldn’t be thinking about this at all. But my mother is right…my time is running out. If I don’t end up marrying Sam, I may never have another chance to marry anyone at all. Much less anyone who can take care of me and seems to genuinely like me. Maybe I’ve only been so reluctant to acknowledge him because he was their choice in the beginning and not my own. But what’s to say that their choice is a wrong one? I don’t see that I have any other choices at my disposal anyway. There’s nowhere else that I can go, nothing more I can do with my life. Why shouldn’t I be just as happy with Sam, living here, as anybody else?”

“It’s just common sense, for starters.” Kim snorted, sipping at her drink and sitting back in her chair, arms crossed in a disappointed pout. “You don’t give a second thought to Samuel Elrod, Charly, don’t try to persuade yourself that you do. If you start pretending to like him and end up marrying him, I will have to watch you live under that mistake until we’re both old ladies. I’d hope you wouldn’t put us both through that.”

Charly sighed, hardly having the will to eat as she stared into her soup, “I’m not like you, Kim. I’m not that pretty, not that confident, and certainly not that smart. College would be lost on me; I don’t have a hunger for learning anymore or the patience for it. Can I even afford to be romantic at all?”

“You’ve never been romantic before, why start now?” Kim asserted, reaching across the table to grasp her wrist, “Don’t be a martyr, it isn’t worth it. No one else would see what you did as a sacrifice except for me because I’m the only one who would know how you really felt. Isn’t there anything else you could do? You could go to trade school, maybe. Learn to style hair and we could open our own salon together here in town.”

The idea made Charly smile, but there was no spark of interest in her vivid green eyes. A year ago, Kim had gone to a local trade school four hours away to take classes and become a hairstylist. She’d come back, hoping to own her own salon someday as she’d talked about since they were girls, but for the time being was content to work at the Perfect Touch Salon & Day Spa as a part time stylist. Kim loved her job and it showed; she was renowned to be the best in the town when it came to colorings and highlights. People were full of praise for her and Kim delighted in it, always ready to please her customers. Watching her friend, so full of vigor and happiness with her work, made Charly look to her own set of skills for something she might pursue. Apart from being a fairly good cook, a mediocre pianist, and an excellent listener, she didn’t have much in the way of skills at her disposal.

“I can’t cut hair like you, Kim.” She cast her an apologetic smile, “I would shame your whole business and then no one would come to the salon for fear I’d lop their ear off.”

Kim laughed at that, beginning to eat her own soup and talk more genially and casually. It took the focus off of Charly’s gloomy mood and she welcomed that, conversing with her as they finished their lunch.

“Now, I have something to tell you that I’ve been saving.” Kim announced as the waitress came to retrieve their dishes, leaving them huddled across the table talking. “It happened only a day ago, but I decided to wait until I saw you next to tell you.”

Charly arched a brow, instantly curious.

            “Someone is moving into the old Dervyshire house.” Kim looked pleased at first, and then profoundly confused when Charly let out a heavy, exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes.

            “My mother beat you to that already.” She groaned, “I’ve heard all I ever care to hear about Dervyshire.”

            Kim was smug, grinning from ear to ear as she crossed her arms, “That’s only because your mother doesn’t know what I know. Our new neighbor came into my dad’s shop yesterday morning, apparently looking for a local craftsman who could duplicate the old wooden shutters on the place that are rotting. Of course, a job like that, with as many windows as the place has and each one of them needing a handcrafted piece, would be a small fortune in cost. But Charly, the man paid my father half up front in cash! Can you believe that?”

            Despite her former doubts, Charly found that her friend was right. This was a little more interesting. “Some celebrity then? It’d take somebody famous to have such deep pockets.”

            “You’d think so, but no.” Kim leaned in, whispering now as though she didn’t want anyone to hear. “His name is Dr. Fuerst and he inherited it, or so he said, from a relative who never lived in it but didn’t want the place to go to ruin. He’s moving there with his niece, who’s much younger than us, and is going to commute to a job in Canon City, St. Thomas More Hospital I think he said.”

            “That’s an hours commute. I wonder he would bother to live so far away from the city; why not just pay to have the house kept up and live closer, if he can afford such a frivolous living.” Charly frowned, “Wait, you’ve actually seen him?”

            Kim’s eyes shown like milky brown jewels, “Oh yes. He came to place the order and discuss it with my dad himself. I just happened to be there talking to mom when he came in.”

            Charly’s interest was now irrevocably attained, something she knew Kim would relish and draw out as long as she could. “You’re killing me, Kim, what did he look like? Probably some gray-headed old doctor with glasses as thick as coke bottles. Did his niece come with him?”

            “Not quite.” Kim’s lips curled into a perfectly smug little smile, “He doesn’t look a day over 25. Taller than most of the other men in town, at least 6 feet 4 inches, I would guess. Oh Charly, if only you’d been there to see him. I might’ve spoke but I couldn’t blink and breathe at the same time with him standing there.” She swooned in her chair, having obviously spent some time thinking about Dr. Fuerst. “He had black hair, cut sort of feathery about his neck and ears, but it suited him so well. At first I thought he might’ve been a sour sort of man because he’s got such a serious brow and looks as though he’s not smiled three times in his life, but he has such an easy, comfortable way of talking. My mother thinks he must be of some old rich noble family, maybe from Germany because he did have a very strong German accent.”

            Charly was baffled as she listened, glossing carefully over Kim’s indulging descriptions to a few little facts that caught her attention. He was young, he was a serious looking man, and he was German…or at least seemingly so. But upon hearing that so young a man could be a doctor, something she was sure required a long time of schooling, she wondered if he might be lying. But if he was foreign and so serious a man, then it made a little more sense.  “And his niece?”

            “She wasn’t with him, though he mentioned that she might attend the high school here this fall,” Kim obviously wasn’t as interested in the sister. “Charly, he was so handsome. He walked so proudly and when he talked to my father he sounded just like something from an old European romance movie. He even dressed like a gentleman! Black pants and shoes, and a button down shirt with a dark blue sweater. All were designer, of course, and I can’t even imagine how much it all that would’ve cost. He must be filthy rich.”

            “And single too, by the way you’re talking about him.” Charly giggled, covering her mouth bashfully as she watched her friend swoon and sigh. “Someone should warn poor Dr. Fuerst about all the eligible single women in Westcliffe before there’s a mountain of pound cake and fruit baskets on his porch.”

            Kim blushed, “I didn’t ask if he was single and you can be sure my father didn’t ask him. But why shouldn’t he be? He’ll be alone in that huge old place apart from his niece, so someone will have to visit him and get to know him. Then we can all go visit.”

            “I would like a peek inside Dervyshire, if nothing else. I’ve never been in a house that big.” Charly mused, “But once Sam get’s here I won’t be able to go to the bathroom and back without him on my heels.”

            All swooning aside, Kim looked back to her friend with an expression of urgency, “Please promise me that you’ll think about this. Don’t do anything rash over something you overheard your mother saying. Think it over. If you believe you’ll be happy with him, then I won’t say anything else about it. Go for a ride and think it over.”

            Charly promised her that she would, certainly, think things over before she made any kind of decision, hugged her friend, and said goodbye. The air outside felt bitterly cold as she climbed back into her truck, turning the heat on as high as it would go to warm the cab, and beginning the drive back out to Bellamy Farms. It was still early in the afternoon, barely 3 o’clock, and Westcliffe’s modest population was bustling as much as it ever did. The further from Main Street she drove, however, the fewer people she saw. The broad, sweeping valley stretched out before her as she managed the road towards their farm, bouncing on the bench seat as the beast charged through potholes and ruts in the dirt road. By the time she reached the graveled drive that led up to the covered carport, she felt as though she’d been shaken up in a jar and was utterly disheveled.

            The big, faded blue pickup truck that belonged to her father was parked next to the nearest of the barns he’d built out on their land, not two hundred yards from the house, and Charly could see him tinkering about one of the corrals. It was a little strange that he was staying so near the house today, but she didn’t seek him out to ask after it as she went into the house, hanging her jacket by the door and peeling off her shoes.

            “Quilt on the floor!” Her mother called out in warning, sitting cross-legged upon the living room floor with a multitude of little square cut pieces of fabric scattered about her. Quilting was her mother’s hobby, something she did on days when it was too cold to work in the gardens, and she often sold them to people in town. “This pattern is just horrible,” She complained, her narrow-framed glasses pushed down to the end of her nose, blonde hair tied up into a misshapen bun on the back of her head, “I’ll never get it fixed. Can you cook dinner tonight? I’ve got okra, potatoes, and a few chicken breasts you can tamper with.”

            Charly sighed, tiptoeing through the maze of little brightly colored squares to sit on the edge of the fireplace, watching her mother work for a moment with her elbows resting on her knees. “Sure.” Her voice was quiet and her eyes thoughtful, “I’m going for a ride later, but I’ll cook first. Just leave me a plate in the microwave.”

            Her mother glanced back at her over her shoulder, looking at her daughter over the rim of her glasses, “Is everything ok? Did you have a good time with Kim?”

            A more eager daughter might have given her the full report on what she’d learned about the new neighbors at Dervyshire, but Charly hardly sought to open up that subject again. She nodded slightly, seeming caught in a thoughtful daze, “Yes.”

            “How is her family?” Her mother probed gently, looking back to her quilt.

            Charly sighed, twisting at one of her long gold curls, “They’re doing well. Lots of business coming to the shop…” She paused a moment, relinquishing herself to allowing one small mention of the new neighbors, “…from the people who’ve moved into the Dervyshire house.” With that she stood, quickly, beginning towards the kitchen to hopefully end the conversation before it began.

            Her mother was not so easily thwarted. “What? What kind of business? What did she say?”

            Charly smiled and shrugged lightly, “I’m not sure. Something about window shutters.”

            “Oh! How could Angie James keep this from me! She should have called me right away!” Her mother was up in an instant and reaching for the nearest phone, “We’ve been friends all these years and she would keep something like this a secret!”

            “I don’t think it’s a secret, mom.” Charly sighed, unwilling to watch the spirited debate between Mrs. Montgomery and Mrs. James unfold. She resigned herself to the kitchen and began preparations for dinner. She peeled the potatoes one by one, washing them and mashing them. She washed the okra, mixing up a thick batter and dipping each long piece into it before placing it in a pan of sizzling oil to fry them. The chicken she prepared with spices and garlic and placed in the oven to bake. It was just after 5 when she finally finished, setting the meal upon the table and setting out the silverware, carefully folding three cloth napkins at each place but one.

            “Set another place.” Her mother warned, leaning into the kitchen doorway, “Sam called this morning; he’ll be here tonight.”

            Charly’s face drained of all lively color and she gaped for a moment before finding the will to set another place. Suddenly there was a great urgency to leave and go riding as soon as possible. She darted up the stairs to her room, changing into a layered ensemble of a camisole, thermal underwear, and sweatshirt and working jeans hurriedly. She pulled on her thick wool socks and thick wool gloves, slipping into her brown riding boots and heading back for the front door as quickly as she could manage.

            “I’ll be back in an hour or two.” She called to Mrs. Montgomery, who was inspecting her daughter’s cooking, and rushed out the door before she could hear any reply.

Author's Note

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