by R A Watt
He let go, and my vision failed as my face dropped into the grass in the most unbelievable agony.
The last thing I heard before I blacked out was, “Oh, and Teavan, don’t worry about Rachel. I’ll say hi for you.”
Chapter 22
I jolted awake from my spasming injuries. I tried to sit up in the dim shadows of the nearby homes, but both my arms were useless. Rolling left or right caused excruciating pain; I gave up and lay on my back, unable to catch my breath.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
My stomach twisted in agony, like I had the worst stomach cramps imaginable. My whole body tightened, going rigid, and I could feel something like a black mass spreading from my stomach. Its tentacles reaching outward and filling up my body cavity like acidic syrup, burning towards each limb. My jaw was clenched so tight I couldn’t scream, and I struggled to breathe through my teeth as my body convulsed.
I tried to concentrate on getting up, overcoming the pain, and warning Rachel. It gave me strength until another wave of burning rolled outward toward my extremities, and I prayed to be knocked out.
Only I remained conscious.
The mass was expanding, but it needed more room; it was pushing in every direction. My chest distended, my lungs couldn’t get any air, and my ribs started to crack outward.
Please please please let me die.
My arms and legs felt like they were being ripped apart as the ligaments tore and broke, the bones stretching and cracking. The imagined black tentacles moved up into my neck, doing its damage, and into my lower jaw as it thrust forward and disconnected from my upper jaw.
It was finally too much, and my body gave out.
* * *
Minutes—or hours later—I awoke.
Everything was different.
The evening sounds were incredibly loud, like my ear buds were connected to microphones placed in each garden and tree in the area.
And the smells.
As I lay sideways in the grass and took in a deep breath, I could swear it had been freshly watered then cut just minutes ago. It was overwhelming.
Hunger. My stomach burned, but not with pain now, but with need. Ravenous hunger throttled me awake, and I opened my eyes, blades of grass an inch away as I lay on my side.
Things were not right, but I was feeling better. Much better.
The most delicious scent possible waffled past me. It was like the moment the lid was removed from a freshly cooked roast beef; when the humid aromas escaped the pan’s enclosure and flooded your senses.
I needed to eat it. Now.
I jumped to my feet, and my legs instinctively carried me at lightning speed through the yards and bushes of the street. The scent of roast became more pungent with each step.
Only it was like I was being carried along for the ride; fast, and low to the ground. Willing myself to slow, I looked down and stumbled.
Two giant gray paws stood in the grass.
They moved as I willed them to.
Before I could register the shock, I was running again. My quarry was not far, and my body craved the nourishment it would provide. There was no choice, it was instinctual.
The roast turned out to be a brown rabbit, which I caught off guard and quickly took down under the umbrella of a pine tree. I tore at the fur and meat as it kicked and pulsed in my jaw, nothing had ever tasted so good. All other thoughts vanished to the back of my mind.
More. I needed more. Meat was all I could think of.
Time passed. Time that I do not recall. I was sleeping peacefully when the next thing I knew the sound of aggressive growling woke me, jostling my eyes open. I instinctively curled and prepared to be attacked.
My stomach churned, and I felt sick.
The floor under me was cold cement, and it was dark. The silhouette of a snarling, four-legged creature was visible in the large doorway.
Sitting up, I noticed I was sweating, though the room was chilly.
And I had no clothes.
What the—?
I pulled my knees up tight, and the animal slowed its growl, sniffing and coming closer. Panicking at the thought that it was the wolf, I felt around in the dark for something to use as a weapon; I felt so open and defenseless in this room, sitting naked on the cement.
My hand wrapped around the metal base of a spade, and I carefully dragged it over and held it up—ready.
Chapter 23
The animal inched closer, then started to whine.
“Honey?” I whispered, recognizing her sounds.
She came over tentatively, sniffing; and then as she realized it was me, she jumped and started to lick my face, neck, and chest. No doubt she loved the salty sweat on my skin.
Everything was a blur, but ever so slowly it came back to me: Bruno. The beating. The pain. Then eating, then . . . here?
Rachel.
Standing up and looking around in the dark, I realized I was in our garage. I grabbed a dirty rag hanging off the workbench and did my best to wrap it around my waist, then walked barefoot to the big open door.
It was still dark out, but there was a faint glow on the eastern horizon; it was nearing dawn. Where were my clothes? How did I get here?
I walked, awkwardly and in some pain, to the house. My whole body was sore, my arms included, but they seemed fine other than a dull ache. It felt as if I’d had a first-time workout with a military instructor for six hours the day before.
Honey ran beside me, jumping around and whining.
“It’s okay, girl.” I patted her.
Through the front window, I could see the lights in the house were on.
Suzanne was sitting on the front room couch, looking distraught, staring down at her phone. Why was she still up?
Honey and I walked up the steps and opened the front door.
Suzanne shrieked when she saw me, and ran over and gave me the biggest, deepest hug ever. I held my rag with one hand and sorta tried to hug her with the other arm.
Grabbing my shoulders, she pushed me back at arm’s length and stared at me.
“Where were you? What happened, Teavan? Where are your clothes?” she asked.
I wasn’t entirely sure myself. “I don’t know. I was . . . in the garage, sleeping on the floor.”
“And how did you get there? When?”
Racking my brain, I tried to remember.
“Bruno. Rachel!” I cried out, still foggy. “Is she okay?”
Suzanne’s face wrinkled. “What do you know?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. I saw Bruno, and he beat me up, real bad. Said he was going to her house after. That he was going to hurt her.”
Suzanne stood back, both her hands pushing the hair off her face. “Rachel is in the hospital. I thought you were hurt, too. Kevin and Jermaine couldn’t find you, so they went to her house. They found her on the front lawn—bleeding, torn up, and unconscious. I . . . I thought you were dead. They found your bike and clothes scattered a few blocks away. And your shirt was ripped and bloody.”
Suzanne’s eyes welled up as she told me this, tears escaping from each eye, and she sat on the ottoman. For the first time since I could remember, she broke down in sobs of sadness, not anger. I walked over to her and rubbed her back.
“I’m fine, Suze. Really. I’m sorry I didn’t call, my phone is missing. I’m . . . honestly, I don’t know what happened.”
She shook her head. “Your phone—it’s broken and still in the pocket of your mangled jeans.”
“How is Rachel now?”
“Not good. She’s at the hospital, in surgery. The police are looking for you. We’d better call.”
Though I felt anxious at the thought, I nodded. “Okay.”
She kept looking at me, shaking her head. “Did you do meth or something tonight?”
“What?” The worst I’d ever done was drink a third of a beer, and that was only a week ago. “No, of course not.”
She looked wary, almost nervous. “I just don’t unders
tand why you undressed after you dropped her off, left your bike, and walked home. And why were your clothes bloody? Did you fall off your bike?” She stepped back again, holding her phone. “And you are filthy. And you . . . smell bad. Anyway, I need to call the sheriff; I promised I would.”
As Suzanne made the call, I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. There were no cuts, bruises, or . . . anything. My body was sore, but considering what Bruno did, I seemed fine. My usually skinny, pale chest even looked a bit muscular. Raising my arms and making circles, I was amazed they weren’t broken. Nothing made sense.
I had a quick shower. The water ran light brown from the dirt in my hair and skin. I put on some jeans and a clean shirt, and brushed my teeth—they felt so gross. In the family room, Suzanne told me the sheriff was on his way over.
“And what’s with your jeans?” she asked, looking at my ankles.
I looked down, seeing no stains. “What?”
“They look too short, especially your right leg.” My right leg was the shorter leg, and I always had it hemmed an inch more than the left.
“I dunno,” I said, then realized something. “But Suze, the sheriff is Bruno’s dad! What do I say?”
“Teavan, tell him the truth. This is serious.”
His beating was all I could think of. And then . . . the vision of something happening to him, changing, also came back. His chest. His arms. Mrs. Leclair’s warnings.
“Suze, there’s more to this . . . ”
At that moment, red-and-blue lights flashed outside, and she walked to the front window to look out. “He’s here.”
Sheriff Vincent was a lot nicer than I’d imagined. He was nothing like Bruno. He came in with a smile but looked exhausted. He took his hat off and sat down. He questioned me about the whole night, up until I left Rachel’s place.
“And then you ran into Bruno?”
“Well, yeah, you could say that. But it was more like he ran into me,” I corrected.
Sheriff Vincent sighed. “He informed me you two had your differences.”
Differences? That was putting it mildly. I explained the beating he gave me, leaving out the real or imagined part of him transforming.
He looked at his notepad. “So you’re saying he attacked you, broke both your arms and beat your face repeatedly with his fists, kicked your ribs, and then dragged you off in the dark. Is that correct?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir. Then he said he was going after Rachel.”
He stared at me. “Teavan, would you mind lifting your shirt please?”
I stood and pulled my shirt up, trying to look down at my belly button.
“Well, that’s very odd. You don’t have a scratch on you, and yet this all happened just seven hours ago. And then you undressed, left your phone, and ran home. Please try to see this from my point of view, son. Have you been taking any illicit substances?”
“No! I’ve never done any drugs, I swear.”
He nodded. “Nothing seems to fit here. Can you see how your story doesn’t add up?”
Looking around, I had to admit even I couldn’t answer as to what had happened. I could have sworn my arms were broken. And my face should have been covered in bruises. And . . .
“Listen, Mr. and Mrs. Denning are with Rachel now at the hospital. We will know more when we speak to her. If my son had anything to do with this, I can assure you there will be no leniency. At this point, we—myself included—believe she was attacked by a dog, possibly a pit bull. She might have heard noises outside, maybe something was getting into the garbage and she startled it.”
Suzanne leaned forward, trying to cut me off as I began to complain. “Thank you, Sheriff. Please let us know how she is if you hear any updates.”
He put his hat back on and walked over to the front door. “This has been an awfully long night; I am exhausted. I see no evidence of any foul play on your part—yet—but maybe some poor decisions have been made that I hope you will not make in the future.”
Nodding, Suzanne replied, “Thank you, Sheriff.”
“Night,” he said, walking out and letting the screen door shut behind him.
Suzanne glowered at me in frustration. “You sound like you are on drugs. I’m going to bed, and you should as well. I sent Jermaine and Kevin texts that you are okay; they both went home when we couldn’t find you. We’ll finish this in the morning.”
Reluctantly, I nodded and headed toward my room, Honey wagging her tail behind me. My body ached and I was dead tired.
Sleep came quickly; my dreams were strange, fast-paced, and almost feral.
Chapter 24
Suzanne just stared at me when I shuffled into the kitchen at almost two in the afternoon on Saturday. My sleep was much-needed; I never moved until I woke and looked at the clock.
“I’ve called off the party, and you ruined my night last night. You owe me big time, you know,” she growled, sipping a coffee.
As best I could, I finished the story from the night before. About the change in Bruno, and then . . . the weird memories I had. And the rabbit. Did that even happen?
“That sounds like dreams. Drug-induced dreams.”
While recounting the events, I managed to eat three bananas and four bowls of cereal. By the fourth bowl, even Suzanne commented. “Four?”
“I’m starving.” I shrugged. “Listen, Suze, I’m begging you, come to Mrs. Leclair’s. I need to talk to her. And I need to get my bike, wherever it is, and my clothes. I don’t think she’s crazy after all.”
Suzanne pursed her lips, staring at me, but also hearing the honest desperation in my voice. “Fine, I’ll go. Thanks to you, my plans are canceled, anyway. And your bike is out front; the sheriff dropped it off last night. He has your clothing as well, but he’s keeping it for now.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure . . . maybe they’re testing the blood to see if it matches Rachel's. I mean, I wouldn't blame them,” she said.
They think I did it?
We got dressed, and Suzanne kept giving me weird looks as we got ready to go.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re walking funny,” she said.
“Gee, thanks, I hadn’t noticed,” I said, feeling the general soreness in my legs.
She shook her head. “No, not that. Like, you’re walking differently, taller maybe. And those jeans are too short.”
My shirt felt tighter, too. The oversized breakfast was taking its toll.
Mrs. Leclair was sitting out on the porch as we pulled up and laid our bikes in the grass.
“I was wondering if you would be by. I heard there was some trouble last night,” she said, standing up from the rocking chair as we approached her steps.
“Can we talk?” I asked.
“Of course,” she answered.
We sat outside, and I recounted the night’s events, mostly about Bruno and Rachel.
She listened intently. “And you think you saw him . . . transform?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Something happened, something not natural. But then it was like he was fighting to not change, and it reversed.”
“And he hurt you badly?” Her eyebrow arched up.
“Yeah, but . . . then things got fuzzy. I just, ah, woke up back at home in the garage. My wounds were gone,” I answered quietly.
“Any strange dreams about how you got home? Memories?” she asked.
“Sorta . . .”
Reluctantly, I told her about the memories of the searing-hot pain, running outside, and the rabbit, and then Suzanne added that I’d shed my clothes and ran home naked. I flushed, looking down in embarrassment at that part.
Mrs. Leclair was quiet, just rocking back and forth. She looked out in the distance, seemingly lost in thought. Finally she said, “This has become much more complicated, I’m afraid. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”
We waited for her to continue.
She looked at us both and cocked her head as if coming to a decision. “You se
e, there were two groups of lycanthropes for many years, maybe thousands of years. We think they originated in Italy, though nobody knows how or why; though there are lots of legends, of course. Over the years they migrated up into France, and the French and Italian factions self-governed, so to speak, keeping themselves in check, especially after they became hunted. Slowly, things got sorted out, and the legend of the werewolf remained just that—a legend.
“However, a little over two hundred years ago, another faction broke off. There was a young girl; her name was Sabine Martin. She was the youngest daughter of a prominent lycan family in France. However, at the age of seventeen, Sabine fell in love with a human boy and got pregnant. Pregnancy before marriage at the time was bad enough, especially for an illustrious family. Mixing blood with a non-lycanthrope was unfathomable.
“She decided to run away, electing to keep the baby and leave France. She secretly booked passage to England and snuck out of the country. She lived there for a few years, then eventually made her way to America. Lower Louisiana, to be precise. She married a Frenchman in New Orleans, and they had more children together. They were able to live in peace and yet still keep up their French heritage to an extent. And continue the diluted lycan bloodlines.
“That is where the Vincent family originates, at some point, anyway. A bit of a mutt lycanthrope you might say, of mixed and weaker blood, according to the French. Unlike your grandfather, Hubert, who was of pure French lycan blood,” she said, looking at us both expectantly.
“And?” I asked.
Suzanne leaned forward, understanding something that I had missed. “Grandpa . . . ?”
Mrs. Leclair nodded. “Yes, Suzanne. Your grandfather was also one. A stronger, more pure lycan; but he was getting old. He was determined to snuff out the rule breakers so the rest could live in peace. He hoped the bloodlines would adulterate and that the genetic mutation would eventually dissolve itself out of existence.”
Bruno’s comments came to me. He hadn’t been lying. “So, it’s true?”
“Yes, Teavan.”
