Bitten/Drained: The Lauren Westlake Chronicles Volume 1

by Dan O'Brien

  DEPUTY MATTHEWS WAS THE FIRST on scene, the heavy tread of his tires carving deep trenches into the snow-packed yard of the Lavender house. He was out of his vehicle in a smooth movement, shotgun in his right hand.

  The passenger door hung open.

  Headlights flooded over the front of the house; police lights still spinning created the effect of a disco at a crime scene. The deputy on loan from the nearby city of Manard was as thin as a blade of grass with a handlebar mustache. He wore over-sized coke bottle glasses and a coat that was three times too large for his diminutive frame. Looking at the busted frame of the front door and the general disarray that was visible from the outside of the house, he whistled.

  “Looks like there was a hell of a shit-storm here, hey.”

  Matthews ignored him as he neared the front door, shotgun at the ready. “Agent Westlake? Agent Westlake, are you here? Can you hear me?” he called, cupping a hand around his mouth for emphasis.

  The Manard deputy touched the front door, pushing it and letting it squeak. “Looks like someone broke in, hey.”

  Matthews frowned at the deputy. “Very observant.” Looking into the darkness of the house he called again. “Agent Westlake?”

  And that was when the screaming started.

  Matthews was through the door in an instant, his boyish uncertainty lost in a moment. He wove through the house, dodging overturned furniture until he came to the half-closed door of the bathroom. Pushing it open, he saw a young woman. Naked and covered in condiments, she was sitting in the tub.

  “Is that mustard?” asked the Manard deputy with a heavy accent.

  Matthews stepped closer and the girl stopped screaming. The barbeque sauce and ketchup gave the appearance of blood, though the deputy did not know that at the time.

  Reaching out, he touched the woman’s shoulder.

  She flinched.

  “Are you okay?”

  Matthews lowered the shotgun.

  Looking around, her disorientation was equal parts carnage and inebriation. “What am I doing in this tub? Why am I naked?”

  The Manard deputy smiled. Leaning against the wall of the bathroom with the shotgun against his shoulder, he nodded at her. “That is a fine question. That and why you have mustard in your hair.”

  She touched her hair, taking with it hard masses of mustard and ranch. Horrified, she started to cry. “What happened?” Looking down at the barbeque sauce and ketchup splattered across her pale frame, she cried harder. “Is that blood?”

  Matthews reached out and touched the ketchup and then blushed. Touching a dab of residue to his lips, he smiled. “Ketchup, ma’am.”

  Her eyes steeled and she stopped crying: the inner bitch had set in. “Get me some fucking clothes, hillbilly,” she ordered, pointing at the Manard deputy.

  Matthews nodded, gesturing with his head to go find something. “I realize that this is an uncomfortable situation…”

  She laughed now, a bitter, angst-filled cackle that any man who has dated an aggressive, controlling woman would recognize.

  It was about to thunder in that house.

  “Uncomfortable, you fucking derelict? I have condiments in my goddamn vagina. My vagina. You have any idea how fucking uncomfortable that is?”

  Matthews looked at her with wide eyes: frightened.

  He cleared his throat, raising a finger.

  She continued unabated. “Does that word frighten you, you little-dick fuck? Vagina.” And then screaming at the top of her lungs. “Vagina. Vagina. Vagina.”

  “How are we coming along on something for the lady to wear?” called Matthews, standing quickly and looking out into the hallway. The Manard deputy was standing there, not moving. “What are you doing? This lady is not really the waiting type.”

  “I heard that, you miserable fuck,” she called from inside the bathroom.

  Matthews continued forward, holding the shotgun low and against his leg. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked again.

  When he neared the Manard deputy, he saw that the man was looking into an adjoining room. Bodies were stacked on top of each other and the floor was pooled in blood, filling the cracks in the floor to the brim.

  Matthews turned away, covering his mouth with a free hand. From inside they could hear other vehicles pull up. Condiments, as she would be called for the rest of her days, had given up on the two deputies. She walked out of the bathroom, tarnished towel wrapped around her breasts and waist. Her appearance in the hallway coincided rather impressively with the storming in of several officers of the law, guns brandished, as well the recurring question of the hour: Is that mustard, ma’am?

  Chapter XVII

  Lauren awoke hazily. Her eyes focused slowly, painfully. The ceiling above her was a thick, dark-treated wood that had glossy areas where the exterior had been weathered. The inside of her body felt raw. Her mind panged, throbbing angrily as she tried to form thoughts. The last thing she remembered was gasping before sinking to the bottom of the lake.

  There were smells all around her: cinnamon and the scent of fresh goods. Groaning, she pushed up into a sitting position.

  The walls were wood as well.

  She reached out and felt them.

  They were slick and warm despite the cold outside.

  The area was open.

  She lay on a comfortable couch adjacent to a table with scattered old papers and opened books. She did not recognize the house.

  She knew that there was someone else in the home.

  Day had not yet broken.

  It had been night when she had confronted the creature at the Lavender house, and then the lake. She could feel the cold crawl over her skin even now. Pulling back a heavy blanket, she was clothed underneath. She wore an oversized shirt and men’s jeans, a few sizes too large for her.

  Mouthing her confusion, she stood.

  Her bare feet touched the cold ground and she leapt up, flailing her arms about. “What the….” she exclaimed. Sitting back onto the couch, she crossed her legs under one another and pulled the blanket across her body once more.

  She looked around for her gun, but did not see it.

  “Ah, you are awake,” called Dominic’s voice. He wore a wool shirt, sleeves pushed back and baggy jeans, though tight in the correct areas as far as Lauren was concerned. “I was very worried. Your heart slowed considerably.”

  She sat back into the couch, quite comforted that it was Dominic. “Why am I here? I remember the lake and then not much else.”

  He extended one of his hands, gesturing for her to take it. “Please follow me.” He pulled her to her feet and gestured deeper into the house, closer to the aromas that danced through the air. “I have prepared some tea. It should warm you right up.”

  Lauren nodded and braved the cold floor. As they neared the kitchen, she was relieved to see a furry carpet spread out across the hardwood. “Not real fur, mind you,” he commented as he invited her to take a seat at an antique table.

  She acquiesced. “Why am I here, Dominic? I appreciate your help, but I just….”

  He placed a cup in front of her, wisps of steam rising from it. “It is quite hot, so give it a minute.” He returned to the stove and dispensed two bowls of oatmeal. Deftly manipulating a knife, he sliced pears and apples into the mix. “Here is some oatmeal; it will warm up your core.”

  She smiled as he sat down across from her.

  “This is very nice, Dominic. But how did I get here?”

  Dominic sipped the tea. “I was walking along the shoreline when I saw you fall into the lake. I rushed to you, pulled you out of the lake, and brought you here.”

  Lauren pulled her legs up onto the chair and wrapped her hands around them. “You dove into the lake after me? It was freezing cold. The ice was broken. You couldn’t have survived.”

  He shrugged, sipping from his cup once more. “This cabin is not far from the lake. When I heard the shots, I assumed that you were pursuing the creature. The woman in the shack t
old me that something wicked was afoot in these woods.”

  She leaned forward, enamored.

  “You have spoken to Hecate?”

  He nodded.

  “On many occasions. It is because of her and many of the other oracles that I came to be here in Locke. I am supposed to find something of value here. Unfortunately, it has proven a difficult task.”

  Lauren reached out and grabbed the cup of tea, not sipping it, but holding it in her hands to warm them. “Why would you speak to Hecate? She said she was a guide for the supernatural.”

  “There is much about this world that does not make sense. And often those anomalies are of a supernatural nature. I did not mean to involve you in this, in the problems of my kind.”

  “Your kind?”

  Fear curdled in her stomach.

  A black dog approached. Intelligent eyes watched the seated agent with curiosity. Dominic’s face brightened. “That is Friday. She is a good and loyal friend.”

  Reaching down, Lauren extended her hand. Friday padded forward, sniffing Lauren with her wet nose. She pressed her face into the agent’s hand: nuzzling.

  As Dominic spoke again, Friday had her head in Lauren’s lap. “It seems she is taken with you. I assume an explanation is in order.”

  The night sky had tendrils of sunlight, grasping at the darkness. Lauren watched it, turning and looking out through the porch of the home. He paused, allowing her a moment.

  “You are the werewolf.”

  Dominic did not appear startled.

  His smile was less pronounced. “I knew that you were intelligent; not only beautiful, but clever and quite smart. I am indeed a son of Manus, line of the sons of the moon. Werewolves as they are called by humans.”

  Lauren nodded, still looking out at the night battling the slow rise of the day. “I knew that you were either the werewolf or the one who had been bitten. Considering that you do not have pieces of other people’s flesh sewn into your skin, I was left with the only option.”

  “It would certainly ruin my complexion. Do you find your conclusion frightening?”

  Lauren looked at him closely, inspecting his rough yet beautiful features. Beautiful: that was a word that men dreaded. They preferred rugged or handsome. But there was a quality about him that was beautiful.

  “No. It is not frightening. That creature, the man who killed those women and all those people at the Lavender house, is horrifying, unlike anything I have witnessed before. I looked into the face of terror and it did not flinch.”

  Dominic did not smile.

  “I fear I bear responsibility for that.”

  “Hecate told me that the bite of a werewolf creates madness, delusions. The bitten become disconnected, trying to reconcile a reality that can never be attained.”

  He nodded sadly.

  “It is meant to slow down prey. That was, however, not my intention, nor was it to release something so evil upon your world. A man attacked me in the woods. He meant to hunt me, thinking I was a bear. Something sharp struck me in the back and I was dazed. Time passed slowly.”

  “Tranquilizer,” said Lauren with a nod.

  Gesturing with a hand, Dominic continued.

  “This man, a human, tried to finish what he started, and I bit him out of reflex. I knew what I had done, but I intended on finishing what I had started, to kill the man outright lest he suffer the fate that he now endures and to avoid the horror I have inflicted on your world.”

  Lauren allowed Friday to remain with her head in her lap. “What did this man look like?”

  “I am not sure it matters anymore. You have seen what he has become. There is little left of the man.”

  “Maybe, but he returns to the same shack after his kills. There might be something else, another familiar place that he would go. Something we can use to find him.”

  Dominic held the tea cup as he thought, tapping a finger against it rhythmically. “He was average height and build with a bushy beard that was red and brown. His eyes were gray, distant. And he smelled like a fireplace.”

  Lauren looked back out at the dwindling night.

  “That is not much to go on, I fear.”

  “My apologies. We did not exchange pleasantries. However, I do remember that he wore a jacket with a brand on it I believe, an insignia.”

  “Insignia? What kind of insignia?”

  He shrugged. “Like a company logo. I do not recall the name. I am sorry that I cannot remember more for you.”

  “It is not your fault,” she began and then souring, she added. “I guess some of it is. Your presence here has endangered a great many lives.”

  “That is true, but the risk was worth it. At least it would have been worth it, had the guide correctly told me what it was I would find here.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that I would be able to resurrect my people. That I would find answers here.”

  “And you haven’t found any answers?”

  He shook his head, sorrow in his cerulean eyes.

  “No.”

  There was a pregnant pause before Lauren spoke again.

  “Can I see it?”

  He looked at her intensely.

  “See what?”

  “The scars.”

  He looked at her darkly, his blue eyes clouding.

  “What scars do you believe I have?”

  Lauren licked her lips. She remembered seeing something after she had drunk Hecate’s tea. A vision of something beyond the words that were exchanged: the history of the sons of Manus, of the werewolf. She wished to view a sliver of their lineage.

  “You were born a werewolf, weren’t you?”

  Dominic nodded. “That is a piece of lore that your pop culture never managed to get right.”

  “After I was in the shack and drank the old woman’s tea, I saw a great many things. Some were beautiful. Others were horrible. But I vividly recall fragmented images of young men and werewolves. Of a pit full of dirt and blood. Of backs covered with scars.”

  The monster that struggled to be a man looked at Lauren with sadness. “We do not become werewolves until our twelfth year, young by human standards. We are put into combat, like warriors of old, to see if we will survive. Those who manage the change, live. Some do not. And those few are entrusted with the continuation and protection of the species.”

  Lauren looked at Dominic with pity.

  “How sad.”

  Dominic sighed, drawing a deep breath. “Very much so, but for reasons other than the pain and violence. That practice, which has not been canon for centuries, contributed to our dwindling numbers. Now we are so very few.”

  Lauren pet Friday’s head as she, too, seemingly needed to be comforted “I am so sorry, Dominic.”

  He stood, lifting his shirt and revealing a body well kept. Dominic continued. “As far as the scars go. I do not disappoint.” His wide shoulders were made to look even wider by his narrow waist and strong abdominal muscles accented by slender, smooth hips.

  Turning, he revealed his back; wide, thick scars built of heavy tissue healed many times. Crossing patterns made by a series of deep wounds. Lauren stood, her fingers reaching out and touching the scars lightly. She traced them with her fingers; even standing apart from him he radiated warmth.

  She could feel it through her fingertips.

  Spreading out her fingers, she placed her hand on his back. Strong muscles rippled and flexed as she touched him. She leaned into him, closing the distance, pressing her body against his. Reaching around the sides of his waist, she pressed her open hands against his small, but powerful abdominal muscles. He moaned softly, not a weak sound, but an exhalation of air from the pressure building inside.

  “Lauren, I do not think….” he spoke softly, his rough voice melodic.

  She touched his lips with one of her slender fingers. Pressing it against his perfect lips, she felt a rush trace down her body. Butterflies danced in her stomach. Naughty thoughts filled her mind. The
y turned to face each other, gazing intently into each other’s eyes.

  Her hands pressed against his chest: thick muscles.

  Veins crawled across his body like a road map.

  She ran her hands up his neck and through the back of his hair. He grabbed her by her lower back, pulling her toward him. Lifting her, their faces were inches apart.

  They were both barefoot.

  She placed her feet on top of his.

  Even his feet were warm.

  Heat radiated off of him.

  He yielded.

  They kissed, briefly at first.

  Then it lingered, his powerful hands gripping her back and shoulders, drawing her into his embrace. Their passion intensified. He moved against her harder. A long, soft arm held her upright as he bent over top her.

  She felt transported.

  Her body had risen from the physical form that restrained her love and passion. He grabbed and lifted her, cradling her so that she could wrap her legs around him. Running her hands through his hair, it became an unruly mass of tangled tufts. Dominic cupped her face, stroking her cheeks and back as he pressed his lips tighter against hers.

  In a frenzy of hands, he lifted her shirt off.

  She gasped, pressing her body against his such that their heats were intertwined. He carried Lauren across the kitchen into the living room. Dominic laid her down on the couch, her hair cascading around her beaming face. An unzipping here and a few calculated pulls there and the pair were blissfully naked with one another.

  He looked down at her.

  His long legs were muscular: runner’s legs. His black body hair was tastefully placed, almost as if it had been manicured that way. She found herself blushing at the thick contours of the muscles of his body, all of the muscles. He had the body of a deity, though one who had been lashed and broken by whips and chains.

  She reached up with her hand, the tips of her fingers just barely able to touch the inside of his leg. Dragging a finger along, gooseflesh traced his skin. Her eyes watched his reaction suggestively.