by S A Ison
It had done something to Vivian, to see so many children left and ignored. Abandoned to fend for themselves. She’d poured her love into her little sister. Vivian wiped at her eyes, the remembrance still so raw nearly sixty years later. How could it not? She loved Hellen dearly. A muscle twitched on her face. If Hellen had turned into a werewolf at the orphanage, she’d have torn those assholes to pieces. But she’d have more than likely been put down or might not have lived long enough to reach puberty. Life was funny that way.
Vivian joined the Navy three years later, when Hellen was five. Although it had broken her heart to leave her little sister, it had to be done. Vivian had her own life to live and so she had said goodbye to her little sister. Coming home on leave was a treat. She found her little sister to be clever and sweet.
Vivian sighed heavily, her fingertips wiping at the dust on the window sill. Hellen had been devastated when she’d gone back to work. It was difficult for the child to understand the comings and goings of her older sister. Then when her sister’s true identity had emerged, that had been a hell of a time. That was so long ago. Where on earth had the time gone? The older she got the faster time went, like some kind of quantum leap.
She jerked when she heard a gunshot. It wasn’t too close by, but it was near enough. She went to the couch and picked up her knitting. She threw a couple of stitches then grunted. She couldn’t seem to settle today. She set her knitting aside and walked back over to the window. The little worm was still down the street. She’d have to do something about that shit stain. What, she didn’t know.
§
Hellen wondered if she should fly up to Charlotte and help her sister out. It niggled at her. She could go up for a day or so, let her wolf out and wreak havoc, and come back home. Maybe she could talk Vivian into moving down to Atlanta? Hellen lived in a gated community, mostly people of an older vintage. Vivian had always been quick to anger and she had a reactionary temperament. Hellen was methodical, which was why she’d been a good agent. Killing took planning, patience, and forethought. Vivian had little of that. Her sister had a big heart though, and that brought a smile to Hellen’s face.
When Hellen was twelve, her mother died from a heart attack. It happened a little over a year after she’d come into her wolf. She’d been left in the grieving care of her father, Ralph, who was ill equipped to raise a daughter singlehandedly. Hellen’s journey into self-discovery and her werewolf were trying on the single father. Her father had tried his best. Vivian had come home twice a year on leave, for a week or two. It had helped replace that aching void in Hellen’s life. Both she and her wolf appreciated Vivian’s visits. She was sure that Vivian had her own life, but she made time for Hellen. Relationships were difficult, if not impossible for Hellen, but Vivian had been a constant in her life.
Hellen had graduated high school two years early, had gone to college, and had become interested in her roots. She’d studied the beautiful and intricate Korean culture and language. She wasn’t sure what she’d do with that, perhaps go to Korea and work.
Through a series of events, she’d been recruited by the CIA in her senior year at college. There were times when Hellen wondered if it was fate. Joining the CIA was something she’d never even considered, though Hellen had a vague memory of Vivian suggesting it. She’d been careful to keep her werewolf hidden, unsure if having the U.S. government know she was something more than human was in her best interests. Life had twisted and turned in on itself and sent her back to her place of origin.
Hellen became an operative of sorts, because of her exotic beauty. She punched the tickets of high-level targets, both in South Korea and in North Korea. She’d been sent to China as well. When her looks began to fade, her assignments shifted, though not the methods. Hellen was nicknamed Hell on Wheels by her handlers. Her lack of empathy made her a sociopath, a well-trained one. Because she’d been loved, Hellen wasn’t a psychopath. She was cunning and efficient when she did her job. When she needed that human connection, she went to visit Vivian. Hellen thought those visits kept her whole, kept her balanced. That, and letting her werewolf out from time to time.
Hellen had retired three years before, when she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. It had been a grueling three years, but she was a lot better nowadays. Between the chemo and healthier eating, her human body was responding better within the last six months. She took long walks and went swimming every other day to build up her strength. She was up to an hour swim now. At first, she’d only had the ability for one lap.
Hell checked her email daily, hoping for an assignment. There were none. The agency had assured her that once she was on her feet they’d give her the odd assignment, though none had come.
Her werewolf pushed and she let it. She knew what it wanted. Her werewolf wanted to go to Charlotte and do a little night hunting.
“Will letting you out make you feel better?” she said to her other self. There was a deep, soft growl from within and her eyes lit up. She’d killed many humans throughout the years and so had her werewolf. She had only killed one werewolf in her life many years before. It was here in Atlanta, when she was on her down time. She’d gotten wind of a werewolf whose human had become a drug addict. Werewolves and drugs didn’t mix. A werewolf out of control was a werewolf waiting to let the rest of the world know about their existence. That was a big no-no in the werewolf community. Deniz Demir had come back from Desert Storm with glory, but he’d come home with a serious drug addiction. Werewolves didn’t kill each other, but Hellen knew she had to do something. Being CIA and trained was a plus.
She had gone to Demir’s home and found the man. He was high and there were regrets. She had planned on simply killing the man but his wife and daughter had come home unexpectedly. Things went sideways and Demir had turned into his werewolf form, still high. Hellen had little choice and had turned as well. She had used her lethal claws to decapitate the werewolf. Had Demir been sober, there would have been no way Hellen could have gotten in close to kill him. His wife had witnessed it and she’d had to kill the woman. Hellen knew there was a girl child hidden somewhere in the house. She would not and could not kill the child. Later, Hellen found out the child had gone into foster care.
Many years later, Hellen was surprised to meet Zahara Demir, a newly minted CIA operative, an assassin. There were a few werewolves in the CIA and now Zahara Demir was one. She was a werewolf like her father. Hellen hadn’t worked with Zahara but she liked the small woman. She reminded Hellen of herself. Hell remembered the blond werewolf, Alexander Wilder, she thought his name was. Agent Echo. There were two other werewolves in sheep’s clothing at the agency, but all kept a low profile.
She hadn’t seen either agent in some years, especially after being diagnosed with cancer.
Three years out of service, Hellen knew she was rusty. She received a generous retirement and lived in a modest cottage style home in an Atlanta suburb. She was an innocuous woman and so lived an innocuous life. She was bored to tears and so was her werewolf. She stood by the window and looked out. Her cat, Widget, wove in and out of her feet. She reached down and picked the heavy Himalayan up.
“Ah, Widget, nothing to do and no one to kill. What should we do today?”
§
Mike woke up in a foul mood. He’d been hassled by the police yesterday and had dodged a bullet. That old busybody bitch Vivian had been at it again. Calling the cops on him for spitting on the old cow. He didn’t need the cops looking at him too closely. Leon wouldn’t like that; it wasn’t good for business.
He sat up in the disheveled bed and ran his fingers through his long blond locks. He reached for his cigarettes, shook one out, and nabbed it with his lips. He found the lighter by his foot and lit the cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he let the smoke escape in a long, angry plume. He fell back onto the pillow and looked up at the water-stained ceiling and scratched his balls.
Those old women were becoming a serious hindrance on his territory. When he showed up with product
to sell, they raised a ruckus. It wouldn’t be so bad, but the old bitches were getting the neighbors in on it now. He couldn’t have that and Leon didn’t want to hear excuses. Berry and Harlow screwed with him, teased him, and Mike didn’t like that either. Berry “Ballbuster” Cleves ran his own crew.
“You gotta step your shit up, bruh. Can’t let no pasty white cracker bitch get in your way,” Berry had advised. Harlow Duncan had echoed that sentiment, scratching his sparse red beard. Duncan always agreed with Berry. They’d been at a garage, out of the way of street cams and looky-loos.
“She’s an old crusted up woman. Dude, she’s at least a hundred. What the fuck is the problem?” Harlow hooted with his dull gray teeth and his rancid breath.
Harlow ran a crew and his fingers were in a lot of pies. He and Berry were Leon’s biggest earners. They were also moving into human trafficking and prostitution, where the big money was. Mike was up and coming, but that old blue haired, foulmouthed bitch was standing in his way. She was getting the other old biddies to join ranks. A freaking senior citizen militia.
To make things worse, his own crew was now starting to look at him like he couldn’t run his own people, couldn’t handle his shit. You had to be a tough sonofabitch to run one, otherwise no one took you seriously. There would be no kind of respect and they kicked you to the curb. There would always be someone else waiting to take over. When you lived on the streets, you were hungry as hell for power and money.
There had to be something he could do; he just didn’t see it yet. He picked up an old beer from the nightstand, popped an oxy down, and took a large swallow. He grimaced at the taste of the stale beer and laid back down. It was something to think about. He’d have to do it himself, otherwise he’d be labeled a pussy. He rubbed his eyes and sighed.
He turned his head and looked over at the naked woman who was asleep beside him. He didn’t remember her name; they had partied last night. He’d think of something, he was sure, he just needed to clear his brain.
§
Vivian lit up a cigarette and looked at the clock. The girls would be there soon. They were going to review a couple of books. One was by a new writer. Dragon’s Fortune, by Stefany White and Come Love a Monster, by Gabrijela Fouche’. Vivian wasn’t much on romance novels, but these two were a little different. They had murder and mayhem in them, and she liked that. Fouche’ wrote about werewolves. She thought Hellen might like those. They had just finished the Diana Gabaldon series.
She walked to the window and pulled back the lavender curtain. Her eyes narrowed. There was that little shithead again. She snarled with suppressed rage and clenched her hands into fists.
Shit-stain Mike.
He was a dull-witted little bastard. She spotted his minions up and down her street, their pants hanging off and their asses swinging in the wind. She’d seen plenty of his kind over the years while serving in the Navy. Thirty years.
Where in the hell has the time gone? she wondered.
She saw her friends walking toward her duplex. Miriam Zeegler, Betty Ibelen, Wanda Freeman, and Nora White. All were of an age that none put up with a lot of nonsense from the young kids.
She snickered when the women stared pointedly at Mike. She tittered when the kid pulled his hoodie up higher and turned his back.
Pissant.
She knew Hellen was right, she should leave it alone. Hellen, bless her heart, understood things, but didn’t feel them like her. How could she? Living for two years in that damned orphanage from hell. She tried to shake off the old sorrow. It was like an unhealed wound that had scabbed over, but under that scab was pain and poison. Nearly sixty years later, it still affected Vivian and her heart squeezed for her little sister. She cleared her throat and turned away from the window.
Opening the door, she let the women in and hugged each one. She had to handle Miriam gently, she was seventy-eight and as fragile as glass. The poor woman had already had two fractures this year.
“Come on in, girls, and y’all take a seat. Coffee is in the kitchen if you’re up to it.”
“Those little snotwads are millin’ around out there again,” Nora complained. She settled her heavy bulk into the lounger that rocked. Viv chuckled. Nora loved that rocker. Who wouldn’t? It sure was comfy.
“I told Hellen about them, she said to just leave ’em alone.”
“I thought your sister was an assassin or somethin’? Why don’t we hire her to take them out? Heck, she can let her werewolf out and eat those little shits,” Wanda said, sitting down at the far end of the couch. She liked to lean on the arm of the couch and tuck her legs under her. Wanda reminded Vivian of a brooding hen.
“She’s retired CIA and not an assassin for hire. I told you,” Betty said loudly. She was nearly deaf and thought everyone around her was as well.
“Geez, what’s the difference? Besides, she wouldn’t mind, she doesn’t feel anything, right, Viv?” Wanda noted.
“It isn’t that. Look, we got Hellen from that orphanage when she was two. She’d been there from birth. No one held her or anything ‘til we got her. She doesn’t comprehend or feel empathy and sympathy. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel; it just means she doesn’t understand attachments,” Viv explained for the hundredth time.
“So she doesn’t love you?” Betty asked, sadness etched on her dark face and shimmering in her dark eyes. Betty was of Mediterranean origins but would never say where exactly. Vivian thought Greece, perhaps.
“I think she does. I used to hold her and love her and play with her. She didn’t laugh often, but she did sometimes. I just think it was harder for her to emote feelings. You know, she went and killed all of the people from her orphanage just before she started her chemo. I think she knew she wouldn’t get a chance once she started,” Viv said softly, watching Betty adjust her hearing aid.
“What? You didn’t tell us that,” Miriam objected, lifting a delicate hand to her chest. “Did she do it as a werewolf or assassin ninja?”
“Again, ladies, what I tell you is not for repeat. What I tell you is classified top secret. I don’t want Hellen getting in trouble. And if they find out she’s a werewolf, they’ll more than likely dissect her. Her bosses don’t even know what she did, though I think they might suspect.”
All nodded solemnly.
“A little over three years ago, Hellen was out of town and I called a couple times. When she doesn’t call right back, I know she’s out on assignment. A week later, I see on the internet, in international news, that an orphanage in Seoul was hit by a terrorist, so they called it. Apparently, some of the management associated with that orphanage were killed and their heads cut off and placed in front of the doors of the orphanage the night before. In the morning, they found six heads, their mouths stuffed with money.”
The women oohed and aahed with satisfaction, their faces animated with satisfaction. Vivian had relayed the horrible conditions of the Korean orphanages to her friends. It had broken all of their hearts and pissed them all off.
“Did you ask Hell about it?” Nora had taken out her knitting and started knitting a hat for the homeless shelter. Wanda and Miriam did the same.
“Sure I did. She just cheesed that wolf-like smile of hers. She always talked about how corrupt the folks who ran the orphanages were. Back in ’78, I was stationed in Chinhae, Korea. I went with the ladies’ auxiliary group to help feed the orphans at the local orphanage in downtown Chinhae. I was shocked it wasn’t any better than the one in Seoul back in 1960. The infants were still put in rough wooden vegetable crates, no blankets, and with diapers held on with rubber tubing.” Vivian could feel her cheeks heat up with the remembered rage.
“Couldn’t you buy blankets and donate them?” Nora asked, her eyes sheening with tears. Nora was their crier.
“No, whatever we bought and donated was sold on the black market. Those children never saw a thing. I remember seeing a three or four-year-old little boy, he couldn’t even walk. His little stick legs couldn’t supp
ort him. The little girls usually ended up as prostitutes, or so I was told, and the boys were sent off to serve in the ROK Army or Navy. If any of the children were mixed with black, they were normally killed.”
“Those motherfuckers,” Wanda spat. Wanda and Miriam were strong black women.
“The mixed-race babies were beautiful children. Many children were adopted, but it was an expensive and chancy process. Sometimes the Korean government refused to let the children go, even after all the paperwork was done, the fees were paid, and the child had the passport. I remembered my parents didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until we touched down in Tokyo.”
“Why in the hell not?” Wanda demanded. Two bright spots of rage lit her dark, wrinkled cheeks.
Vivian shrugged. It was a question she’d asked herself over and over throughout the years.
“I honestly don’t know,” she replied. “But I did hear of heartbreaking stories of the authorities taking the child back only a day before the family was to transfer. All I can think is that the local authorities were corrupt. I don’t know if it’s any better nowadays. I doubt it.”
“I’m glad Hell killed those corrupt-ass motherfuckers,” Wanda spat, tears sliding down her face.
“I’m proud of my sister. She had a hard beginnin’ and after Mom died, I think it was harder, especially trying to deal with being a werewolf and all. I think Hellen thought she’d been abandoned by a mother once again. My dad did the best he could.”
“Poor little Hellen. God love her.” Nora sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “I’m so glad you gave her that kitty when she first got sick. Though I’m kind of surprised her werewolf didn’t eat it.”
“Widget gives her company, and I think her werewolf likes the cat well enough and vice versa.” Vivian grinned, thinking of the fat Himalayan.
