Duel Nature

by John Conroe

  “Why is it off limits?” I asked.

  “We don’t know,” Senka replied with a sardonic grin. “Absolutely none of our were contacts will discuss it.”

  “Oooh, a mystery,” Tanya said in sudden understanding.

  Even those of us on the other side of the curtain of mystery that covers the supernatural world don’t have all the answers. In my case, I don’t have many answers at all, I’m still learning the ropes of this strange reality that exists alongside the normal human experience.

  Information is power and the Coven excels at collecting and managing information, so anything that could have this big an impact on the werewolf packs of Michigan demanded investigation.

  “So what’s different about the Hiawatha forest?” I asked.

  “That’s the billion dollar question,” Senka said. “The weres have their own legends and history. We’ve picked up hints from time to time of some individuals who have lived as weres for much greater spans of time than the rest of the species.”

  “You mean there are Elder werewolves?” I asked. Generally, barring death by violence, weres could live to be 200- 300 years old, but unlike vampires, they did, eventually, die of old age.

  “Possibly something like that,” she replied. “Maybe even approaching the age of an Elder vampire. It’s an area that I have interest in, so I keep some of my Guardians out looking for details.”

  I glanced at Lydia who was frozen solid, no expression on her pixie-like face. Lydia dated mostly weres, which I had always believed to be her personal choice. Now I wondered if this cross species romancing was at the direction of Senka.

  “The U.P. has a history of werewolf sightings that date back to early interactions with French fur trappers and the local natives. Loup Garou and that sort of thing,” Galina supplied.

  Lydia spoke, “Although the Algonquian tribes that lived in that region didn’t seem to have any folktales of werewolves. They did, however, have their own monsters.”

  ***

  My thoughts returned to the here and now as I drove up Route 94, heading northwest toward the town of Munising, which sits on the southern shore of Lake Superior. Despite the odd nature of our mission and the large number of unknowns, not to mention the recent assassination attempt, I was relaxed. The sun was just coming up, both Tanya and Awasos were sleeping and the wooded terrain I was driving through was so much like my home in upstate New York that I had to keep remembering I was in Michigan. The hardwood forest was sprouting the new green leaves of May, the maple and beech leaves unfurling and beginning to cover the recently bare limbs of their trees. Mixed in among the leafing trees were white and red pines, cedars and tamaracks, and occasionally I caught the scent of balsam on the breeze blowing through my partially opened window.

  I usually drive to music, but the forest seemed to demand silent appreciation, so I kept the stereo off, pondering what mystery could keep werewolves from a pristine forest like this one.

  We were heading to a resort lodge twenty-three miles south of Munising oddly named Copper Top Cabins. Two eyewitness accounts of the famous Dogman had popped up from separate people who stayed at or near the resort within the last month. The sightings were detailed on a website and blog dedicated to mysteries of Michigan. No newspaper articles or police reports existed to corroborate the reports but the three nights of the full moon had fallen during the time the sightings were purported to occur.

  Details from one report to the other closely matched each other and accurately described true werewolf features. In both cases, the witnesses saw a giant wolf-like creature, not a wolf-man hybrid. Most werewolves could, with time, learn to stop their transformation in the beast-man(woman) state, but the more common form was very similar to a timber wolf, although about two or three times larger.

  Both described dark brown coloration, jaws and musculature that seemed excessive even for a giant wolf and an extremely rapid rate of movement. No one had been attacked which lent even more support to the werewolf theory as killing and eating humans is severely frowned on by the werewolf society.

  The one set of witnesses that stayed at the resort had reported the sighting to the cabins owners, getting almost no reaction in the process. The other witness had been camping nearby and rushed back to his vehicle for safety. On his way out of the forest he stopped at the Copper Top to warn the inhabitants and reported being met with disbelief and ridicule. I was interested to meet the folks who ran the place.

  Lydia had set up a reservation for one of the five cabins, three of which were already full. The resort also had a main lodge with eight rooms for rent. Each cabin had a small efficiency kitchen, so I bought lots of groceries when we got to Munising, then gassed up the Tahoe before heading south on the National Forest Development Road number 13. We pulled into the resort just before noon, Awasos and I getting out of the SUV, letting Tanya stay semi-comatose in the back seat.

  A squat two-story wood and timber lodge stood at the end of the dirt and gravel driveway, with two of the five cabins visible just back and to the left of it. A dirt road circled out from the better graveled, main driveway, heading past each of the cabins and on behind the lodge where I presumed the rest of the cabins were hidden.

  “Holy shit!” a voice proclaimed from behind me. Both Awasos and I whipped around to find a very tall, middle-aged blond man staring at us from the center of a mound of firewood, splitting ax clutched in his big hands like a weapon. He stared at Awasos in a mixture of undisguised fear and interest.

  “Oh, don't worry!” I said, “He won't hurt anyone. He's just big is all.”

  The Viking-looking guy glanced at me once before turning his gaze back to Awasos who immediately came over and sat by my legs, letting his big tongue loll out of his mouth like all friendly dogs do.

  “Big? My feet are big! That, my friend, is huge!” he said, his voice deep to match his size.

  “I'm Chris Gordon. My wife and I have a reservation for one of your cabins. This is Awasos,” I said.

  “Welcome Chris Gordon and Awasos. I'm Garth Boklund. My wife, Quinby and I run this place or like to think we do. Actually, it runs us.” he said as he approached his voice. Up close I judged him at six-three or six-four, probably 230 or more in weight. His big mitt swallowed mine and squeezed.

  A lot of big men will have gentle handshakes, like they have less to prove. Garth's wasn't gentle. He squeezed hard, or at least what I would have considered hard several years ago. I squeezed back, a bit.

  His face went white and his eyes widened, then after a second or two he caved, quickly clapping his other hand over mine in a non-verbal surrender.

  “Well Chris Gordon, you've got a hell of a grip! Not to mention an oversized dog with wolf in his bloodline if I don't miss my guess. Say, where's your wife?” he asked, trying to see into the Tahoe's super tinted windows.

  “She's sleeping in the back. She was up all night driving. I’ll just get us checked in then I'll wake her over at the cabin.”

  The door behind the driver’s opened on the SUV and Tanya appeared, one hand covering a yawn. That hand hid her fangs from view which was good, but from the look on Garth’s face I don’t think it would have mattered if they were in full view.

  “Garth, this is my wife, Tatiana,” I said by way of introduction.

  “Er, nice to meet you Mrs. Gordon,” he said, eyes busy taking in her details.

  “Garth, where do I check in?” I asked, forcing him to reluctantly drag his attention away from Tanya.

  “Right through that door. Quinby ought to be in there,” he replied.

  The big wooden door led me into a tiny office area complete with the obligatory rack of tourist maps and brochures, a coffee station and a hotel reservation desk that was manned or womaned by Garth’s female counterpart. Close to six feet tall, I judged Quinby to be in her mid-forties, blond, attractive and statuesque. She looked up as I came in, her face looking startled by my appearance. Or probably my eyes. Either way she recovered after a second to g
reet me with a slightly reserved smile. I smiled back, introduced myself and told her Garth had sent me in to check in.

  “Well, that’s probably best. Every time that man tries to handle check in or reservations he leaves disaster in his wake,” she said shaking her head while still studying my face. Yup, it was the eyes again.

  She was dressed simply in a sweater and jeans, but she fairly dripped with jewelry. That in and of itself wasn’t odd (come on, I live in New York City where almost every woman drips with jewelry), it was that none of it was gold or silver. Wood beads and carved ivory made up most of the necklaces and bracelets, with small stones and gems littered among the more organic material.

  I handed her my Coven credit card and filled out the little slip of paper that seems to be mandatory for all small inns, B&B’s and motels. After writing out the details of the Tahoe and signing the credit card slip, I was handed the key to cabin four.

  “Every cabin has an outdoor firepit and grill. Help yourself to the mountain of wood that Garth is always playing around in. Oh and when you check out, the cabin needs to be broom swept. How long are you staying?” she asked.

  “We reserved it for four nights, but we might stay longer if that’s alright?” I replied.

  She opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by a voice from the doorway behind her.

  “Mom, I finished the laundry,” came through, just before another blond head poked out. “Oh!” said the girl as she realized I was standing there. “Ohh!” was the follow up after a second.

  “Mr. Gordon, this is my daughter Britta. She and her sister Erika provide some of the extra hands needed to keep this place going.

  I have a unique ability to tell the age of a vampire to within a year or so with a single glance. It absolutely doesn’t work on young humans in their late teens to early twenties. Britta was a very pretty, blue-eyed younger version of her mother and could have been as old as twenty or possibly as young as sixteen. It was difficult to tell, which probably caused no end of problems for her parents. As tall as me and built like her mother, she would be a target for every male from pimple faced high-schoolers to middle-aged men. She had sort of frozen up, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights.

  “Britta, where the hell did you go?” another female voice came through from what had to be the family’s private living quarters.

  The girl that came through was Britta’s clone in every detail, except for the annoyed expression on her face.

  “Erika, I’m guessing?” I asked the girl’s mother.

  “Yes, my twins,” she answered me, smiling slightly at the surprised expression on Erika’s face.

  Erika’s surprised expression changed to a big smile, while Britta continued to stare at me without comment.

  “Girls, Mr. Gordon and his wife are staying in cabin four for most of the week,” she said, emphasizing the word wife. The twins looked at her in unison then back at me.

  “Where is your wife, Mr. Gordon?” Quinby asked.

  “It’s Chris and she’s outside talking to your husband, keeping an eye on our…dog,” I answered.

  Just then the door behind me opened and Tanya came through followed by Garth. The expressions on the three Boklund womens’ faces flashed through a series of changes, almost too quick to catch. Quinby took in Tanya at a glance, her face briefly registering first the dismay that most attractive women feel when they first meet my vampire. Faced with her literally inhuman beauty, most females are intimidated. Then Quinby’s face took in her husband’s body language and her features settled into a look that promised doom to Garth in the near future. I’ve seen that one before as well. Then she took another look at Tanya and her eyes widened, then hardened.

  The twins stared at Tanya, eyes wide, then Britta looked away, concentrating on something on the desk, while Erika’s eyes continued to take in the details of Tanya’s clothes.

  Chapter 9

  Tanya was wearing designer jeans, some kind of half-boot which I know cost a lot of money and a white blouse with a blue shawl like thing over it, all in fashion, all expensive. Living in New York city, with unlimited wealth, it’s natural that Tanya would be a fashionista. My own clothes are only slightly less likely to be current, but that’s due to the efforts of both Lydia and Tanya to keep me presentable (in their estimation). I just wear what’s handy. Lydia spent some time trying to educate me, but eventually just gave up and settled for removing anything she deemed out of fashion, although I do have a secret stash of old sweat shirts she hasn’t found yet.

  I introduced Tanya to the three women, collected some extra towels from Quinby, then ushered my vampire out of the tiny office. Garth started to follow but was brought up short by his wife’s voice.

  We escaped to the Tahoe, driving over to cabin four while Awasos ran along beside us. Being as it was the middle of her sleep time, Tanya immediately climbed into the queen bed and fell back to sleep. I made sure all the blinds were closed, then unpacked the SUV. Putting most of the groceries away, I left out the big party packs of hot dogs and hamburgers, putting a dozen of each on the gas grill that came with the cabin. Awasos and I would snack on those while studying the layout of the resort.

  The cabins formed a five part arc around the shoreline of a tiny pond that had no name on any maps. In the middle of the arc was the main lodge, office, and living quarters of the Boklund family. The pond was small enough that it hadn’t been visible from the front, road-side, of the lodge. Cabin four was out near the end of the arc, only empty cabin five beyond it. Cabins one thru three all showed signs of occupancy. Cars were parked at one and two; a pair of kayaks with paddles and gear were jumbled around number three. There was a small beach in front of the lodge with a couple of beat up canoes and an aluminum row boat parked on the sand.

  During the short time it took to grill up the grease burgers and frankfurters enough activity occurred for me to get some idea of our neighbors. The screen door on cabin one burst open and a small, dark-haired boy of about seven or eight came flying out, a plastic gun in one hand and a drink box in the other. Immediately, he laid down an impressive display of suppressive fire, blasting flashing lights and recorded machine gun sounds at a crow flying by, two dragonflies, a squirrel sitting in a nearby tree and a small pine stump next to the shoreline. Turning our way he froze when he spotted the massive wolf sitting next to me, his right hand coming to rest on the bumper of the black BMW SUV that was parked in front of his cabin. I noticed that the BMW wore dealer plates.

  “Whoa!” he said, frozen while his hind brain registered the apex predator a hundred yards away. Awasos’s calm dog-like demeanor must have convinced the boy that he wasn’t in much danger because he unfroze and started our way. When he was about thirty yards from us, he suddenly stopped, watching us awkwardly, unable to look away, but too shy to come any closer.

  “Hi”, I ventured.

  “Hi” he replied, his eyes flicking from Awasos to me and back again. “Is that your dog?”

  “Yup, his name is Awasos,” I replied. “He won’t hurt you. I’m Chris.”

  “He’s really big,” he said, his eyes huge as he took in the monster canine at my side.

  “Yes he is and he eats a ton,” I said, making my point by tossing a pair of grilled hotdogs to Awasos. The franks disappeared in a single snap of bear trap jaws, big tongue wiping his lips.

  “He looks more like a wolf than a dog,” the boy observed.

  “Well, you’re pretty sharp, because he has some wolf in him,” I said.

  “My mom says I’m smart for my age,” he replied, then added as an afterthought, “I’m Billy.”

  “BILLY!” a female voice yelled from his cabin. A petit and very pregnant woman of about thirty appeared in the door to cabin one. She wore the harried expression of an overworked mother.

  “I’m right here Mom,” he yelled back.

  His mother took in the sight of her son talking to a strange man with a huge wolf-dog and fear blossomed on her face.

&
nbsp; “You probably better head back to your mom, Billy,” I said.

  He understood, having already read his mother’s expression.

  “Billy come here!” she said, although his feet were already moving in her direction.

  “See you later, mister,” he said to me with a nod to Awasos.

  “Later, Billy,” I said, hoping his mother wasn’t too creeped out.

  Billy disappeared into his cabin, but at that moment the door on cabin two opened and a portly bearded man backed out holding an assortment of gear. Somewhere around sixty years old, his half-glasses were perched on his nose in the middle of a face surrounded by gray beard and mustache. His arms held a fly rod, fish creel, a butterfly net and a soft cooler, while a camera and binoculars hung on straps around his neck. His attire was a mixture of LL Bean and Orvis.