by Amos Cassidy
Stepping into the room, she was struck, as she always was, by the cheerful brightness of its décor. Bright marigold walls decorated with large landscape scenes beautifully painted. Her eyes travelled to the silent and still figure of the painter which lay, lightly covered by a bright pink duvet, on the king-sized bed.
“Mum, it’s me.”
There was no response from the tiny, frail, figure of her mother.
Rose perched gingerly on the edge of the bed, her hand going out to stroke the blonde hair so much like her own. “Oh, mum, if only…” She took a deep, angry breath.
This wasn’t a time for wishing and hoping. Miracles did happen sometimes. But when you had spent the best part of twenty-one years praying for a miracle and hoping for sparks of recognition in the face you knew would love you if only it could, it was only an insanely optimistic person that would still hold out. Rose was many things, but above all she was a realist and she knew that if her mother was going to recover she would have done so. She reached for her mother’s hand, clasping it in her own. She noticed that the skin on and around her mother’s inner wrist was once again blistered and sore.
“You’ve been scratching at it again haven’t you, mum?” She reached for the salve on the bedside table and began to apply it to the affected area.
“What is it anyway?” She studied the intricate tattoo, which blazed against its bed of red-raw skin and jerked back as she felt fingers caress her cheek. Her mother was looking at her, really looking at her, her eyes blazing with intelligence and fire.
“Mum?”
“Rose, you must beware the shining stranger.” She said the words clearly and succinctly, her face no longer slack, her eyes no longer dazed and unfocused.
“Mum…you’re here…you’re back…” Hope bloomed within her.
Her mother smiled, her eyes taking on a dreamy look as she stroked her daughter’s cheek. “You shine, you shine so bright.” Her eyes travelled over Rose’s face as if devouring her image.
“Dad!” She couldn’t bring herself to tear her gaze away from her mother’s face, as if that simple connection would serve to keep her anchored in the here and now, would stop her from slipping away from reality.
There followed the thud of heavy footfalls and the door swung open. Her dad barrelled into the room “Rose? What happened?”
“It’s mum! Look!” Rose’s gaze flicked to her father then back to her mother and her heart sank. In her excitement, she had failed to feel the tender fingers slip away from her cheek. And now, as she looked into the face of the woman that had given her life, she saw only an empty vessel, the eyes devoid of emotion and the face slack.
“I…she spoke to me, she reached out for me!” Tears of frustration and anger sprang to her eyes, frustration that she hadn’t been able to prolong the moment, and anger for believing that she had the power to do so.
“Rose, come on.” Her father gently pulled her to her feet and away from the bed.
“No! I swear she spoke! She looked right at me!” Her hands were balled into angry fists at her sides, the urge to shake the now prone body of her mother so strong that she didn’t trust herself not to satisfy it.
Her father’s eyes filled with sadness. “Rose, you know this happens from time to time and you also know it never lasts.”
He was right, her mother did exhibit odd moments of lucidity. And she had done so throughout her illness. All her life, Rose had lived for those moments too few, and far between. It was all she had ever had of her mother, a mother who had been in this unexplained mental coma even before she had been born, eating and sleeping as if on autopilot. Rose had spent hours laying beside this figure that represented everything maternal, arranging her hands so they’d lay on her forehead in an eternal caress. In those days, there had been optimism in her heart, a hope that her mother would return to them. The attack had killed that hope. Because in the aftermath as she’d been beside her mother, her own frame wracked with sobs, needing to feel her mother’s arms around her so badly it was a physical ache, all she had received was silence. Her hope had died and where there had once been anger at God, Fate, or whatever force had allowed this to happen to her mother, there was now a small kernel of anger at her mother for allowing it to happen, for not fighting to remain, for giving up so easily.
She knew better than anyone what the lucid moments could be like. Sparking hope and excitement and then snuffing it out like a candle flame. But this had been different. It had felt different, more vivid more urgent. Her mother had been ablaze with life for those few precious moments.
“No…was different…it was…” Was it? Now taking in her mother’s vacant form, she began to doubt her experience of a few moments ago. Could she have read more into the lucid episode than there had actually been? She unfurled her hands, rubbing at the crescent-shaped nail marks on her palms and allowed her father to gently lead her out of the room.
“What did she say?” He asked unable to hide the desperation in his eyes. These moments meant just as much to him as they did to her. After all, he had known her mother before the illness had taken her mind. She couldn’t imagine how hard it must be for him living like this, living with the memory of the woman he used to love and nursing her body each day, hoping and praying that she might return to him.
Rose shook her head to clear it. “I…I don’t know. Something about shining people.”
Her father frowned in confusion and Rose shrugged, suddenly tired with the whole thing.
“It wasn’t so much what she said but more the expression in her eyes when she said it. They were so…alive, intelligent. I’ve never seen her look like that.”
Her father smiled. “She was the most passionate woman I had ever met, so determined and so focused.”
“Hello? Anybody home?”
“Shit. Faye.” Rose rushed to the top of the stairs. “Be down in a sec!”
“Go on, you better get loaded up.” Her dad was back to his usual efficient self as he shooed her down the stairs, his way of saying the topic was closed, at least for now.
Faye took a sip from her hip flask, screwed on the lid and threw it into the back seat. “Okay, all loaded. You ready to go?” she asked. She was practically bouncing with excitement in the driver’s seat of her hot-pink BMW Z3.
Rose eyed the flask meaningfully.
Faye looked shocked at the intimation. “It’s prune juice! If you don’t believe me take a sip. I would never-”
“Okay, okay. I believe you.” Rose held up her hands.
“Rose?” Her father’s hands settled on her shoulders and she turned to give him a quick hug.
“I’ll call you as soon as I get to Flo’s. Promise.”
“Do that.” He smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from her face. “You’re going to do great, hun. I can feel it.”
“Come on, we’re gonna miss the train. You’ll be back in a few weeks anyway.” Faye moaned eager to be on the move, her fingers drumming a techno rhythm on the steering wheel.
“You sure your dad will pick up the car from the station?” Rose asked sliding into the passenger seat.
Faye gave her a what-do-you-think look.
“I guess so then.” Rose chuckled. Faye’s relationship with her father was a completely new issue. Let’s just say daddy was too busy with his business to shower his little girl with any emotional support. Hence, the expensive gifts she frequently received.
“You sure you want to do this?” Rose asked Faye for the zillionth time.
“You couldn’t tempt me away with a bunch of hot men swimming in a chocolate lake… well, maybe.”
When Faye had learned of Rose’s escape plan, she had immediately included herself. Faye had pointed out that girls with wealthy daddies could do what they wanted, and right now she wanted to go and live in London. “Slumming it,” she’d said. She’d rented a room with some students. She claimed it was research for the book she was going to write later in life.
“Okay then,
what are we waiting for? Let’s ZOOM!”
As they pulled away from the cottage, Rose craned her neck, waving madly until they turned out of the driveway and she could no longer see the solitary figure of her father. Only then did she turn to Faye. “So, prune juice?”
Faye kept her eyes fixed firmly on the road shrugging one slender shoulder. “Hey, a girl’s got to stay regular.”
Rose laughed. “Seriously?”
Faye grinned. “At least I can say with total honesty that I am not full of shit.”
2.
THE RETREAT
His nose told him that rain was on the way. The unmistakable metallic scent hung heavy on the air. He paused to look up at the night sky. Black clouds swirled and writhed against inky blue-black. The bright glow of the moon was obscured by the shadow of a storm moving in and further shadows crawled across the land blanketing the hills and forest surrounding him.
He liked the rain, he liked the darkness, and he liked that he could sense that the heavens were preparing to put on a thrilling display of thunder and lightning very soon.
He padded stealthily through the undergrowth, instinctively avoiding the bracken and twigs that may alert his pursuer to his whereabouts. His lithe, lean, golden body, despite its bulk, was as graceful as a panther on the prowl. He paused, his long pointed ears twitching. Lifting his muzzle to the night air, he inhaled. His eyes widened, he should have been more careful. The scent hit him suddenly with full force. The other wolf must have been up wind for his scent to elude him, but the wind had shifted and…he whirred around just in time to catch the full weight of the other wolf as it barrelled into him, knocking him backwards. He was pinned against a tree by the larger, bulkier wolf, its claws pressing painfully against his chest. He snapped and growled in anger. His green eyes, ringed with silver, flashed dangerously. The larger wolf brought his dark muzzle closer, baring his razor sharp fangs, his dark eyes full of menace and the promise of pain.
He knew he had been bested, he couldn’t wriggle free of his opponents hold, he knew he should lower his gaze, should bare his throat, show his submission. But his other nature fought against the beast inside and he held the huge wolf’s gaze. The larger wolf growled in warning.
The sound of twigs snapping as the ground all but shook, accompanied by a growl more akin to a roar, and the dark-brown wolf was suddenly ripped off him. A wolf with fur the colour of the darkest night slammed into him. They tumbled to the forest floor together rolling head over hind.
He pulled himself away from the tree, wincing as he shook his golden fur. He let out an involuntary whine as a sharp pain lanced through his side.
The fucker’s actually caused damage!
He moved cautiously toward the two larger wolves, the brown one now pinned under the blue-black one’s huge paws. Their gazes were locked on each other in a battle of wills. The seconds seemed to drag by during which he was joined by two others. They moved to stand at his sides, flanking him. The wolf on his right chuffed, nodding his blonde head toward the two wolves suspended in a struggle for dominance. He shook his head in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture. The wolf on his left lowered his chestnut body to the ground, laying his head on his paws, his eyes mere slits. They may be in for a long wait.
But just then the standoff was broken. The pinned wolf averted his gaze, baring his throat. There was a tense silence as the blue-black wolf lowered his huge muzzle, bringing his fangs mere inches from the proffered throat. He held himself there for a moment as if contemplating his next move. Then, in one fluid motion, he leapt off his captive. The brown wolf came slowly to his feet, his eyes blazing with anger and resentment. The blue-black wolf turned his back on him, signalling that the other wolf did not threaten him. He disappeared into the trees. After a moment, the others followed.
The slate cottage, in a secluded area of The Black Mountains in Wales, was the perfect retreat for the werewolves. It was custom built in a remote spot by the Alpha’s great- grandfather. It was an ideal spot, which allowed the pack to change and run in the vast and predominately isolated surroundings at night.
Beyond the entrance hallway, and the first door on the left, an open log fire was burning brightly in the living room. Brown leather sofas, oak shelves and cabinets, bulging with books of all genres, filled the living room. A thick brown carpet lay across the floor, immaculate and well-kept due to a strict no-shoes-indoors-policy upheld by all. But even the warm and comforting radiance of the cottage could do little to dispel the tension between the four men as they entered its haven.
Roman was the first to break the silence “You know what, Harold, you’re a fucking dick! What the fuck were you doing attacking me! I think you broke one of my ribs!”
“Ah, poor baby, got spooked by the big bad wolf did you?” Harold drawled sarcastically. “Quit whining. You’re a fucking werewolf. You’re supposed to be hard. Besides, its healed hasn’t it?”
Roman growled low in his throat, taking a step toward him.
“Come on you two, cool it down.” Kris stepped between them placing a hand on Roman’s chest, his eyes pleading for peace. Roman exhaled shaking off his anger.
Kris turned to Harold, his pack mate and his housemate, his blue eyes shadowed with concern, “I think what Roman was trying to say is that you went against the rules. You’re supposed to evade the Beta, not attack your fellow pack mates.”
Harold leaned against the doorframe. To a casual observer his posture was that of someone at ease, but to the trained eye, he was a snake coiled to strike, lulling his prey into a false sense of security before delivering the fatal blow. His arms were crossed across his chest, the material on the sleeves pulled taunt by the bulky biceps underneath. The man was built like a tank and he knew it. His skin was dusky, the result of frequent trips to the tanning salon, and his eyes were dark coals of derision as he looked over Kris’s head at Roman.
“It’s a stupid fucking game– forgive me if I tried to spice things up a bit. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you had no idea I was stalking you did you?” He directed the question to Roman. “If this was the real world I would have had you, little boy, but lucky for you the Beta saved your hide.” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “I don’t know about you lot but I don’t like the idea of hiding while our Beta plays hunt the minions. I mean, how the hell does that benefit us?” He’d pushed himself away from the doorframe, all attempts at feigning relaxed-casual out the window. His hands were fisted at his sides.
“It’s just a bloody game!” Damon said. His brown eyes flashed with annoyance. “For goodness sake can we just take a reality check?” He glared at Harold. “You need to rein it in. You do not go up against the Beta unless you have the nerve to back it up. You do not antagonise the system; it’s there for a reason. And you do not attack your pack mates for no reason apart from the fact that you’re bored.”
Harold’s eyes narrowed, a vein pulsing in his jaw as he struggled to control his temper.
“Come on, man, what is wrong with you?” Kris asked softly. “You know we’re right. Roman could have been really hurt. We’re supposed to be here to learn, not kill each other.”
Harold could be an arsehole. Kris knew that better than anyone did. He lived with him. But he also knew that the pack meant everything to Harold. He embraced his nature and maybe that was what made him so wild and uncontrollable. Whereas the others balanced beast and man, listening more to their human side, Harold mostly did the opposite. In Kris’s eyes that didn’t make him bad, just misunderstood.
As for Harold’s issues with Raven, their Beta, well, he couldn’t quite get his head around that.
Roman shook his head as if fed up with the whole mess. “You need to learn some respect. Going up against me? Well, that’s fine, but not the Beta. You need to get it through your thick skull that the Alpha has made his decision and frankly the only one that has a problem with it is you.”
Harold took a menacing step toward him. “That’s because I have the best interests of th
e pack at heart, not some overrated notion of political correctness. His kind isn’t fit to be a Beta. Heck, not even pack. I know it and the Alpha knows it despite his attempt to exercise equality. But a pack doesn’t work on those principles and one day soon he will slip up and you’ll all know it.”
“And what if he does? You gonna stand there and crow I told you so?” Roman had taken a step toward Harold, his fuse re-lit, leaving only a couple of feet between them. And a couple of feet weren’t nearly enough distance between two angry beasts. The air rippled with the promise of violence.
“Er…guys…” Kris tried to slip between them but was sent flying into the wall as Harold’s hand shot out lightning-quick, hitting him squarely in the chest. Kris let out a shocked cry before he sagged to the floor clutching his aching diaphragm.
“Stay out of this midge; this is between me and the lamb.” Harold’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as he turned his attention back to Roman. “You wanna play, little boy?” He taunted in a voice low and menacing.
“Fuck, yeah!” Roman lunged, and then crumpled to the floor as a wave of emotion assaulted his senses, regret and disappointment, sharp, poignant, and bittersweet. He felt the answering ache in his heart and struggled to breathe through the pain. Around him, the others were similarly engaged in their own personal battles for emotional equilibrium.
The wave passed as suddenly as it had hit and there was a collective inhalation as the four men sucked in deep breaths of sweet air.
They came to their feet one by one, turning to face their Beta.
Raven stood in the doorway of the living room. His arms were crossed across his wide chest, his eyes like pieces of silver flint as he regarded his pack. Nothing of the pain he felt could be detected in his demeanour but the wolves inside them knew different. They had felt it, the full force of his turmoil, the unique bond they all shared. It was a testament to his ingrained sense of fair play and his sense of responsibility that it had been regret, and disappointment they had experienced rather than wrath.