Grey Lore

by Jean Knight Pace

  When questioned about where she had received such a thing, Christa had lied. Firmly. Believably. She’d found it, she said, behind a fat rock on one of the hiking paths, half buried in the dirt. She’d thought it beautiful and brought it back to wear. The mechanic had helped her polish and repair it. And she’d worn it—good as new. What was wrong with that?

  The governess, they were told, had an allergy to silver, quite severe.

  Maybe it would have ended there if the next week Patrick had come back to The Ranch. But he didn’t. Their governess, Raquel, told them he’d quit. One lie too many—one thing Christa knew with her heart wasn’t true. After that, life changed. Something was wrong at The Ranch.

  The girls dug through files, read long history books, studied geology, uncovered secrets. The girls were different, it turned out. But not crazy. They were needed by a group—a cult of sorts—to help place a stone, a stone that was made of a substance that none of this cult could touch.

  The cult believed that this stone would change the sun so that a new world would be reborn—a world in which this cult, a group now known as The Ring of the Alpha, would rule as kings.

  The changing would not happen until the first winter solstice that coincided with a full moon. Which would be in another twenty years. The girls were trapped. Except that they hadn’t been Patrick’s only friends on The Ranch. And they weren’t the only ones with reason to leave.

  The bookkeeper came to them. He was a member of the cult, but he had been a friend to Patrick. He was also an outlier—an outlier who had begun to feel himself in danger. Vivian and Christa weren’t sure he could be trusted, but their options were limited.

  The bookkeeper was an insider, and—perhaps most importantly—their governess had a crush on him. Raquel made him sweets, laughed too loud in his presence, and stared at him when he wasn’t looking. For better or worse, the bookkeeper David was needed. He contacted Patrick; they cooked up a plan.

  Before they left, Christa took something from The Ranch headquarters—a stone that had been entombed in a thick, padded safe.

  Vivian had helped crack the code for the safe. If the cult was going to steal girls in order to force them to use a stone, then the girls would steal the stone in order to save other girls.

  The bookkeeper stole something too—an unusual chip with two pieces that fitted together. Then he took the girls and picked up Patrick. Together they fled and together they “died.”

  Ella had been scrolling, clicking from journal entries to newspaper articles, to ledger books. Now she stopped, let the phone rest in her lap.

  Sam looked at her. Then picked up her phone.

  “What are you looking for?” Ella asked.

  “Death records,” Sam answered. “Real ones. After the crash, they all separated—your parents eloping, my mom laying low nearby, which is where she met my dad. And I know they hoped to reunite.” Sam clicked a link, his eyes scrolling through the records. “But—” Sam stopped. He clicked a footnote and there it was. Patrick Peterson had died in a mine cave in in West Virginia. Vivian Calhoun at a cancer unit in Arizona. Christa Peterson in a car accident in Indianapolis. Only one of the four had survived. He had never married or had children. He had given up accounting and taken up literature.

  Sam and Ella looked at each other. The silver name on the school roster.

  Mr. Witten.

  “He’s one of them,” Sam said. “But different.”

  “So are you,” Ella said.

  “No,” Sam said. “I’m not one of them. Witten is a full breed, but different somehow.”

  “Silver,” Ella said slowly. “He can touch it. The rest of them can’t. Or if they do, it weakens them. That’s why werewolves can be killed with a silver bullet. But Witten—he’s worn that bracelet all year. And he used to be friends with Jones, who is a silver smith.”

  “Witten can touch silver…” Sam said, racking his brain to remember what his dad had told him. “And you…”

  Ella had stopped scrolling through her phone. She didn’t need a master key anymore. Or a master computer. She had her mother’s stories and they told her the rest. She began to speak.

  “Once, at the beginning of worlds and end of days, a mighty race ruled under a violet sky. Wolves, shifters, dogs, and men. All lived under the same scarlet sun. But all did not have access to its power.

  “Incredible strength, incredible magic, and sometimes incredible intrigue propelled the Changers into the monarchy where they ruled with wolves at their side, humans at their heel, and dogs at their hands.

  “From this world arose a poor human boy and a magic-less Changeling prince. Together, and aided by the dogs, these enemies-turned-friends found a stone of ancient source, of ageless power—a stone that few others could touch. Yet, hiding under the werewolf prince’s magic-less fingers was a gift.

  “He could touch a metal none of his race could withstand.

  “As lord of the silver, the prince became responsible for empowering the stone—turning its use against his own corrupt people. After that, the boy could place the stone and change the sun. But there was one—a friend to the prince who, torn between fellowship to the prince and loyalty to his race, fought with the prince. He could not overtake the empowered stone. But to it, he added his essence, his hopes, and much of his strength. To it, he gave a glimmer of power—enabling the stone to return the world to the one it had been should the need ever arise.

  “But to return the world to what it was, the Changers would need the stone.

  “And one to carry it.

  Ella stopped in her telling of the story. One to carry it. One from a long line of gifted humans, a line Napper had spent his life seeking. Her mother. Her aunt. And now her. The carrier, the bearer; and the only one left.

  “We do belong in the asylum,” Sam said when she was done telling her mother’s story.

  Ella was chewing her cuticle. There were, she understood now, two surefire ways to stop the Changers’ plan. The stone could be destroyed. Or she could.

  One of those things, it was clear, was much easier to get rid of than the other. The stone, after all, had been around for eons, and longer. That didn’t exactly give Ella a ton of hope. After the stone was placed, the Changers would surely dispose of her. And before the stone was placed, if some human found out and wanted to stop the Changers, he might not think it too great a crime to get rid of her either—in the name of humanity and all.

  That didn’t leave Ella with a whole lot of friends. She counted them. Sam—one. Loco—two. Sarah, who was in the mental institution—three. That was more friends than she’d had most of her life. The problem was that her tally of potential enemies had risen from zero to almost everyone. The Changers needed her, but only to use her for a short period of time. And the humans might not want her to die, but they also might find in necessary if that meant saving everyone else.

  Sam seemed to be putting together what she was thinking. “No one’s going to hurt you, Ella.”

  Ella shook her head. “They will if they know. They’ll have to. To save me will be to destroy everyone else—at least all the humans and half-breeds. That’s me and you and a lot of other people.”

  “Then let’s come up with a different plan for saving the human race, and make sure no one finds out about you,” Sam said.

  He took Ella’s phone from her unresisting hand. “Should we head to the tallest bleachers?”

  “I’m sure the information’s backed up somewhere,” Ella said, staring at nothing. “And the bleachers aren’t high enough.”

  “Maybe,” Sam said. “Probably. But lucky for us, we live in a city by a river.”

  Together, in jeans and winter coats, they ran through the south side of town until they came to a creek, which widened before emptying out into the river.

  Sam removed the master key from Ella’s phone and put it carefully in his pocket. Then he took the super computer that was Ella’s phone and drew his arm back to throw it. Ella sucked in her b
reath and Sam stopped.

  “You do it, Ella,” he said, turning to her.

  She looked dazed for a moment and then something focused in her eyes. She took the phone and scrolled through the numbers. Brandt and Lila, Kate and Nicole. She was pretty sure that all of them would give her up for humanity, or, when she was honest with herself, a whole lot of less important causes as well—like maybe what brand her jeans were and how well she wore them. And who needed a phone full of contacts who weren’t really her friends?

  She yanked her arm back, and threw the phone so hard it hit a tree near the water on the other bank and cracked before sliding down the edge and into the creek.

  Ella sat on the cold ground and cried. Sam looked uncomfortable, but he patted her back occasionally. Maybe he thought she was crying because of the phone. Really she was wondering how—how she could have had a phone, a life, full of people who had not really been her friends, who would throw her—quite literally if they had to—to the wolves.

  Her mother wouldn’t have filled her life with fake people. Her mother hadn’t. Ella dried her face and stood up. The Festival was in two days. There was a lot to do.

  No one believed he was a king, he thought, pushing the half-full grocery cart around the fence that surrounded The Property. But he had been all those years ago—king of all, king of everything.

  In a time before this time there was one who had taken it away from him, left him to bow and grovel in his weak, magic-less skin. It would have been a cruel fate for any of his kind. But the curse had run deep, deeper than he or she could have imagined. He had grown old, bald, ugly, but his body had refused to die. All these years it had pressed on him—years of achy bones and weakened teeth, years to see what his own prejudices and punishments had done to others. He had resisted learning it—the lesson his curse was trying to force on him. Until Charles Napper had taken up in the forest and built himself that mansion—a perfect reflection of the king-that-once-was—calm, disdainful, cruel.

  And so, the king-that-once-was had gone, after all these years, to see the tea-maker, the balance-bringer, the girl-who-was-now-old. And she had told him: one act of restitution, one good deed to those half-breeds whom he had despised. That was all it would cost him. When that act was complete, the curse would be broken. His aged body would fall from him, and he would be released.

  He bent to pick up a crumpled, red can, listening to the distant voices of the wolves. Their numbers continued to increase even as their food sources diminished. The Alpha was pulling them to him. But not all would stay. The blackened Ezazh had already been abandoned. Eventually she had found her way to him—scented his authority when the humans could not, when the Changers would not. The wolves would still trust him if the need for a leader arose. One good deed.

  “I will call them,” he muttered to his shopping cart. “If the Alpha falls, I will call the wolves to me.”

  Chapter 58

  It was the last day of the semester. Ella walked slowly to Mr. Witten’s room, set her retelling on his desk, and waited.

  Her teacher looked up, smiling. “Anxious to know your score, are you?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” Ella said. “This is really just a draft.”

  Mr. Witten raised an eyebrow. “Ella, it’s due today.”

  “I know,” Ella said. “I guess I was hoping you’d let me email it to you or something. The truth is, I’m just wondering if there’s anything more about the original wolf lore that I should know—anything that might help me make the re-telling more impactful.”

  “Yes,” he said, skimming through the paper, the lines on his face deepening as he read. “I see.”

  For several minutes they both sat in the silence of the empty classroom. Finally, Mr. Witten cleared his throat and said, “Of course there are always many ways that a story retelling could go.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Exactly. Those who once worked together could now work in opposition to one another. That could also be part of an effective retelling, don’t you think?”

  Witten looked into Ella’s eyes. “Yes, I suppose it could be very effective and a nice twist. Though I must admit that I personally dislike retellings that make old friends into enemies.”

  Witten paused and looked at Ella. “There are always other twists you could use as well. One thing you might think about is that the mythical werewolves in the stories would have had children. In your retelling, it would be interesting to imagine that now the descendants from those werewolf lords could have multiplied and intermixed with other races, as family lines often do. And so, just like some of the children in the myths of Greece and Rome, many of these creatures would now be halflings—partial werewolves if you will—with blood that has been combined with regular humans. These half-bred descendants of the full blood werewolves might be disliked, even endangered by the full bloods. Yet, there might also be a few full bloods who would wish to protect them if they could.”

  “Yes,” Ella said. “That would be a nice addition. I’ll work on it and get it to you tonight.”

  “Very good,” her teacher said, shuffling his papers and looking down at his desk. “Good luck at the Festival, Ella. I’ll probably see you there.”

  Ella smiled. “I’m pretty nervous.”

  “I bet.”

  So Witten was on their side, or at least not on the side of the Changers. Witten considered himself one who wished to help and protect the half-breeds—at least if Ella was interpreting their conversation correctly. That was good, or at least nice to know.

  The rest of everything was a mess. Ella and Sam had different plans. The idea was that these plans would eventually work their way into the same plan as the night of the Festival progressed. But Ella thought that seemed overly optimistic. Especially considering both plans had approximately 10,000 holes, she and Sam were just teenagers, Napper was an evil genius, and it would be the full moon, which meant there would be a wood full of wolves and werewolves.

  Ella paused for a second as something else clicked into her brain.

  The full moon.

  The news never caught stories of werewolves or half-breeds. But every month, for the last five months, the news had been filled with stories of a silver bullet on a moon-filled night.

  Ella looked up to the darkening sky, the moon scattering light through the trees. Suddenly it seemed quite possible that, in addition to wolves and werewolves, the Silver Shooter might also make an appearance at the Festival of the Red Candle.

  And Ella really had no idea whose side he was on.

  The Rogue took all their teeth, so as not to arouse suspicion. To take only the incisors might have alerted the Alpha. Although probably not.

  It was a common punishment—to remove the sharpest teeth—the most powerful, the most beautiful. And the Alpha had not known to whom the punishment would be given. She had been an inconsequential female working as a governess at The Ranch.

  An inconsequential female with her first real crush. On the wrong man. Naturally. She laughed at the cliché. Her superiors had told her that she was never to release anyone from the compound. And yet she had. Witten had touched her hand, holding his fingers there—lingering as he’d asked for the keys, taken them. He had just wanted to go on a little joy ride, he’d said. There had been no rush, no urgency, and it had seemed so harmless. He, after all, was one of their kind.

  And then he was gone with the mechanic and the sisters. They’d escaped through backroads and staged the crash and the explosion—so beautifully done that even the Alpha had believed them to be gone—burned up at cliff’s bottom where only twisted metal and smoking remains had been found.

  The chosen ones were gone. It had been her fault.

  “Whoever was responsible,” the Alpha had said, “remove the teeth.”

  The Italian had reported the infraction. The rancher had executed her punishment. They had been the first to go. After that, she’d gone after the Alpha’s favorites—those who weren’t necessary to secure the girl’s p
resence at the Festival, but whom he preferred, whom he listened to when he never listened to her at all.

  The Rogue smiled as the bridge of her fake eye teeth soaked for the night. Because he hadn’t been there, because she’d grown into a woman—a woman who’d chosen a different name and a different face—because she could hide her infirmity, she’d moved up through his ranks. Strong, smart, beautiful. The humans, she thought darkly, never questioned beauty. Among them, an attractive, wealthy woman could do no wrong. This had served her well among their kind. And her own. She could slip into any position in human society. They always trusted a pretty face.

  She slid the bridge back into her mouth and smiled—perfect teeth between perfect lips in a perfect face. She wanted to be sure the Alpha believed the Rogue was after the girl and had failed to get her. In reality, she had failed at nothing. Her efforts to take the girl were merely distractions from the messier work of weakening the council by reducing its numbers. Although the girl would have been a good card to play.

  The Rogue set both gift boxes on the table. One she left closed and triple wrapped as usual. The other she opened to look at her newest bauble. This bullet was special—not silver as she’d needed for the others, but titanium—shiny as moonbeams, ready to be stained garnet as the blood sun. She had commissioned it for one final bit of business she needed to complete before the work of the Festival was done. It would be, she thought smiling, a special surprise.

  Chapter 59

  The rehearsal breakfast was held in a large indoor patio to the north side of Napper’s mansion. It was decorated in spring pastels though outside a light sleet was falling. The food was spring-like too—strawberry rhubarb crumbles, fresh eggs balanced on tiny bowls, and bright melons cut into flower shapes of different sizes. Wealth and power, Ella could see, had no regard for the seasons.