Shadow of the Moon: A Fantasy of Love, Murder and Werewolves

by Kwen Griffeth

  “Change, damn you. Please...”

  “Trakes? Andee Trakes?”

  She looked over her shoulder, and recognized Canton running toward her. He stopped when close and bent forward, his hands on his knees. His breathing as ragged as Andee’s.

  He looked at the mangled bodies, the blood on the ground and the mayhem around him. He noticed the agent’s twisted and deformed arm.

  Using the dagger, still in her hand, Andee pointed to the case, still open on the table.

  “Do you know how to load one of those?” she asked.

  “A little before my time. I have my Glock.”

  She shook her head.

  “No,” she said, “honor is at stake here. Do what I tell you to do.”

  The detective moved to the case and picked up one of the pistols.

  “Pull the hammer back to half cock, the first click,” the agent directed.

  The detective did.

  “Take the flask, push the stopper aside and while holding the pistol muzzle up, pour powder into the barrel. Hold the flask upside down for the count of two-seconds.”

  Canton did, and Trakes heard him, “One-thousand one, one-thousand two.”

  He righted the flask.

  “Don’t dump the powder from the pistol, but get one of those cloth patches and one of the silver balls. Place the patch on the muzzle, then the ball. Push them into the bore with the little stick there.”

  He followed her instructions.

  “Good,” she nodded and looked over her shoulder at the wolves. Both lay where they were. Neither had changed to human. She knew she was running out of time.

  “Hold the pistol horizontal.”

  He did.

  “Flip open the frizzen.”

  “The what?”

  “Bring it here. Let me do it.”

  He did, and she opened the pan.

  With her good hand, she pointed and directed, “Pour a little bit of powder in there.”

  He did.

  “Close the frizzen, and pull the hammer back to full cock.”

  Detective Canton did as he had been instructed and now looked at the Agent Trakes.

  He handed her the pistol.

  “Help me stand,” she instructed. Canton did.

  Weak, but still able to walk, she stepped close to and over the wolf. She pointed the pistol at his head.

  “I get it,” Canton said, “the guy’s a werewolf, and he tried to kill your boyfriend.”

  “He killed Jerry,” she defended.

  “I know, and for that he should be arrested, not executed.”

  “As you said, detective, he is a werewolf. Where should we take him?”

  “If you pop him, it’s murder, Agent Trakes.”

  “If I pop him as he is, I’m downing little more than a rabid dog.”

  “If you kill him, I’ll file a complaint.”

  Andee looked at the downed wolf. She saw him move slightly. She heard him groan.

  She looked at Canton.

  “If I don’t, you won’t be alive to watch the sun rise.”

  She had allowed her arm to sag, but she straightened it, pointed the muzzle into the animal’s ear and pulled the trigger. The black powder created a cloud of smoke as it burned, and for a moment, she was blind. When the cloud cleared, she was standing over the naked body of a man. Most of his head was gone.

  Canton stepped to the body and looked down.

  “I meant what I said, but that’s for another day,” he said. “What do we do with Lloyd? And you need to get to a hospital.”

  “You guys came by the helicopter?”

  “We did.”

  “Is it still at the heliport?”

  “I don’t know. What’s your plan?”

  “We have to get Alwyn to the Lloyd estate. The helicopter is the fastest way.”

  “And you?”

  “We’ll call and have a doctor waiting there for both of us.”

  She stepped to the small stack of clothes Alwyn had folded and set on the table just prior to his change. On the top of the pile, as if he had placed it there for her, was his phone. She picked it up and pressed the speed dial for Miranda.

  “Hello?” on the first ring, “Alwyn?”

  “Miranda, it’s me, Andee.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alwyn?”

  “Alive, but hurt. He’s still wolf. Send the helicopter to Central Park. We’re in the meadow. We’ll have car lights on. We need it quick, as quickly as possible.”

  Epilogue

  Three days later, Andee Trakes walked onto the balcony of Professor Alwyn Lloyd’s apartment. It was a pleasant mid-day, with a breeze that promised a better evening to come. She was dressed in a pair of white loose-fitting cotton pants that Alwyn had let her borrow. They were Kundalini yoga pants, and they were way too large, but they worked well enough with rolled-up cuffs and a cord tied at the waist. She was barefoot and wore a tank top that exposed her left arm in a cast. Most of the cast was covered in marker signatures and drawings, many of them fangs. She had tried to wear her own clothes, but they were too constricting over the cuts, scratches and scrapes on her legs and lower body. In her good right hand, she carried a glass of wine.

  Alwyn, dressed in a pair of the same loose trousers, wore a t-shirt. He relaxed in one of two patio lounge chairs, his shoeless feet resting on the balcony railing and his eyes closed. He, too, bore the marks of the battle. Bite and puncture wounds covered much of his chest, legs and upper arms. The bite that downed him had broken several ribs, punctured a lung, and dislocated his left shoulder. It had also broken his left upper arm. He carried the arm in a sling that was secured loosely to his stomach. He refused any castings.

  She stepped onto the patio, turned and leaned against the railing, her legs crossed at her ankles.

  “Are you sleeping?” she asked.

  “No longer,” he replied, his eyes remained closed.

  “Good,” she smiled. “Wouldn’t want to disturb you.”

  “You are the most disturbing woman I know.”

  She smiled and allowed a giggle.

  “If awards were given in the field of women who disturb, you would be a contender.”

  She smiled and sipped her wine.

  “I can see it now, at the award ceremony, the announcer, with spotlights raking through the crowd, ‘in the field of disturbing women...’”

  “Alright, alright, you’ve made your point. Such as it was.”

  “Well,” he said, opening his eyes, “what’s on your mind.”

  “That wolf.”

  “What about him?”

  “The way he answered when you asked him who had sent him.”

  “He refused to answer.”

  “I know,” she said, “which in its own way, is an answer.”

  “And you’ve figured out his answer?”

  “No, but think about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “When you asked who sent him, and you made a comment about thanking them, he laughed and told you not to worry because they would contact you.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “I’m not. Go on with your thought.”

  “Well, my thought is, you killed him. This isn’t over. Someone will be coming after you. You understand that, right?”

  “That thought has crossed my mind.”

  “And,” she motioned her hands expressing frustration at his lack of interest.

  “And what?”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Well, I had kind of thought of taking a mate.”

  “Well... what? Take a mate? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s like you said, they will find me. Whoever they are, they are most likely on their way now. It is hardly a secret a nude man was found dead in Central Park. So, they’ll find me. I’m going to relax, heal and take a mate. I think it’s time I started a family.
”

  She looked at him, then glanced away and then back. He noticed her hand that held the wine glass trembled.

  “Please don’t drop that,” he said, “it's expensive.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she sat the glass down on a small table. She straitened and studied him.

  “Do you mind if I ask if you have a girl, a woman, in mind?” She asked.

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t mind.”

  He leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes. She looked at him. She scowled.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. He studied her, and those eyes welcomed her into their depths as they had the first time she saw him.

  “Have you found a mate?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Who is she?”

  “My mother found her, actually.”

  Her face fell as she stammered, “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah. She’s really quite a woman. She’s tough.”

  “That’s good.”

  “College educated.”

  “Another plus.”

  “She’s brave.”

  “She’d have to be to put up with you and your mother.”

  “Course, like all of us, she’s not perfect. At least, not from Mother’s point of view.”

  “I’m sorry. How is that?”

  “Well, Mother always wanted me to mate with a full wolf, a full she-wolf.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been told.”

  “Well, this woman is only half wolf. It seems her father was a wolf, but her mother was human. The mother didn’t like the idea of wolf and asked the father to never practice and never mention the fact of what and who he was. Out of love for his wife, he agreed.”

  “That’s kind of sad,” Andee said.

  “It is, I agree. This woman grew up and never knew who her family really is. What is amazing about this woman is that when it counted most, she was there. She took an oath she didn’t understand, and when a life was on the line, she stepped up and risked her own to save mine.”

  Andee allowed herself to sit on the foot of the lounge chair next to the one with Alwyn. She scowled at him.

  “I don’t understand. No more games. I can’t take more games between us.”

  He sat up and turned in the lounger to face her. He took her hand in his.

  “It seems you father was a wolf. In fact, he was a full wolf, a descendent of one of the original families. An original son of Lycaon was named Alipherus. Old Alipherus was, like his descendants after him, hardheaded, and he was killed by a lightning bolt for being insolent to the gods, but not before he founded the city of Alifiera. The city survives on the West side of Greece.”

  “I don’t understand,” Andee said, her voice strained. “How do you know this? How did you find this out?”

  “Mother discovered it. After you fought the wolf and saved my life, she decided there was more to you than just a pretty face.”

  She studied the man before her, afraid to hope what he said was true.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “since she is a Consenti, she called in a few favors and had your linage traced. She wanted to know who the woman was who would risk everything for her son. She found you, Andee Trakes. She found you for me, if you’ll have me.”

  “If I’ll have you?”

  “Well, I am kind of beat up, and I did come in second in the fight.”

  “You’ll heal.”

  “I will.”

  She smiled at him and took his face in her good hand.

  “You’re not getting a prize either,” she said.

  “How so?”

  “Well, I don’t have a job.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, I emailed my letter of resignation yesterday. It was an agreement I made with Canton. If I resigned, he’d forgo the complaint of murder against me. After all, it was a wolf I killed. It was only human after it was dead.”

  “I see.” He nodded his head.

  “We’ll have to live on just your income.”

  “It will be tough, but if we economize, we’ll make it.”

  “How much does a professor make, anyway?”

  “Not as much as they should.”

  “Well,” she smiled, “I’m sure the stipend you get for being the Unum is almost outlandish.”

  “I’ve already been paid in full.”

  “You have?”

  She leaned away from him and studied to see if he was teasing.

  “How do you figure you’ve been paid in full? You just started the job.”

  He touched her face in return.

  “Do wolves have long engagements?” she asked.

  He grinned at her.

  “Fifteen minutes might be a record.”

  “Do they go on honeymoons?”

  “Yes, I’m thinking Greece. Let you get to know your family.”

  “Does the couple exchange gifts?”

  “They do. Is there something you would like?”

  She nodded, “Yeah, Teach me to wolf up.”

  Winner of the 2017 Silver Medal from Readers’ Favorite, Kwen knew he wanted to be a writer when he was fourteen years old. He felt the urge when he finished Earnest Hemingway’s masterpiece For Whom The Bell Tolls. The story touched him in a way no other book ever had. It transported a kid born and raised on a farm and ranch in Idaho to the mountains of Spain. It took him back in time forty years to witness the Spanish Civil War. Kwen knew he wanted to share that wonder with other people.

  John Lennon said, “Life is what happens while you make other plans.” While Kwen lived a full and varied life, his dream of writing remained in the back of his mind.

  Often asked what genre he writes, Kwen replies he writes stories about people and uses the genre that best fits the story. “I think of the genre, or setting as another character that interacts to help tell the story,” he says.

  His most often received and constant comment is how real his characters seem. Upon the completion of his historical fiction trilogy Sam and Laura books, a reader telephoned Kwen and directed him to write more stories about the couple. When asked why the reader was so adamant about more stories, he replied he “wasn’t ready to tell Sam and Laura good bye yet.”

  Kwen considers that comment one of his highest compliments.

  Also by Kwen D Griffeth

  The Tenth Nail

  The Law of Moses

  The Ghost in the Mini Skirt

  Shadow of the Moon

  Again, thank you for purchasing and reading my book. I hope you enjoyed it.

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