Copyright
The Werewolf Whisperer
Beast Navidad is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead is coincidental. No actual Weres were harmed during the writing of this novelette.
Copyright © 2014 by Camilla Ochlan and Bonita Gutierrez
All Rights Reserved
Original art and cover design by Carol E. Leever
caroleleever.deviantart.com
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Bonita Gutierrez:
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ALSO IN THE SERIES:
The Werewolf Whisperer
The Alpha & Omega
&
Beast Out of Hell (FREE!)
Click here to download
or go to
https://dl.bookfunnel.com/h46guhb87c
"...and to all a good night!"
C.
¡Próspero Año Nuevo y Felicidades!
B.
Hey Kiddies,
Kyon's back.
Been keeping track.
Stories to tell
Of our girls' highway to hell.
We're still six months away
From the Greystone melee.
Where the road goes,
Only Kyon Knows.
K-Day
18 months ago
It is a time of fragile peace.
Lucy Lowell and Xochitl Magaña's
Were rescue, rehabilitation (and removal) road trip
up and down California has turned them into a badass, gettin'
shit done, slammin' team of Were wranglers. Skills honed, fame
licking at their boots, the women have no idea that in the City by the Bay
things are about
to get hairy...
Lucy Lowell's gaze wandered across the sprawling San Francisco skyline. The iconic silhouettes on the horizon were currently locked in a losing battle with the low clouds rolling off the bay. As El Gallo crawled up the steep slope of the tony Nob Hill neighborhood, all Lucy could admire was a giant wall of fog. Disappointed, she glanced at her friend and business partner Xochitl Magaña.
As "The Werewolf Whisperer" and "La Güera" they had been on the road for over a year since K-Day, helping the Afflicted in some of the most remote California towns. So when their boss and Lucy's only remaining family, Hanna Khani, had booked The Werewolf Whisperer for an all day workshop in Golden Gate Park, Lucy had teemed with excitement. She'd never visited the City and couldn't wait to train Hounds among the park's majestic redwoods.
"They have bison, Xoch. Bison!" she'd howled while perusing her dog-eared Frommer's Guide over pancakes and coffee at a roadside greasy spoon a few days ago.
Even Xochi had seemed upbeat about the prospect of exploring San Francisco's world-renowned sights and sampling its diverse ethnic foods. She'd gone as far as to map out a plan of action.
After the workshop, they were going to visit the various landmarks according to the cuisine each area had to offer.
"Coit Tower for Italian," Xochi, revved up on gut-rot caffeine, had gushed — her hands flailing in the air enthusiastically. "The Embarcadero for seafood. And Chinatown for...obvious reasons. A savory safari!"
Guess that's not gonna happen now.
"Pinche hills!" Xochitl hissed.
"Thought you wanted to experience San Francisco," Lucy said with an exhausted sigh.
"Experience it on a trolley, not rolling backward down a giant pinche mountain!"
Lucy slumped in her seat and leaned her head against the window, barely managing to appreciate the stunning Edwardian row houses that lined the street.
"How do people drive in this town?" Xochitl slammed on the brakes when the traffic ahead stopped on the steepest grade of the street. "It's like a pinche roller coaster ride around here."
Lucy's stomach flip-flopped, and her head pounded.
"…It's savory! It's sweet! It's tasty! It's meat!" the annoyingly cheery commercial wailed out of the radio and into Lucy's ears like an ambulance siren, "It's Hound Chow! New and improved formula, only from Puri—"
Lucy cut the radio. "I don't wanna do this."
"Got no choice, chica," Xochitl grimaced. "Especially after yesterday."
El Gallo rolled back a little, then inched slowly forward once more.
"It's either get that signed." She pointed to the balled up piece of paper in the hanging cup holder. "Or back to the pokey you go." She nudged Lucy's leg.
Lucy knew her friend was just trying to make her feel better, but Lucy felt skittish and nauseated all at the same time — like a trapped animal. She hadn't felt like this since — Folsom.
"¡Híjole! Nice parking, pendejo." Xochi maneuvered El Gallo around a double-parked, bubblegum pink minivan with little black paw prints painted on its side panel and a huge vent on the roof.
"Perfect Paws," she read aloud. "Rich people. Can't even wash their own pets."
The bright orange Toronado eased alongside the curb at the crest of the hill.
"Where the hell is this place?" Xochi threw the car into park, depressing the emergency brake with a little more force than Lucy thought necessary.
In the side view mirror, Lucy eyed a white Edwardian walk-up trimmed in black, two houses down the hill. "I think you just passed it."
"¡Jódame!" Xochitl craned her neck around to look out the back window. "Swanky. Well, out you go." She shooed at Lucy.
Crap. Better get this over with.
Lucy rubbed her forehead, blew out an exasperated sigh and slid out of the car.
"And play nice with the loca shrink." Xochi chuckled. Lucy shut the door on her.
The wet chilly air seeped into Lucy's bones, and she tugged her sherpa-lined jacket tighter. Hunching over, she stumbled toward the house, gravity pulling her down the street.
She limped up to the stairs leading to the Friel home. Her calf stung where she'd burned it the day before. She sucked in a breath and pulled at the material of her cargo pants. Bracing herself, she climbed gingerly up the stairs.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the pet grooming van rocking slightly and heard a woman screech, "Get back here!"
Someone doesn't like being washed.
Lucy smirked, then turned and faced the black front door. She froze — torn between knocking and bolting.
The door flung open.
Dr. Imogen Friel stood in the doorway and gaped at Lucy. Dressed in a billowy blouse and silk lounge pants, the shrink looked as if she were about to have cocktails at the spa with the girls instead of treating her court appointed patient.
"You're here!" she chirped. "You really came."
"Had no choice," Lucy grumbled.
"Yes, yes." Imogen flicked her hand dismissively. "Come in. Come in." She stepped aside so Lucy could enter. "Welcome t
o my humble abode."
Lucy crossed the threshold and into an elegant foyer.
Humble my ass.
The three-story mansion was exceedingly opulent. Lucy stopped short at the foot of a massive oak staircase, which wound up into the house like an ancient grape vine. An enormous crystal chandelier cascaded down from the ceiling like a diamond waterfall, and strategically placed Persian rugs protected the Carrera marble floors. Adorning the walls, a gallery of expensive-looking paintings finished off the décor.
The Friel home screamed "old money."
Lucy felt overwhelmed and decidedly outclassed.
"Nice place," she whispered.
"Oh, thank you," Imogen cooed. "Chez Friel has been in the family for generations. Mother just loves 'The City.' We have a wonderful view of the Golden Gate Bridge upstairs in the residence rooms."
I wanted to see the Golden Gate.
"I was born here," Imogen rambled on. "Well, not here, here. San Francisco here. Mother and Father are wintering in Montecito this year." She floated toward a pair of French pocket doors that were slightly parted. Through the crack, Lucy could make out a sitting room.
"Usually they'd be in Mykonos right now. But you know…with all this KV business…Anyhoo, it's nice to have the house all to myself."
Lucy detected a slight quaver in Imogen's voice.
Uh, huh.
"My office is in here." Imogen slid the doors all the way open easily and walked inside. "This way, Lucy. Can I take your coat?"
"No, thanks."
Not gonna be staying long.
Lucy plodded into Imogen's office, which was actually the family library with floor to ceiling bookcases. A stately, executive desk of rich mahogany was stationed in front of a bay window draped in dark velvet. The drapes were open, letting in what little sunlight was strong enough to poke through the misty fog. Behind the desk on the windowsill, masterfully arranged, framed photographs of the rich and famous stared mockingly out at any admirer as if saying, "We're important, powerful people. And you're not."
Lucy spotted Imogen's degree off to the side.
PhD Psychotherapy and Electro Magnet Homeopathy...What?
Imogen sauntered across the room toward a large leather couch and two matching chairs that were arranged around a grand, yet artfully carved, wooden hearth.
Brandy snifters and a box of cigars were displayed inside a glassed-in liquor cabinet next to the fireplace.
I feel like a bull in a china shop.
Imogen sat daintily on the edge of one of the overstuffed chairs, pulling a pad and pen from some unknown hidden pocket. She gestured for Lucy to sit on the couch across from her.
Lucy rolled her eyes.
I am not lying down on that thing.
She plopped down on the couch and folded her arms across her chest.
Imogen stared at Lucy for a long time. Lucy stared back, saying nothing. Imogen squirmed in her seat. Lucy continued to stare at her shrink.
I can do this all day.
"Um…" Imogen cleared her voice. "Yes, well…How are you, Lucy?"
Lucy remained unresponsive.
"Still having those recurring night terrors?"
"Do it!" I just pulled the trigger. I didn't think.
The memory screamed at Lucy. Her nails dug into her leather cuffs.
Imogen scribbled in her notebook.
"And food, exercise?"
Lucy glared at the woman. "I eat. I exercise."
The shrink jotted another note down on her pad.
"And things are good on the road with…uh…Xochitl, is it?" Imogen raised an eyebrow and bit pensively on her pen. "Xochitl Magaña. Partner." Her words sounded garbled.
"The road's fine."
"I do so admire your special relationship," Imogen continued, oblivious.
Lucy coughed.
"Oh, dear." Imogen reached over to a serving tray next to her chair and poured a glass of water. She handed it to Lucy. "You must be parched."
Lucy gulped down the cool liquid. It was the best tasting water she'd ever had.
Bet they have their own natural spring out back. Probably have Little People bottling it for them in the basement.
Lucy chuckled to herself.
"It's so nice you have someone to confide in," Imogen prattled on, her words no more meaningful than the incessant honking of a gaggle of geese. "Someone to laugh with."
Lucy set the glass on the coffee table, the intricate carvings along its edge catching her eye. She reached out to touch the fine artistry.
"Someone to travel through life with," Imogen prodded.
Lucy ran her hand over the raised ridges, entranced by the savage wooden relief of wolves clashing over a slain stag.
Imogen clicked her pen repeatedly. "Someone so pretty."
Pretty.
"So, I hear you made a video."
"Excuse me." Lucy's head snapped up.
"Performing will boost your self confidence," Imogen pontificated.
Lucy flinched.
"I always thought I'd be an actress myself." Imogen sat up straight and shook out her hands. She sucked in a deep breath through flared nostrils, contorted her face and brayed like a donkey.
Lucy winced. "Are you okay?"
Imogen continued her freakish gesticulations, moaning out alternating guttural and high-pitched nasal noises.
"O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth," Imogen's voice suddenly rose in volume as her tone dropped an octave. "That I am meek and gentle with these butchers! Thou art the ruins of the noblest man…"
Is that Shakespeare?
Lost in her own little world, the shrink spewed out the speech as if standing on stage in front of a packed house at the Old Globe.
"…Over thy wounds now do I prophesy…" Imogen stared glassy-eyed past Lucy.
And they say I need therapy.
"…A curse shall light upon the limbs of men."
Claws and teeth will slice them. Bring them to their knees.
A shiver vibrated down Lucy's spine.
She shuddered and leaned back — her gaze fixed on a single sunbeam radiating through the window. Imogen's voice buzzed like static in the background of her mind.
24 hours earlier
Lucy squirmed out of the fitted jacket of her white crepe suit. Her snowy white blouse gaped open between the buttons, annoying Lucy and forcing her to stand still while the wardrobe supervisor re-taped the shirt's slippery silk front.
"Now don't you move a muscle, Ms. Werewolf Whisperer," the young man spoke with sassy humor. "This'll just take two shakes of a lamb's tail."
"Okay, Peaches." Lucy attempted to hold still for him.
I feel like a dog in a sweater.
She shot a long-suffering look across the room to Xochitl who, also dressed in head-to-toe white, was seated facing a light bulb-hedged makeup mirror. A heavyset woman in a black artist smock and red clogs fogged a final cloud of aerosol over Xochi's blond head. Lucy tried to will Xochitl to turn around, but Xochi's eyes were locked on her smartphone, thumbs hammering down on the tiny keys.
Lucy straightened her back in an effort to loosen her rigid muscles. The obnoxious gap in her blouse popped open again, tiny pearl buttons straining to hold the material together.
"You could just wear a white cami underneath, and keep the shirt unbuttoned," Peaches suggested politely. "It's just going to keep happening. It's your shoulders. Not your boobs." He nudged his chin toward Lucy's chest. "Obviously."
A delighted squeal rang from Xochitl's side of the room. "You're stunning, Miss Satchee!" The makeup artist complimented Xochi exuberantly and stepped away from the spinning chair. The woman held up a rectangular mirror so Xochitl could study the back of her coif.
"So-chee," Xochi corrected, not looking up, spun the chair around and walked away, still engrossed in her text messaging.
Lucy watched Peaches dejectedly riffle through a stack of f
limsy tops. "Go on, honey," he said, absently shooing her away. "Let Karla Bee over there pretty you up a bit."
Lucy cautiously approached the spinning chair in front of the lighted mirror.
My turn. Ugh.
The black-smocked hair-and-makeup artist Karla Bee, who'd just finished turning Xochitl into a bewitching mirage of golden curls and flawless complexion, studied Lucy's face closely and let out a beleaguered sigh. "What am I supposed to do with this?" She picked up a strand of Lucy's spaghetti-straight, brick red hair in her sausage fingers and then let it fall limply back onto Lucy's collarbone.
"Your hair looks like it’s been trimmed with a buzz saw." Karla Bee set her unnaturally bright orange lips in an artificial pout, disapproval spraying from beneath her massive false eyelashes. She scratched her scalp, digging under her platinum beehive with the handle of a white plastic spoon she had used to stir her coffee a moment before.
"Hunting knife, actually," Lucy said, ill at ease. "It got caught in a fence when—"
"And your black eye!" Karla Bee interrupted and started giving Lucy's hair the roughest brushing it had ever received. "That shiner's the circumference of a saucer! There's no concealer in the world that'll cover up a thing like that." She set down the metal bristle hairbrush and frowned over at her large aluminum cosmetics case. "Let's try this cover stick." She uncapped a cylinder that looked like a beige lipstick and spread a thin layer of the concealer on Lucy's bruised skin.
"Now for Queen Karla Bee's magic maquillage," Karla Bee said, pronouncing the French deliberately, like a cat licks butter.
She took out a square Tupperware brimming with small containers of varying shapes. "We'll go with the matte," she said and fished out a few round pots from the clutter. "Basic color theory. Yellow will cancel out the purple. Green the red. Orange the blue. Your bruise is mostly purple, so..." She swirled a wide brush in a circle of compressed yellow dust and then applied little strokes to the area around Lucy's eye. "Your eyes are actually quite a striking blue. You could spend a little more time taking care of your appearance, you know."
Lucy sat up straight.
"I don't wanna do this," Xochitl flared from behind Lucy and flipped her smartphone on the messy makeup counter. "Why do we have to do this?"
Beast Navidad Page 1