Red

by Tracey H. Kitts

  "Or,” I thought out loud, closing the towel, “Maybe I'm just too horny to be a scientist."

  Letting my towel fall to the floor, I walked over to where my robe hung on a hook by the door. As I passed by the full length mirror, I paused. I had always loved this mirror. It was old, framed by dark elaborately carved wood. It had a sort of medieval appeal to it. Yes, I loved the mirror, even if I was not as fond of what I saw reflected in it. My bright red hair stood out at haphazard angles, sharply contrasting with my skin. I have a fair creamy complexion, almost like alabaster. My muscle tone though not overly ‘cut’ was plainly evident in my curves. For the most part I liked my body. I was attractive, even sexy. The image was only ruined by the scars, slashing their way across my lower abdomen. But, I can hear you thinking, werewolves don't scar. That's right, they don't. But, I'm not a werewolf.

  The scars are a remnant of my attack. There are several vicious slashes across the right side of my stomach, beginning level with my belly button, and extending to the front of my upper hip bone. Three diagonal cuts above my navel, and three cuts at an angle on the left side. That's right, no bikinis for me.

  I was fifteen when I was attacked. First I should explain I have lived here, on Earth, all of my life. My father was stationed in the Deep South, where I was born and raised. He had only recently been promoted to commander. My mother was out of town, visiting a friend. We were watching television when I heard the glass breaking. Werewolves stormed the house. The halls echoed with frightening blood thirsty howls. Apparently we were not the only ones to learn of my father's new appointment to commander. The werewolf resistance thought it would be a great show of power to cut down the new commander his first week in office. Having a chance to kill his only child, that was just a bonus.

  "The closet,” he yelled as more glass broke, signaling the fact that we were being surrounded. The ‘closet’ was more of a mini arsenal, and it was located at the back of that very room. He took out an AK-47 loaded with silver bullets and handed me the same. Before further plans could be made, we began firing at the werewolves charging through the living room door. We mowed them down like tall grass. He went for the heads, I went for the kneecaps.

  I'd just emptied a clip and turned back for more ammunition when I was slammed to the floor. Not possessing the strength I now have, I was in trouble. Upon hitting the floor, I took a blow to the head and was nearly knocked unconscious. I was only vaguely aware of tearing pains in my lower abdomen. I looked down in time to see my father slaughter the monster tearing its way through my stomach with a large silver machete.

  The world spun. One look at my savaged stomach told me I was on the verge of passing out from blood loss. I felt strong arms lifting me and heard for the first time, the sound of my father crying. The werewolves were dead, but at what price? I drifted in and out of consciousness. The next moment I was aware, voices were arguing over me.

  "My daughter is not your guinea pig!” my father roared.

  "This may be her only chance,” it was Alfred's voice, pleading with my father. “Do you want to take a chance and maybe see your daughter turn? Or do you want to watch her die right now? Because that's what is going to happen if we don't act now!"

  I felt a sharp pain in my arm. I was being given what I would later find out was supposed to be a cure for lycanthropy. Alfred had been one of a group of scientists given the task of creating a working vaccine, as well as an eventual cure. I was injected with the prototype. My memories of the next few days are blurred. I remember pain, terrible pain, and my father's voice, though I've no idea what he was saying. When I opened my eyes days later, my dad was standing over my bed, looking like he hadn't slept.

  "What happened to me?” I asked.

  He explained about the injection. “To be honest, we don't know what will happen. You may or may not transform with the next full moon.” His hands shook as he reached for a glass of water on the nearby table. Apparently thinking he couldn't hold the glass steady enough to drink, he sat it back down. “There was no choice,” he began desperately. “I couldn't lose you,” his voice broke. “It was either take a chance, or watch you die. Either way, it's a decision I'll have to live with the rest of my life ... I just couldn't live with watching you die.” His eyes seemed to glaze over with tears. “Forgive me."

  I wasn't sure what to say, or if I should say anything at all. Watching my father cry was not easy for me. Here was the strongest person I knew, and he was weeping for me, as if I were already dead. “It's alright,” I began, feeling like an idiot. Of course it wasn't alright. He'd just made a decision that for better or worse, had altered both our lives. I tried again, “You did what you had to do. Either way, I'll live."

  His expression became determined, the last of the tears falling away as he looked back at me. “Yes, you will,” he said vehemently. “If you turn, those bastards won't come near you. Any of them! If anyone, I don't care from which side of this war comes for my daughter, they'll have to kill me first.” I cried then. I knew my father loved me, but knowing he would turn traitor if he had to in order to save my life ... it moved me in a way three words could not.

  I awaited the first full moon three days later in a holding cell in Alfred's lab, then located underneath my parents’ house. My wounds had not yet healed. Alfred took this as a sign that perhaps I was not going to turn. Werewolves heal at an accelerated rate, due to their dramatically faster metabolism. I didn't bother to tell him I had lost five pounds in the past few days. I thought it might discourage him.

  The transformation of a werewolf is brought on by the pull of gravity from the moon, not the moonlight shining on them, in spite of popular belief. As the moon began to rise that evening, I was in increasingly more pain. It was as if something were trying to rip its way through my skin. I felt a warming sensation behind my eyes, similar to the feeling you get when running a high fever. Muscle spasms began to shake my body and I grabbed the bars of the cell. Alfred ran toward me, but kept his distance by a few feet. Someone was screaming, a high, angry sound. It was the most rage filled scream I'd ever heard. It belonged on a battlefield in a long ago place.

  I collapsed several minutes later as the muscle spasms subsided. I looked up at the mangled bars in amazement. I was no longer in pain, but felt a sudden rush of weakness at seeing what I had done to the reinforced steel bars.

  "How do you feel?"

  I jumped. Alfred was sitting on the floor on the other side of the bars. He crawled tentatively toward me, as if afraid to come too near. The fear on his face hurt me worse than I could express. Who else would see me the same way? The one thing I was certain of was I did not want people looking at me like I was some kind of monster, or worse with pity.

  "I'm fine,” I croaked, my voice barely audible. It was then I realized I was the one who'd been screaming. I felt like crying, but I would not let someone who looked at me like that see me cry.

  "My eyes burn,” I said, looking to Alfred for an explanation.

  He moved closer. His fear seemed to be replaced by curiosity. Alfred's eyes widened. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, as if he were going to speak, but thought better of it. “Here,” he said, finally giving up on an explanation and handing me a mirror. I took the mirror from Alfred with trembling hands, determined not to scream at whatever I saw. I turned the mirror slowly to face me, my heart hammering in my chest. Looking back at me was a pair of amber wolf eyes. They looked wild and out of place with the rest of me. Under normal circumstances, my eyes are hazel. I looked at Alfred and he jumped back from the bars, cursing under his breath.

  "I'm sorry,” he said, sounding embarrassed.

  I chose to ignore his reaction. I supposed I was being too hard on him. I cannot begin to imagine my reaction if I saw someone I had known for the past five years looking at me with wolf eyes.

  "Is this permanent?"

  "I don't know,” he answered honestly.

  The next morning, once he was fairly certain any real
danger had passed, Alfred released me from the cell and gave me a thorough examination. The wounds on my stomach had healed over night. All that remained were faint pink scars.

  "These may finish healing,” he'd said. He was wrong. The eyes were not permanent, but the scars were. However, they were the last scars I would ever receive. The only thing that can permanently scar a werewolf is silver, to which I appear to be immune. I'm technically not a werewolf. I don't transform with the full moon, and after that night, it hasn't caused me any more pain. My eyes only seemed to change when I got angry, but with years of practice, it's something I can control. I occasionally use them to make my point in arguments with Alfred. Wicked, but effective.

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  Chapter Two

  I pulled my black velvet robe from the nearby hook. Staring at my scars would not erase them. I didn't bother closing the robe as I opened the door which connects to my bedroom. I closed the sheer drapes covering the French doors to the right of my bed, blocking out the view of the rose covered balcony. The window on the opposite side of the room reaches from floor to the ceiling, gracefully arching near the top. Sheer red drapes hung from above this window as well, and fell in silken folds down either side. They managed to block a surprising amount of sun. But right then I think I could have slept under any amount of light. I just wanted sleep, period.

  I let the robe slide to the floor as I slipped between the red silk sheets. I remember taking a deep breath and must have fallen asleep before I could exhale. The next thing I remember was someone pounding on my door.

  "Huh?” I grunted. I'm not sure what sort of response I expected, but the beating continued.

  "What?” I tried again.

  Alfred's voice answered, “Elijah's downstairs."

  "So?"

  "He's got some questions."

  "Good for him."

  "Get up, Lilith."

  I didn't respond for a few minutes, hoping he would just go away if I stayed quiet.

  "You've been asleep for twelve hours, for God's sake."

  That got my attention. I rolled toward the clock. He was right. Not that I thought a scientist couldn't count, I just didn't feel like I'd slept for twelve hours. I sat up slowly, afraid the room might spin if I moved faster. I collected my robe from the floor and tied the red silk sash as I crossed to the door. When I stepped into the hall, I found Alfred waiting patiently, arms crossed. I sighed, straightening my resolve along with my robe.

  "Why the long face? I thought you liked the little cop."

  I glared at Alfred and he smiled. I had said once that Elijah was cute, and I'd been trying ever since to live it down. As I descended the stairs, I saw him waiting in the sitting room by the bay window, reading the paper. Elijah was cute. It was merely an observation, although I thought Alfred's description of him being ‘little’ was a bit harsh. Elijah is five foot six, but that was hardly an abnormality. He had dark blond hair, so dark it was nearly brown, a ready smile, and big blue eyes. Elijah was only two years younger than me, but sometimes, it felt like centuries. There was a naivety in his smile that I envied, and a sparkle in his eyes no amount of bullshit ever seemed to diminish. For lack of a better word, he was innocent. I often wondered what he was doing in my house.

  He was the only one of the local cops I could tolerate. Everyone else seemed fascinated by me, but it was in one of those ‘look at the lion in the cage’ sort of ways. I didn't like feeling that I was an interesting ‘thing’ on display. I've always found other's reactions to me difficult to deal with.

  Elijah smiled as I walked into the room. He reached to shake my hand. I hesitated, not out of rudeness, just surprise that anyone in town would shake my hand. I don't like to touch people, but in some cases, I'll make an exception. In addition to being half animal, I am also strongly empathic. When I touch someone, I have the ability to feel what they feel, sometimes even see what they see. I get bits and pieces of imagery from their feelings. Of course, I normally take measures to avoid this. There is much about the lives of others I simply don't care to know. I'm sure there are nosy people out there who would be thrilled with this ‘talent', but I had never been one of them. Most of the time, I was able to block it out. It's something I can control. However, I often wear gloves when I hunt, or shake hands with new people, just to avoid the eventuality of seeing something I really don't want to know.

  I would have a harder time doing what I do if I read the mind of every werewolf I touched. I have enough on my mind without seeing other people's lives flashing before me. I thought it was safe to shake Elijah's hand. Like I said, he was innocent. I doubted whether there was anything behind those blue eyes disturbing enough to faze me. I took his hand, and to my surprise was able to offer him a genuine smile. I almost said good morning, but remembered it was afternoon.

  "Have a seat.” I indicated the chair he had risen from.

  "Thank you."

  He smiled nervously. Alfred stood propped against the stairs, his arms crossed in front of him, looking every bit like a bodyguard.

  "I assume you didn't stop by just because you enjoy my company."

  "Ah, no ... I was hoping you would be willing to share with me exactly what happened last night."

  "Where would you like me to start?"

  "The beginning, I guess.” I would have thought anyone else was being a smartass, but he seemed too sincere. I recounted for him the story of the night before. I had received a call at eleven thirty, informing me there was ‘a disturbance that required my attention’ at one of the clubs in a nearby city.

  "The Firestarter?"

  "That's right."

  When I arrived, I found a tall, dark woman standing in the parking lot in what I loosely described as red lingerie. Most of her outfit had been torn from her body and hung in shreds. Even from a distance, I could see the beginnings of the change taking place. The moon was not yet full. If a lycanthrope changes, in the absence of the full moon, there is normally severe trauma involved. From the gang of frightened men standing around, I was betting on an attempted rape.

  I jumped from the car, checking my blades as I approached them. The parking lot was empty, except for five men standing frozen to the spot. They watched in horror as the beautiful dancer began to shed her skin. The bones of her face lengthened as her hands turned to claws. She threw back her head and howled in what could only be described as rage. I came to a stop between her and the gawking men, uncertain which I should be protecting.

  I rounded on the men, “What happened here?"

  "Monster...” one of them stuttered.

  "ME, a monster!” an enraged deep voice growled. “They tried to rape me.” I turned to see her half transformation. She was unmistakably a werewolf, though not fully changed. In her half wolf form, she was even taller. My guess would be close to seven feet, large, even for a female werewolf.

  The men seemed to be recovering a bit. “What makes you think we'd want to touch her?” one of them spat. “We don't do monsters."

  I didn't have time to ask why it was they were not surprised to see a full fledged werewolf standing in a parking lot.

  "And we don't need no goddamned monster hunter to handle our business."

  The man who'd insulted me went for a gun. Before he could straighten his arm to fire, I'd removed my silver machete from its sheath, slicing through his wrist. It was the same weapon my father had used to save me years ago. It only seemed right that it should still protect me.

  The man writhed on the ground, holding his bloody wrist and cursing me for all he was worth. The werewolf behind me let out a roar as the group surged toward us. My father had taught me a long time ago that to hesitate is to die. “You must react without question, fight without mercy. Your attack should flow over your enemy, like water, drowning the mind, crushing the body."

  I took my father's advice. I dropped to the ground and with one fluid motion cut the feet from beneath three of my would-be attackers. The one who'd tried to shoot me g
rabbed a stick in his remaining hand and charged. I kicked him in the face, skidding him across the gravel of the parking lot. Before he could attempt to use the stick again, I kicked it aside. With me standing over him, a machete aimed at his throat, he didn't seem so tough.

  "P-p-please,” he stuttered. “Don't kill me."

  I hesitated.

  In a rush of flying gravel, I landed flat of my back with the one handed man, trying his best to strangle me. Without further hesitation, I placed the blade against his throat, jerking swiftly to the right. Arterial blood sprayed across my face, covering my hair. One good thing about lycanthropy, it protected you from contracting any other blood born diseases. I spat out the blood across my lips and got to my feet. The other men were dead. Parts of them littered the parking lot in disgusting chunks.

  The woman, human once more, sat in the midst of the gore, her hands covering her face, rocking back and forth. I walked over to her and she jumped at the sound of my boots crunching on the gravel.

  "Are you alright?” I asked.

  She began to moan softly, rocking faster and faster. I knelt in front of her, placing one hand on her shoulder. Before I could ask again, she looked up at me, her face streaked with tears, dark eyes glistening in the neon glow from the sign in the parking lot.

  "Are you here to kill me?"

  I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Yes, I had been sent there to kill her. But, could I kill an unarmed woman who had only been defending herself? Technically, I was equipped for the job, but I didn't have the heart. This was the part of the job I could do without. You come across some occasionally who will beg for their lives. Of course, they were just trying to kill you moments ago, but you're not supposed to remember that. Do I still kill them? Yes. But, I don't like it. There are some things you just don't want to have to remember.

  "No.” I finally answered. “I'm not going to kill you."

  She looked surprised. “But you're Lilith Mercury. They say to see you ... is to see Death."