“A year later, I left my village to see the world. The Romans moved swiftly to eliminate any threats on the isle. I learned later they killed my teacher after some of the villagers turned him in as a Druid.” Jackson paused again, reliving the loss for a moment before going on. “I regretted not being there, but I also knew if I was, I would also have been killed. From then on, I hid the fact I was a Druid and traveled extensively. I tried to locate any of the Trues, on either side, but they had either died or hidden so well I couldn’t find them.”
“Why have I never heard of this connection before? I realize that the Druids didn’t keep records, but surely the Romans would have had some records? Stories that were passed down by scholars or such?” Scrunching up her brow. “Why isn’t this known?”
Once again, she proved his faith in her with this question. Unfortunately, the only answer he had for her was a theory.
“I believe that someone, along the way, made an effort to eliminate most of the knowledge about Lycans. Who was responsible for this, I was never able to figure out. But you are right, there should have been written testimony regarding the Lycans, and the fact that there isn’t any has worried me for some time.” He regarded her, “but that is a mystery for another time.”
Jackson slapped his thighs and stood. “Now. What are you planning on doing with this information?”
Sylvia glanced up at him from where she sat.
“Are you kidding? What the hell can I do with this information? I haven’t decided if I believe it, and at least I’ve seen one of these things. Who else would believe me?”
Jackson studied her.
“Perhaps it was a mistake to confide this information in you,” Jackson turned away from her and made to leave the room. “Please, show yourself out.”
Sylvia watched him leave the room and sat there for a while, not sure what to do. She frowned. What did he want her to do with the information? It’s not like it was useful in the here and now. Nobody would believe her if she told it to anyone. The information was useless. With a shake of her head, she stood and walked to the front door. Glancing around briefly, she could see no trace of Jackson anywhere.
Shaking her head again, she stepped outside. With a quick call to the cab company she started to make her way down the long road from his house. It would be a while before the cab came back so she decided she would put some distance between her and the house.
Halfway down the driveway she moved to the fence corralling the horses and made clicking noises in hopes one of the horses would approach. A tall brown horse trotted over. She had no idea what kind of horse it was; she had never been interested in them, though this one was beautiful. The horse crowded the fence and Sylvia patted its side and thought more of what went on in the house.
He undoubtedly thinks the information he gave me would be useful. Why didn’t he just tell me what he wanted for Christ sake! Because you are a reporter, and you should figure these things out for yourself, Sylvia. She didn’t know what it could be. Obviously, she would continue to investigate this creature. This half man, half crocodile creature. It hit her. This creature was a man. At least, it had to be most of the time. The cops were searching for a monster, and not a regular guy. Sylvia stared back at the house with eyes of comprehension. He wants me to find the guy so he can do something about it! Sylvia sprinted back to the house.
Jackson was waiting for her at the door.
“I will find him for you Jackson,” she told him.
Smiling at her. “I knew you would.”
She smiled back at him. “Why didn’t you just tell me in the first place?”
“A road without obstacles is one which passes by unnoticed.”
“Well, thanks, sensei,” she responded sarcastically, but with genuine fondness, since she believed the same way… most times.
Gordon stood with teeth clenched and fists tightened into balls. It had been too long since he had killed anyone, let alone changed into his other form. Gordon didn’t like being unable to act on his desires, but it was too risky. He wasn’t safe anymore. The police had been by several times with “further questions” for him about Sheila. They were unhappy his responses always were the same. ‘He met her at a bar; they went to her place and had sex. He left early and called her the next day to see if she wanted to go out some time, but hadn’t heard back from her. Yes, he was surprised to hear she was killed, and no he didn’t remember seeing anyone suspicious lurking about. Of course, he would let them know if he remembered anything else.’
Why he allowed himself to get this close to getting caught he would never know. It was stupid and careless. Since it was obvious Sheila was mauled and mutilated by the “monster,” he hoped they would cease harassing him. Sitting at his kitchen table, he nibbled absent-mindedly on his toast. It was seven a.m. and he needed to be off to work.
His daily routine was driving him mad. Wanting to return to his life of killing and sex, but with law enforcement keeping an eye on him, he was forced to pretend to be the model citizen, the model doctor. Soon he would return to his real life. He had to be patient.
The last of the toast he left on the plate, grabbed his jacket, and headed to the front door. The door opened, sticking, and Gordon faced a woman he didn’t think he would see again. Standing on his door step was the reporter he almost killed and whom had taken photographs of him in his alternate form. She was standing there. Finger inches from pressing the bell. He wondered if he appeared as shocked as she did. He recovered swiftly, but not as swiftly as she did.
“Gordon Sands? Never mind, you don’t need to answer, I’ve seen your picture so I know it’s you,” she fired off rapidly. “I have some questions for you.”
Studying her, he flashed his charming smile.
“I’m sorry, but I’m on my way to work. I genuinely don’t have time, even for an attractive woman as you.”
Smiling quaintly, she was not amused at his attempt at flattery.
“Okay, so I guess I will try to get right to the point. When did you first change into the Werecroc? Was it the first time you ever killed anyone?”
The questions hit Gordon like an actual fist. He staggered back. How on earth did this woman guess he and the croc were one and the same? There was no way for anyone to tell! Straightening himself, “I’m not sure what you are talking about miss…?”
“Tyrine. And you know exactly what I’m talking about, I can tell by your reactions. You almost killed me, you son of a bitch! I’m gonna take you down so you can’t kill anyone else. I wanted to make sure my suspicions were correct, and by the look in your eyes, and the expression on your face, I see I was right. So, I suggest you call work and let them know you…”
Gordon backhanded her as hard as he could. Her neck rocked to the side and she went flying down the steps, landing a few feet past the last step, she skidded to a halt a little beyond. Rolling to a crouch, she stared back up at him.
He lost all sight of what was going on around him, his vision tunneled and all he could see was the reporter. All he knew was there was no way he was going to let this woman intimidate him. There was no way he was going to let her expose him. His blood boiled under his skin.
He sensed, rather than felt, his body change form. Absent was the burning pain he normally felt when he changed. Absent was anything but hate and anger. If he had been more aware and not so focused on this woman, he would have heard the screams of terror from the other people standing on the street. He would have realized this woman accomplished what she intended. He was exposed and now people knew his secret.
None of it mattered. All that mattered was tearing this woman apart. The creature, who was Gordon, moved down the stairs toward the reporter who was only now getting to her feet, hand rubbing her cheek where he had hit her, she started to back away. Gordon was only a few feet from her when the sidewalk below him exploded outward and thick gnarled roots climbed out from the dirt below to begin wrapping around Gordon’s legs. Gordon stared at the roots, unbeliev
ing, and glared up at the woman in front of him.
No longer staring at him, she stared off to his right. Peering that way, he saw a strange appearing man. Short and stocky, and yet, standing tall. The man’s wild gray hair jutted out at all possible angles from his head. He had a graying beard and was wearing wire rimmed glasses on a sharp beaked nose. The man had his hands out before him and appeared to be chanting something. Slowly, raising his hands. As he did so, the roots at Gordon’s feet moved further up his body, binding him fast.
Jackson Elliot, or as he was once named Seymore Carlson, Johnson Smith, Colin McCready, Julius Privernas, Quintis Volso, and ultimately, his real name, Varden which meant “from the green hill” in Celtic, had lived two millennia. In that time, he had lived as many people, many lives. All separated by centuries of living life as an oak, deep in the forests of England, later Australia.
The ancient magic of being able to shape shift into animals was well versed in Druidic lore. It had many uses. You could shift to a bird, able to fly vast distances and overcome many obstacles. You could become as tiny as a mouse to sneak into buildings and past soldiers. The magic less used was the ability to shape shift into a tree. The uses were limited. The thing Jackson figured out was you could hold the shape almost indefinitely and it was self-sustaining. Light and rain fed you and there was little risk involved.
The true risk was losing yourself in the essence of being a tree. The longer you stayed in form, the more chance you had of becoming the tree, fully. So occasionally, Jackson had to emerge from his tree form and live life again to regain who and what he was. It was risky business, because if you waited too long you would get to the point where you didn’t realize you had passed the point of no return. It was like getting drunk. You keep drinking, and at some point, you lose the ability to realize you’ve had too much. In the end though, Jackson was always able to realize before it was too late.
He would re-enter the living world and would live a lifetime. Many times, he went to school, got married, owned a business or worked diligently for someone else, all the while knowing at some point, he would be needed again. He held onto the belief, till the fateful day when he read of the first crocodile attack in the city.
It piqued his interest, but it wasn’t until he read of some monster attacking people in England and a giant bear sighted in Illinois he started to realize these were not coincidences. Weres had returned to the world. The only way for this many Weres to be back was if a Druid was involved. Which he thought was impossible, because he was sure he was the only Druid left alive. If there were others, the signs he left, the newspaper ads with the secret symbols, and lastly, the book, would have led them to him. No one ever showed themselves. No. He was alone in this world. He alone had the power to stop these creatures, and he would start with this one here in the place he now called home.
Continuing to raise his arms, the gnarled brown snakelike roots continued their ascent of the Werecroc’s body. They were spinning a tighter circle around it’s abdomen. The thing reached down and took hold of the roots, tearing them apart and tossing them aside like they were play things made of the flimsiest material. The beast strained against the remaining ones holding his legs, as they were thick and heartier. Jackson watched as they gave way. Hurriedly, he cast another spell. Gesturing with his hands, he first threw them out wide and then brought them together in a sweeping motion the wind began to howl down the boulevard.
The Were was almost free of the roots when the wind slammed into him, and with it, debris and stones from the shattered concrete. Without the ability to use his legs for support against the wind, he was knocked over. Countless little wounds appeared all over the beast’s body as he was scoured by the wind and the debris it carried.
The wind subsided and the Were lay still, buckled at the knees. Red blood blossomed from countless cuts and scratches. Red and white of muscle and fascia lay exposed beneath the green-brown scaly hide like some twisted decoration for Christmas. Jackson moved closer, approaching slowly. Stopping several paces away, his mind was so numb he couldn’t move. As he examined the body, the skin mended itself, wounds closing before his eyes. The near invincibility of Weres he had heard of, but he thought it tales of legends. Now the tales proved to be nightmares.
Before it’s wounds were entirely healed, it righted itself. The glare it gave Jackson sent a bolt of fear through him. The Were promptly went back to work trying to free itself from the roots holding it fast by its lower legs. Jackson backed up a few paces and began chanting. It was a clear, blue sky, not a cloud to be found. He needed clouds at least one. Without, the spell he was attempting would require a great deal of personal strength to cast. Raising his hands high in the air, his voice carried up and down the length of the street. Several hundred people were in the street now, pointing and shouting. Many had cell phones, either at their ear, or held up over the masses to get a picture or film the event.
Jackson continued his chanting, his voice a loud shouting to drown out the crowd. For those who were watching the sky, they would have witnessed a lone cloud, traveling against the wind toward their destination. Jackson, his eyes closed felt the presence of the cloud as it arrived above him. Lowering his head, he ended his chant, looked back up, and opened his eyes. Black, beady eyes stared at him down the length of a toothy maw. The beast’s mouth was inches from his face. Muscular claws grabbed him under his raised arms and lifted him high.
“Jackson!” Sylvia’s shout came from behind the beast. He saw her standing there, her face turning purple and swelling up from the blow she had received. The monster began to squeeze his chest. Offering Sylvia a resigned smile, his rib cage collapse under the pressure of the Werecroc. Bringing his hands down in the final execution of the spell, pain enveloped him, he blacked out.
Sylvia watched in desperation as Jackson smiled sadly at her as the monster squeezed the man’s chest. Watched in horror as Jackson’s torso imploded under the pressure, the man’s esophagus and larynx erupted from his mouth, forced out of his chest cavity by the immense pressure. Internal organs erupted the only direction they could, like a volcano of internal organs. As they crossed each other inside, ribs pierced skin, and tore through muscle to pass out the other side of his body.
With only had a moment to register what happened, she was blinded by an intense white light striking the spot where Jackson and the creature stood. Shielding her eyes, she jumped as the sound of rolling thunder roared above. Windows rattle on either side of the street, like hundreds of individuals stomping their feet. Gazing back, she saw the bodies of Jackson and the Croc lying twenty feet apart from where they had been standing, as if something had exploded between them, tossing them in opposite directions. Blackened concrete now scored the spot where they had stood. As the after image of the lightning strike left her, Sylvia peeked up and saw a lone cloud racing off.
She only gave it a moment’s thought before racing to Jackson’s side. When she reached him, she had to hold back the need to gag. Not only was Jackson’s body almost folded in upon itself, it was also badly burned and blackened, as if cooked too long. There was no need to check to see if he was dead. Nobody could survive what he had suffered. Glancing away from his broken and burned body, a silent sob shook her. She knew him a short time, but Jackson made a strong impression upon her. Her father left her at an early age, and Jackson’s demeanor reminded her so much of him, she sometimes thought of him as such. And now he was gone. She wasn’t sure what to do.
It was someone screaming who snapped her attention back to her surroundings. A teenage girl was standing, about thirty feet from her. She was the one who had screamed. It took Sylvia a moment to realize the girl wasn’t staring at her, but past her. A warm, wet breath brushed the back of her neck, accompanied by a low growl. Sylvia closed her eyes and waited for death.
Standing over the reporter’s shredded body, Gordon realized he had lost control of the situation quite a long time ago. Standing upon the boulevard. Outside his apartmen
t. In his altered form. Murdering two people in broad daylight, in front of multiple witnesses, who were now disappearing from his view. Curiosity gone now he had finished with his victims, the people wondering if he would be wanting to find a new one. Glaring over at the charred corpse of the man who had attacked him, he didn’t know how the man did what he did. His own flesh was slowly repairing the burns he had received when the lightning struck the two of them.
Gordon knew there had been no clouds in the sky, nor were there any now. So how to explain the lightning? The roots had wrapped around his body lie broken and burnt around the hole in the concrete. Something had happened here Gordon couldn’t seem to get his head around. The man had been chanting, hadn’t he? And gesturing, as if casting some sort of spell; like a magician? Yet, this was no parlor trick. This was real. What the man did was impossible. He seemed to have some control over the earth, air and weather, if Gordon understood what he had been hit with.
Sirens were audible in the distance, their droning ‘wee woo, wee woo’ drew steadily closer. It was time to make himself scarce. Gordon turned and ran down the nearest side street away from the approaching sirens. He needed to change back to his human form, the problem was, he didn’t have any clothes as his current garments were shredded. He would have to make his way to one of his safe houses.
Safe for now, anyhow. It wouldn’t take the cops long to figure out who had been the attacker, regardless of how crazy it was. They would realize the person who lived in the apartment there was the same one they had interviewed about Sheila’s death. They would put two and two together and figure out he was the murderer. They would pull his information and find out where he worked and the other properties he owned. It would still take time, though. He needed to get there in a few hours, he needed to stay out of sight, too.
The Awakening: Part Two (The Lycan War Saga) Page 8