The Lycanthrope's Lawyer

by Jason Rose

  Sinn’s lips crease and fold into a breath-stealing smile. She stands and walks to the door. “I’ll call you when I’m ready for you to pick me up.” And just like that, she is gone. And I’m alone.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Friday Night

  I squint across the room at the microwave; it’s 9:29 pm, one minute from the last time I checked, and two minutes from the time before that. There’s still no call from Sinn. The summer casual suit I’m wearing is getting wrinkled. Either she’s planning on a late meal or she had a change of heart. The second thought makes my stomach churn. After the other night, I decided to try and move past my feelings for her, and focus on our friendship and work relationship. Today, when she told me she wanted to try, my heart actually skipped a beat, hope sprung eternal. Emotionally, I’m back to where I was three days ago. Now Sinn seems to have stood me up, and I’m starting to feel like a fool.

  My phone vibrates; I have to check myself and take a breath before I glance at the screen to see who’s calling. With every fiber of my being I’m hoping it’s Sinn and not just one of the many vacation specialists that berate me daily with unwanted calls. I made the mistake of purchasing a trip to Vegas once, five years ago, and I’ve paid for it ever since. My name is now on a call list for dupes. The worst part is that the Vegas trip sucked. Nothing they promised was delivered, other than the length of the three-hour time-share presentation I committed to attending, during which the salesmen just wouldn’t accept no for an answer, and continued to attack me and my lifestyle choices in his bid to convince me to buy his point-based vacation system. It took me nearly threatening the salesman with violence to get him to back down. The whole thing is a poorly devised scam. One I’ll never quite understand. These companies call you, promise you the trip of your life for a nominal fee, so long as you attend a timeshare presentation. You arrive for your vacation and discover the hotel they booked for you isn’t the Eden they promised. You show up at the presentation angry because they already lied to you once, and they try to convince you they are a separate company from the one that booked your room, they are sorry about the mix-up, and mix-ups like that are the very reason you should buy from them. The only way to assure a quality vacation is to buy their system. Fool me once . . . The scam is laughable, and yet, a new sucker is born every day.

  I finally gather the courage to look at the screen; it’s Sinn and relief washes across my body like cool surf over a coarse sand beach on a hot summer day. I press the answer button. “Hello.”

  “Colt, I’m sorry. I—”

  Sinn is interrupted by a voice in the background; it sounds stuffy, aristocratic,

  “Sinn, hurry it up.”

  “Is that John Paul? Are you with Prestegard? Your ex-boyfriend?”

  “I’ll explain everything when I—”

  “Don’t bother.” I push the end call button. Fool me twice . . .

  I open the most expensive bottle of wine I have in the house, Chateau Montelena—you know, the stuff from that movie, Bottle Shock. The one where Captain Kirk plays a rebellious winemaker. I’ve been saving this bottle since I graduated from law school. It’s really past its best days. I should have drunk it by now. Contrary to what you’ve probably heard, not all wines age well. You can overage a wine. This particular bottle means something to me; it was the first expensive purchase I made as a lawyer and, until today, I’ve never been able to bring myself to open it. I’ve stared at it, I even removed the tinfoil the night my divorce became final, but for whatever reason, I could never open it, until now.

  ****

  A rapping on the front door yanks me out of a spire-of-self-pity. It’s 10:30 pm, I’m not expecting anyone. Maybe it’s Wilson. He makes a habit of showing up at the least opportune times. The last thing I want is to talk about my feelings or to joke around with Wilson. I just want to drink wine and slip into a nice, deep, soft, and warm despondency coma. I grab the four empty bottles off the coffee table—I switched to cheap swill after the first bottle—and drop them in the recycle bin on the way to the front door.

  Without even checking who it is, I pull the door open.

  “Colt, you look like shit. Miss me?”

  “I didn’t call for girl and I certainly didn’t ask for a tall, black Sista with a broke jumper.” I start singing, “With a body like something, something, something, sourdough and chowder.”

  “Uh uh, I don’t drive no boat. I do got a fat ass, though. Now quit playing before you get too far behind with those weak lyrics. I heard that on the radio on the way over here. Who is that?”

  “White-smoke, some local Yea Area rapper. His shit is hyphy.”

  “The white boy?” She laughs, “of course, haven’t seen me since the ah…”—she clears her throat— “wedding, and the first thing you do is hit me with some lyrics from a soft white rapper? Same old Colt. By-the-way, I am sorry about Lisa.”

  “No, you’re not. You hated her.”

  “You ain’t wrong. Bitch was too skinny, cared way too much about the wrong things. When that black rapper – the famous one. What’s his name?”

  “I’m going need a little more info than just that famous black rapper? To help figure out who your talking about. There is more than one.”

  “You know who he is. He’s married to that reality star? Anyhow, when he sang that song, you know the one,”—she mimes swinging a pickax— “he was talking about Lisa. Should have renamed that song Lisa is a money grubbing hoe.”

  “Whatever.” I chuckle. “You were just jealous.” I try to rein that last comment back in, but too late, it’s already out there. A blip of awkwardness re-emerges between us. V was, is, my best friend. We went to law school together. We were sometimes more than just friends. Then things got serious with Lisa, and between work and Lisa, I didn’t have as much time to kick it and things got awkward between us. Then V took a job in D.C. and although we still text, sometimes daily, especially during basketball season—she’s a huge Chicago fan, I’m a Golden State guy myself—we hardly ever actually talk. It’s been years since we’ve seen each other. She still looks good. If anything, the years have been kind. I was only half kidding about the sourdough and chowder comment. She’s thic, in a good way. In a I can run a marathon but I’m not afraid to order off the dessert menu either kind of way.

  “You ain’t wrong . . .” She lets her comment hang in the air and we just stare at each other. “Are you going to let me in?”

  “I don’t know—you housebroken? I seem to remember you had a habit of wrecking people’s furniture back in school.”

  “What? Nuh uh. You talking about Jeff’s couch? I didn’t do that. That was you.”

  I smile. “You know he sent me a bill for that couch. I helped his cheap ass move it from the curb out in front of the dumpster behind his apartment on like the first day of school. Someone had left it there for trash pick-up, and then three years later you broke—”

  “—No, you broke it.”

  “Whatever, it got broken and he had the gall to send me a bill for three hundred dollars, which is what he claimed it would cost to repair it! Three hundred dollars for a dumpster couch.”

  “You didn’t pay him, did you?”

  “Hell, no. I told him to go fuck himself. You know what he gave me for my wedding present?”

  “What?”

  “A card. And inside the card was a signed and executed compromise and release, wherein he released my imaginary debt to him of three hundred dollars for a broken couch.”

  V starts uncontrollably laughing. “That’s Jeff. You know he’s like a multi-millionaire now?”

  “Yeah, I know. The best things happen to the worst people.”

  “So, you going to invite me in or what?”

  I hesitate, “I don’t know. I’m pretty drunk. I have a feeling if you come in, looking the way you do, in the mood I’m in, things could get complicated. I’m not sure I want complicated.”

  “Colt, like always, you overanalyze everything. Th
ings don’t have to get complicated. You’ve been eating too much vanilla cake. These hips here are the devil’s food. Guilt-free, and too good for just a single bite.”

  I wasn’t about to tell her I can’t even remember the last time I had cake. Instead, I did something I know I shouldn’t have done; I let her come inside and we fell into in old pattern.

  She was right about the devil’s food . . . it’s impossible to just have one bite. I’ll tell you if she’s right about there being no guilt in the morning.

  THE END

  Epilogue I

  “I cannot go. Why do you need me to go anyway? You can check yourself. I don’t need to be there.” Sinn crosses her arms in defiance.

  “You know why?” answers Whannung. “Your father and I made a promise long ago, and you agreed to hold up his end of the bargain. We need to know, and it’s too dangerous to go alone. The odds are better with the two of us—then, at least one of us escapes.”

  “You’re not alone, you have him.” Sinn points across her father’s study at Prestegard, who’s thumbing through an 1859 edition of Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species. “Put it down.”

  Prestegard sets the book back on the shelf and raises his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t shoot. I put the book down. I’m unarmed.”

  “You’re not funny.”

  “You used to think so.”

  “Yeah, well I use to think poodle skirts and cigarettes were cool—now I know better.”

  “Ouch!” Prestegard grasps his chest as if he just took a bullet in the heart.

  “Knock it off, you two,” commands Whanung. “He’s here because his masters need to know if she’s awakened—just as much as we do. It affects everyone. And as far as backup, I’m not sure he qualifies.”

  “You wound me, sir.”

  “Why can’t Colt come?” asks Sinn, completely ignoring Prestegard’s theatrics. “We need to tell him the truth. I can’t keep hiding this from him.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” answers Whanung. “He’s not ready.”

  “You think that fraud is our savior?” Prestegard shakes his head in disgust. “You two are delusional.”

  “Shut up,” snaps Sinn.

  “Now I remember why we broke up.”

  “We broke up because you’re an asshole.”

  “No honey. That’s what you were attracted to.”

  “Quiet. We don’t have time for this, we need to go,” interjects Whanung.

  “Fine, but I need to make a phone call first.”

  Sinn turns her back on Whanung and Prestegard and dials Colt’s number on her phone. It rings twice and then Colt answers, “Hello.”

  “Colt, I’m sorry. I—”

  Prestegard says in a matter of fact tone, “Hurry it up, princess.”

  “Is that John Paul?” asks Colt. “Are you with Prestegard? Your ex-boyfriend? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I’ll explain everything when I—"

  “Don’t bother.” Colt hangs up the phone.

  Sinn turns and glares at Prestegard. “You fucking asshole.”

  Prestegard just grins in response.

  “It’s time to go,” says Whanung. “You can call him when we get back.”

  Sinn starts to say something and then stops. Angrily, shoving her phone back into her pocket.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” asks Prestegard shifting the conversation in a new direction.

  “Aramu Muru.” Answers Whanung.

  “Aramu Muru?” Echoes Sinn. As if repeating the foreign sounding words would commit them to memory or shed light on their meaning.

  “It’s an abandoned stone doorway carved into the rocks in Peru, near Lake Titicaca, close to the Bolivian border.” Continues Whanung.

  “Never heard of it.” Replies Prestegard.

  “Me neither.” Mumbles Sinn in a tone suggesting that she finds the very idea of having anything in common with Prestegard, including a shared lack of knowledge, revolting.

  “The locals call it the Gate of the Gods.” Explains Whanung. “Human scholars believe the Incans built it and that they believed it was a doorway to another dimension. They got it half right. It wasn’t the Incans; it’s older than that, but it is a doorway.”

  “A doorway to where?” asks Prestegard.

  “A prison. . . Her prison.”

  Epilogue II

  A phone vibrates on the wooden nightstand making a loud noise which echoes through Colt’s bedroom. V snatches the phone and then glances over at Colt to make sure he’s still sleeping. She glances at the screen; even though it says number unlisted, she knows who it is. V stares at the screen with indecision. The phone keeps ringing long past the point at which it should have gone to voice mail. V carefully untangles herself from Colt, doing her best not to wake him and gingerly escapes the bed all the while trying to minimizing any movement in the mattress. She grabs her clothes and shoes which are in a pile on the floor mixed with Colt’s, and tiptoes out into the living room, shutting Colt’s bedroom door behind her.

  She quickly dresses. The phone continues to vibrate. Finally, she exhales, hits the answer button, and steps out into the brisk Oakland night.

  “Agent Baker, report.”

  V hesitates.

  “Baker, report.”

  “Mission complete.”

  “You established contact?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he trust you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is your cover intact?”

  “Yes.”

  “Assessment.”

  “Seems like the same Colt I’ve known since college. I can’t believe he is the threat you think he might be.”

  “Is this job too much for you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you think you can turn him? Bring him to our side?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

  “If you can’t, you know what needs to be done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The line goes dead. V sighs and stares up at the nearly full moon, lost in her thoughts. Once, she would have dropped everything for Colt, a past life where she would have given him her soul. She wonders what happened to that part of herself. This is not the life she imagined. This is not what she signed up for. Not that she signed up for anything. She was set on this path. She can hear her mother’s cadenced voice telling a younger her that it is the duty of the strong to sacrifice for the weak. And she was strong, wasn’t she? She may not like it, but she’ll do what has to be done; even if that means killing a part of herself. Sometimes there isn’t another choice. If she doesn’t protect the world, who will?

  Thank You for Reading and I Welcome Your Feedback

  Thank you for reading the latest Colt Valentine book. Colt continues to have a long and difficult road in front of him. As his adventures unfold his faith in himself, his friends, his world, and the law are all going to be severely tested.

  Without readers and the encouragement I receive from loved ones, Colt’s journey would only exist in my head. It wouldn’t be any less real for me, but there’s magic in putting a story down on paper. When a character is born on paper and exists outside of an author’s head, it grows and takes on a personality of its own and, sometimes, becomes something altogether unexpected. As the author, I naturally have insight into Colt’s destinations but, like you, I am excited to discover how he and his friends get there.

  In case you’re wondering, Book Three, The Bride’s Barrister, is already in the works. I hope to release it sometime in 2020. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific, but I am still transcribing Colt’s journey from my mind to paper. As you know, Colt has a little bit of OCD and gets upset with me if I don’t tell his story exactly right. He can be a real ass—ask Wilson.

  Please check my Facebook page (facebook.com/jasonroseauthor) for updates on a release date and other insights.

  Also, please review my books on Amazon, Goodreads, and your favorite blog, or website reader forums. I read eve
ry post, and they deeply matter to me. They also matter to Amazon, which ultimately decides where it places and recommends my book. More reviews can mean better placement and ultimately lead to more people sharing in Colt’s journey. Thank you in advance.

  Thanks again. You can connect with me online at facebook.com/jasonroseauthor, and instagram.com/jason.rose_author/, I look forward to hearing from you!

  About the Author

  JASON ROSE was born at the San Diego Naval hospital in 1978, the son of a Navy service man. Shortly after his birth, his mother was tragically killed in a car accident, and after a short stint living in upstate NY, his family moved back across the country to Santa Cruz, CA.

  Jason did not have the most traditional childhood; Santa Cruz really isn't a traditional place, but it was a place full of interesting people who shared their love, wisdom, and diverse world perspectives with him.

  The seed for his love of books was planted when he was about eight years old and his second-grade teacher held him back a year because he couldn't read very well. That summer his uncle began taking him to the public library where he spent nearly every day reading. He discovered Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and Lloyd Alexander, among others; they changed his life forever.

  From that summer forward, Jason became a voracious reader, inhaling books by the bushel. Even in high school when football, basketball and girls dominated his thoughts, he found time at night to read. Reading became his addiction.

  After high school, Jason went on a journey to find himself, which took him to half a dozen different colleges, culminating in a Philosophy degree from California State University, Sacramento in 2005.

  Jason then attended the University of La Verne College of Law where he earned a Law degree and met his future wife Natasha. Jason went on to earn a Masters of Law degree in Trial Advocacy from Cal Western, and is currently a practicing attorney for a Bay Area law firm where he represents plaintiffs in personal injury and wrongful death cases.