Wide Awake

by KB Anne

  Scott stands up. “All right, you two, break it up. I’ll tell you a real ghost story. A real haunting, terrifying, afraid-to-sleep-because-the-boogie-man-is-standing-in-your-room story.”

  Ryan rolls his eyes. “Doubt it.”

  “Just you wait,” he says, his body hovering over the flames.

  Though not as tall as Ryan, his frame still casts an impressive shadow. I lean forward, waiting in anticipation, because Scott is a master storyteller.

  Don’t tell him I told you that. It’ll go to his head.

  “The story I’m about to tell you I overheard my dad tell one of his friends a few years ago, and I’ve never forgotten it. A story of the ultimate sacrifice a mother can give: her life,” he says flinging his arms out to his sides as he bows.

  He remains hunched over, awaiting fanfare that will never come, because we enjoy tormenting him far too much. Plus, he’s like a gremlin. When you add water, he multiplies.

  “Whenever you’re ready, maestro,” I laugh.

  He returns to the standing position, shaking his head. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to work under these conditions.”

  “Oh brother,” Ryan says. “I kicked your ass before you even got started.”

  “Humpf,” he snorts. “We’ll see about that.”

  As much as we love messing with him, we all want to hear his story. When the only sound surrounding us is the crackling fire, he begins.

  “There are many mythical beasts in Celtic folklore, from kelpies to the headless horseman to the vampire—yes, we Irish knew of the vampire long before Transylvania came along. Bram Stoker was actually an Irishman.”

  “Is sidenote commentary necessary?” Ryan interrupts again. “It takes the excitement out of it.”

  Scott releases an exasperated sigh. “Would you be quiet so I can get on with my story please?”

  Ryan nods and gestures for him to continue. The two of them could go on for hours bantering back and forth, and believe me, they have.

  “The tale I’m about to tell you goes back to the time when ancient people were tied closely to the Earth. They worshipped not one god but several. Monsters, fairies, and other mythical beasts roamed freely across the countryside. Many possessed the ability to decimate entire villages in one night, and they often did. The gods provided the villagers with protection, but it wasn’t free. Each tribe was required to pay homage to them through harvest donation, ritual, or sacrifice. Tribes who couldn’t afford the price of protection survived as best they could, but their living was tenuous. Their numbers small.”

  He transports us to another time but a not-so-different place. Men, women, and children covered with scraps of leather and fur sit around the fire with us.

  “None of the tribes wanted to pay tribute to the gods but they saw no other way. One tribe, the Diana Moon Cult, grew especially resentful of the gods’ authority over them. They were a fierce people. Cruel. Driven. Angry. In search of a solution to their dilemma, the chief went to Clayone, the tribe’s shaman. Clayone suggested a visit to Derg the Red, the Celtic God of Death. The chief trusted the shaman implicitly, though he shouldn’t have, for Clayone possessed a hunger for power far beyond spiritually leading his clan.”

  At the mere mention of the shaman’s name, chills run down my spine. I huddle closer to the fire. For once, I wish that I had someone to hold me close. I’d even settle for Breas, but who knows where he is.

  “On the eve of October 31, the chief and Clayone began their journey to Derg. Halfway through the voyage, Clayone killed the chief in his sleep. He proceeded to feed the remains to a pack of wolves that was following them.

  “The maliciousness of the crime impressed Derg. He wanted to meet the man capable of such treacherous duplicity. For the chief was not only the tribal leader, but the shaman’s brother. Derg permitted Clayone to pass into his realm and enjoy extravagant wine and sumptuous foods while Clayone entertained him with the retelling of the murder. When Clayone finished his tale, Derg asked him what he desired.

  “This was the moment Clayone had patiently waited for. He dropped a wolf’s hide at Derg’s feet.

  “‘Turn me into one of these,’ he said.

  “The god laughed, but he was not amused. ‘A wolf? You want to become a wolf? What can a wolf do except eat a few sheep? You redefined human treachery for all time just to meet with me, the God of Death, and you ask me to turn you into a wolf?’

  “‘An immortal wolf, my lord. An immortal wolf that can change shape whenever he wants. Kill with one clench of his jaw. Destroy an entire village in one night. Panic and terror will rule the land, and your power will grow with every tragic death. I will bring you chaos. I will bring you destruction. I will bring you death, if you grant me this one small request,’ the lowly shaman promised.

  “Derg thoughtfully stroked his beard. ‘Your brother’s death was a beautiful sacrifice.’ He sat for a long time thinking, debating, deciding, until finally … ‘Immerse yourself into the River of Blessing. If you survive, your wish will be granted.’

  “The water was magically enchanted to grant immortality to anyone who survived the immersion, but the immersion was excruciating. Imagine thousands of pins and needles poking into your skin while your body is wrenched into a million pieces and hot wax is poured over you,” Scott said, as if he could see into our very souls and know each of our greatest fears.

  “Only those most dedicated to their cause survived the immersion. Wavering for even a second brought instant death.

  “But, with his purpose steadfast, Clayone entered the River of Blessing. As the water coursed through his veins, he reemerged onto the river bank, relishing the power now pulsing through his body. He laughed defiantly because he, a lowly shaman, had tricked the God of Death. He had no intention of killing anyone as a tribute to Derg. One bite from him and a trace of the River of Blessing would flow through the victim’s veins, binding him to Clayone forever. He planned to create the most powerful force the Earth had ever known … An army capable of changing shape at will … An army that could never be destroyed and would never die … An army of immortal werewolves.”

  34

  Armies of Immortal Werewolves

  The thought of such a horror chills me to my very bone. Edging closer to the fire, I clutch my arms to my chest for warmth.

  Scott continues his story.

  “Returning to his people in human form, Clayone spun a tale of deceit about their chief. He told them the chief was an evil man who tried to murder him on their journey to visit Derg. Left with no choice, he was forced to kill or be killed. He told them he meditated to find a way to permanently appease the gods, and the answer came to him in the form of a wolf. The tribe quickly adopted the wolf as their totem, and slowly, he changed the entire tribe into werewolves.

  “Wolf predatory instincts ran strong in his new werewolves, and humans became tempting prey. To keep them dedicated to his mission of ruling the world, Clayone lied to them. He told them human blood was deadly to a werewolf. Since animals were plentiful, the werewolves could control their desire for human blood.

  “Derg wasn’t provided with a single soul as homage, and he was furious. He tried to destroy Clayone, but he soon discovered that even he, the evilest of the gods, could not undo the power of the River of Blessing once it courses through a person’s veins.

  “Outraged at being duped by a human, Derg went to Brigit, the Goddess of Learning, Healing, and Fertility, because she cared deeply for human life. At his begging, though not because of it, she decided to intercede on behalf of the humans and the animals she loved so much.

  “First, she cast a spell making the werewolves dependent on the power of the moon. Only on the night of a full moon could one change shape. With her second spell, all werewolves, with the exception of Clayone, could be killed by a silver dagger to the heart because only a trace of the River of Blessing ran through their veins. With her intervention, the unbridled reign of the werewolf came to an end,” Scott says, bowin
g once more.

  “That’s an interesting and really long story, Scott, but where’s the scary part?” Ryan asks with a pleading look in his eye. He probably wants Lizzie to be scared stiff—all the better to kiss her with.

  Scott stands taller. “I’m getting to it. You can’t expect me to tell a story without a little backstory; it helps build suspense. Geez, the audience I’m forced to work with …”

  “Anytime now,” Lizzie says.

  “As you wish. Clayone and his army terrorized the countryside every full moon, but just as Brigit predicted, the populations of wild animals dropped. So, many times, his new recruits were unable to curb their lust for blood. They discovered human blood wasn’t deadly. Instead it gave them power far beyond animal blood. It became a drug to them. Liquid crack. The werewolves went on a bloody rampage every full moon.

  “During the fifteenth century in France alone, there were more than thirty thousand reported werewolf attacks. Clayone was furious. He hated Brigit’s interference with his powers. Her spells were the only thing that kept him … that keeps him … from ruling the Earth.”

  “Keeps him?” Lizzie whispers, completely mesmerized by the story.

  “Oh, yes, Clayone still roams the Earth turning new recruits whenever a full moon strikes. He’s constantly hunting for Brigit.”

  I snort. “She’s a goddess. What can he do? The nerve of someone to believe he could destroy a goddess is pure hubris.”

  “Miss Academia, how do you know these ginormous words if you don’t ever go to school?” Ryan says.

  I chuck a stick at him, but he manages to knock it out of the way. Ryan and his damn reflexes.

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t read. Also, doesn’t mean that I don’t know how to research.”

  “True. She spends a lot of time reading,” Scott says. “And to answer your question, Gigi, Brigit is one of the only gods who chooses to take human form from time to time. The last time she reincarnated she was known as Brigit of Kildares or St. Brigit as the Catholics called her. Clayone was close to killing her then, but she disappeared. He waits for the chance when she’s in human form and he can destroy her forever and remove the spells that bind him.”

  “How do you destroy a goddess?” Ryan says.

  “When in human form, she relinquishes her immortality,” Scott replies.

  Lizzie whispers, “Why would she do that?”

  “To reconnect with the Earth and the people. To Brigit, it’s vital to feel human life flow through her veins. Supposedly, when a god is human, he’s not even aware he’s a god. He thinks he’s a regular Joe Schmoe. So, Ryan, you might be Zeus or Thor. Better read up on your comic book heroes,” Scott says.

  Ryan throws a log on the fire. “Still, I don’t see why I should be scared by this?”

  “I’m getting to the scary part now …”

  Oh god, there’s a scarier part? I’m pretty freaking scared right now. I creep so close to the fire I’m almost sitting in it.

  “Many thought old Clarissa Radley was Brigit reincarnated,” he says, “but as Ryan told us, she disappeared after her barn was burned to the ground. I don’t know if any of you remember, but when we were young, there were rumors that werewolves had come to Vernal Falls.”

  I get up and scratch Scott behind the ear. “I always thought you had fleas. We need to get you a flea collar.”

  “Ha. Ha. There were rumors that Brigit was living here.”

  “A goddess among us, and no one said a word,” Lizzie adds solemnly with the hint of a smirk.

  “More than likely it took that long for the rumors of Clarissa to get back to the old country. Remember, a hundred and thirty years or so is nothing to someone who’s immortal.”

  “What happened?” I’m more captivated by the story than I’m willing to admit.

  “Rumors have it, some of the townspeople laid a trap in an old church out in the woods.”

  “Our conservative, god-fearing townspeople laid a trap for Clayone, the Original Werewolf?” I snort through my nose. Our town has a church on every street corner. A bar’s on the opposite one, but that’s beside the point. “Highly unlikely.”

  “No, really,” Scott says, “there was a woman who believed her daughter was Brigit reincarnated. When Clayone came to kill Brigit, the woman lured him away from her daughter and into a church, somehow imprisoning him for all time. The cost was her own life.”

  “Uh-huh, and what happened to his werewolf army?” Ryan says.

  “I have no idea. Maybe the townspeople killed them all? All I know is Clayone is imprisoned, and it’s in a church around here.”

  I jump up. “We can make our own movie like The Blair Witch Project. Let’s go!”

  Lizzie’s eyes bug out. “Did you dip into the special brownies again?”

  “Scared of an old wives’ tale?”

  “No, I don’t think the Original Werewolf is trapped in a church around here. I just don’t think it’s safe to go sneaking around old buildings,” she mutters for everyone to hear, but she’s thinking about what happened to her this week and how she doesn’t want to mess herself up any more than she already has.

  I don’t blame her, but still, an abandoned church in the middle of nowhere? That’s like a horror-movie-obsessed teenager’s dream come true. “Scott, where is it?”

  He scratches behind his ear. Maybe he really does have fleas. That would explain a lot. “I don’t know exactly. I have a rough guess of the area.”

  “Is it far? Could we go tonight?”

  “We’ll never find it in the dark. Let’s wait until morning,” he says.

  Ryan laughs. Lizzie starts laughing with him. It’s so contagious that I want to start laughing too, but I’m a little too wigged out about the whole werewolf thing, to be honest.

  “Let me get this straight,” Ryan says, throwing a stick at Scott who manages to catch it and toss it in the fire. “Mr. Superstitious is willing to sneak into abandoned churches, searching for trapped, ancient werewolves?”

  “Just looking for a little adrenaline rush, but you wouldn’t know what that means, would you? You haven’t even put your arm around Lizzie yet,” he says.

  Ryan slings his arm around her. She peeks up at him. He sweeps his lips down to kiss her, and the rest is a big, slobbering mess.

  “Guess there are no more ghost stories tonight,” I mutter under my breath.

  “No, only disgusting romances.” Scott sticks his finger in his mouth and pretends to vomit.

  Ryan gives him the finger while still making out with Lizzie.

  We roll our eyes at each other.

  “We’ll find the church tomorrow and still get home in time for dinner at your house.”

  “Black bean chili tomorrow night.”

  “Well in that case, after dinner. Dad is supposed to be back, so maybe I can talk him into takeout.”

  After a few minutes of silence—silence, that is, minus the slurping kissing sounds of two people sucking the spit from each other—I say, “Hey, Scott?”

  “Yeah?”

  I stare up at the last sliver of moon before it disappears for a few days. “Do you think there’s really such a thing as werewolves?”

  “About as much as I believe in witches, unicorns, and dragons. Some things are better left to the imagination.”

  After another few minutes of silence, he whispers, “Legends and myths do make life more interesting though.”

  “That’s for sure, especially when you live in boring old Vernal Falls.”

  35

  Betrayal

  My finger traces the never-ending circles of a knot in a wide plank of the oak table over and over again, the spirals so familiar I can draw them in my sleep.

  An inexplicable urge forces my attention upward. The bright yellow of Gram’s cheerful kitchen helps ground me to the space.

  Someone places a sippy cup in front of me.

  “Drink, Gigi,” a woman says, her voice familiar and kind. She sits down next to me. I recogn
ize her from the old photo I found in Gram’s recipe book all those years ago. I’m sure many would describe my mother as beautiful, but I only see weakness in the tears running down her face. On the other side of her, there’s a toddler. He’s cute, and his freckles are vaguely familiar. Before I can study him more closely, the back door bursts open. In walks a woman who looks exactly like my mom. The same clear, glacial blue eyes. The same heart-shaped lips. But she doesn’t have the same white hair. Hers is black. As black as half of mine.

  My mother stiffens. “Calliope, what’s wrong?”

  “He’s coming. He knows,” she says without a shred of emotion.

  Someone gasps, and tension grips the room. Darius knocks his hand into the table across from me. A strange woman rests her hand on top of his to quiet him.

  “Calliope, what have you done?” Uncle Mark whispers.

  She turns to him, her glare filled with ice. “I’m protecting my son.”

  “What about my daughter?” Mom says in a quiet, strong voice. “What about the rest of us?”

  Calliope, with theatrics worthy of a Golden Globe, flings herself into an empty seat next to Gram and buries her dry cheeks in her hands. Gram watches the woman with mixed emotions—fear, anger, betrayal, sympathy. Every emotion is there, but she does nothing to console her.

  “When?” Mom asks.

  Between sobs she whispers, “Tonight.”

  I watch my mother’s reaction to the words—fear and then a resolve I wouldn’t think possible in a drug addict.

  “Lulu, no. There’s got to be another way,” Uncle Mark begs in the silence that follows. I feel like I’ve missed a crucial part of the conversation, but I only see Uncle Mark and Mom staring at each other.

  “It’s the only way,” she says.

  “We can try to fight, and then, if all else fails, we’ll do it your way,” he offers. A few other people around the table agree with him.

  Gram reaches across the table to squeeze Mom’s hand. “Lulu, it might work.”