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 Sequel to The Tattooed Wolf and second in the trilogy.
When a werewolf's beloved daughter is abducted, expect no mercy.
Kim Bannerman’s short stories have appeared in such varied venues as Parabola Magazine, A Room of One’s Own literary journal, the ParaSpheres Anthology from Omnidawn Press, and Neo-Opsis Science Fiction Magazine.
Chapter One
Thunk.
Instantly awake, instantly alert, I rolled onto my shoulder and lifted my head from the pillow.
The crescent moon sunk towards the west, leaking white beams through the open curtains, and its peaceful silver-blue light transformed the bedroom into an ethereal place, serene and surreal. The walls, which in daylight were cream, appeared stark white under a lunar touch. Shadows cast by the furniture were the indigo of a vast ocean. In all directions, my eyes took in a placid palette that spoke of the calmest midnight hours, a time of restful, soothing dreams. The wicker chair in the corner wore a garland of my cast-off jeans, while the mirror on top of our oak dresser reflected a pool of darkness. From the door to the hall, to the en suite, to the shuttered closet, the moon illuminated a comfortable bedroom in sleepy repose.
Except for me-who, with every muscle tensed, had jerked awake. The noise, a hearty thump, had come from somewhere. My eyes flew across the darkness, scanning the indigo and white, to note the contents of our room. Yet I found everything untouched, in its place.
Even the quilt, which had rumpled to the bottom of the bed, was exactly where it should be after an hour’s slumber. I sat upright to snag it and pull it back over us, casting a quick glance at the closet. Had a wooden hanger fallen inside? I absently wondered if I should rise, open the doors to check the contents, then carefully close them again. God forbid I leave them open. The thought coaxed a smile from me. Every night, Sophie insisted the closet be firmly shut. She couldn?t sleep if the shuttered doors were open, she admitted with a foolish thirty-something grin, because she was scared of monsters peeking out.
I glanced down at her, curled next to me, and stifled the urge to touch her chestnut hair, to caress one palm across her porcelain cheek. Her eyes were gently shut, her breathing soft. She slept undisturbed.
Well, if the sound hadn?t woken her, I wouldn?t be the one to do it. I lay propped up on my elbows. As I listened to the rhythm of her strong heart, the moon crept a few more degrees through the sky. I was almost certain there?d been a low clunk.
A sound which had been too soft for human ears?but I was hardly human.
I lifted myself gingerly from the mattress. At the motion, Sophie stirred.
"Dan??"
I pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her skin smelled of sweat, and lust, an earlier bout of sex. It roused a fire in my gut. "Go back to sleep," I said. But, I?ll admit, I secretly hoped she?d wake again. I tucked the quilt around her.
She nestled with a little sigh, hands clasped under her chin. I brushed one palm over her hair, then found a pair of boxer shorts on the floor and pulled them on.
On bare soles, I prowled out of our room and across the upper landing, only to find the hall equally still. With my weight on the balls of my feet, I picked my way across the creaking wooden floorboards, choosing the silent ones with practised precision. When Sophie had invited me to live with her in the old farmhouse, the boards had squealed and protested under every movement I made, as if the building itself actively resisted a new man under its roof. But over the months I?d memorised the stable boards, those that held me. The house and I had made a truce. I belonged here now, more than any other place I?d ever known. With the stealth of a predator defending its lair, I crossed the upper level with all my senses alert.
Moonlight through frosted windows glinted off the bathroom fixtures, half-hidden amongst a small jungle of plants. Across the hall, the door to the spare room stood ajar. I pushed it aside. Inside were storage boxes, full of photo albums and winter clothes. In the far corner squatted an old cot used for guests, but nothing had toppled over. The noise had not come from here.
There was only one other room on this floor, and for a moment I paused outside its door. I held my ear to it. From within came the slow, rhythmic pattern of Madelaine’s breathing, the restful patter of her heart, the rasping of her cotton nightgown as it shifted against the sheets. The gentle glow of her night light seeped under the crack of the door, and her brass alarm clock ticked, marking out the seconds until morning. There was no need to open the door and disturb her. The girl slept.
I looked back to my own half-opened door, where I could hear Sophie’s feet kicking at the quilt. I relaxed my shoulders and crossed my arms, frowning at my own paranoia. Maybe the noise had been a figment of my imagination. God knows, it wouldn?t have been the first time I?d dreamt of intruders. For the first few weeks of calling this house "my home," the frantic concern of losing it would bubble to the surface of my sleeping mind. I?d awaken with a bestial urge to rush outside, walk the perimeter of the fences, and mark the land as my own. Even Sophie-who was normally so accepting of my particular habits-was peeved that I?d choose to piss outside, rather than use the bathroom at the opposite end of the hall.
"You aren?t...y?know....in my flower beds, are you?" she?d asked after discovering the nature of my nocturnal walks, "Because I don?t always use gardening gloves, and that’s just....just...Ewww!"
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