Clark and Lois sat together at the outdoor table at Jimmy J’s, their fingers pointing this way and that, and laughing as they playfully fought over who would write what in the spiral notebook on the table between them. Robert actually heard them before he saw them, their Clark and Lois sat together at the outdoor table at Jimmy J’s, their fingers pointing this way and that, and laughing as they playfully fought over who would write what in the spiral notebook on the table between them. Robert actually heard them before he saw them, their sharp East Coast accents cutting through the softer Cajun murmur all around him.
He hoped they were better than they looked. Of course, Perry would not have sent them had they not been very good. And since they were supposed to be working as travel writers, their current behavior suited them. It was good camouflage, too, since only a master strategist would expect an enemy to hid in plain sight on a mission.
Maybe they were a lot better than they looked.
The man said something Robert didn’t catch that made the woman convulse in laughter, so that he was standing beside their table before either of them reacted to his presence.
The man smiled and offered his hand as he stood. “Inspector Gautreaux, I presume? I’m Clark Kent, and this is my wife Lois Lane. Won’t you join us?”
Robert smiled and sat with Lois to his right. “Please, my first name is pronounced Row-Bear, with the emphasis on the bear. When I hear Inspector Gautreaux, I look around to see if someone from the Pink Panther movies is pursuing me.”
The couple laughed again. “Too close to Inspector Clouseau, I suppose?” Lois asked.
Robert nodded. “Yes. I’m afraid I watched too many of those movies as a youth.”
“Oh, they were really popular in Kansas,” Clark said. Then he put on the terrible French accent he used to quote movie dialogue. “’Does your dog bite?’ ‘No, Monsieur.’ The dog chomps Clouseau on the leg and he yells, ‘I thought you said your dog does not bite!’ ‘That is not my dog, Monsieur.’” Clark dropped the accent and laughed. “I think that’s my favorite bit in all of those movies.”
Robert grimaced as the others chuckled. “What I remember is being called Clouseau on the first day by the Police Academy sergeant and then having to respond to that name for the next three months.”
Lois smiled and patted Robert’s right hand with her left. “I’m sorry, but we’re not from around here. Everything is new and different for us. Which is a wonderful segue into our real purpose. This is something of a working vacation for us, and we need to go back home with a good travel story. We want to help your city boost its tourist income, and we want to get another article printed, so I think we can help each other.”
Robert barely heard the woman’s words. His attention was on her left hand, where a small scab rested near the back of her wrist. It was of a shape and color he’d seen before, although never this small and never just one alone. He forced himself to glance up at her face.
Her mouth smiled but her eyes glittered with constrained power. As he looked, she removed her hand from his and all but whispered, “Clear?”
Her husband lifted a glass of tea to his mouth and said, “One watcher. He’s been across the street on the bus bench reading the same page of the paper since the inspector parked his car. And I’m pretty sure I saw him when we left the hotel this morning.”
Then she said the words which almost unmanned Robert.
“You think he’s from Arthur or the Patriarch?”
*****
Jaime Miller didn’t like his current duty. He thought that keeping a watch on the reporters was a waste of time, and nothing he’d seen during his first morning shift had altered his opinion. They were behaving as he would have expected a pair of travel writers to behave. They walked the streets with their eyes up and roving across the buildings. They took pictures with the cameras hung around each one’s neck. They sampled food from all along their route and sipped at a number of different drinks. And they finally stopped for breakfast at a new place, one which catered to tourists and therefore was off limits to a proud native like Jaime.
He’d thought about leaving and telling the Patriarch that the reporters were harmless, but then he saw the homicide cop join them. It was all he could do not to jump up and run away.
What little he could hear from them from across the street was innocent. Their faces and their body language betrayed no tension or fear. They were either exactly what they appeared to be or some of the best actors this side of Hollywood. If the cop hadn’t sat down with them, Jaimie wouldn’t have bothered to stay.
But this? This he needed to report, and quickly.
Jaime Miller had begun life in New Orleans twenty-three years before and had never left except for short trips to nearby towns on the Mississippi delta area, but all he’d known of the Patriarch’s clan had been hearsay until a couple of months before. His father – who had never bothered to marry his mother – was spending fifteen to twenty-five years as a guest of the state of Louisiana for armed robbery, aggravated assault, and battery. It was his third major felony conviction, and unless something unusual and unlikely happened, young man wouldn’t see the man who called himself Jaimie’s father for more than a decade.
His father had been the source of the tales of Rougarou for Jaimie. They had given him chills and shivers and a few sleepless nights as a boy, but he’d discounted them as he’d grown older. So it had come as something of a shock when he’d met Andre, the man who’d recruited him into the pack as one of their human servants, and Paul, a youth he’d known years before in junior high school. Jaime had thought it was a big joke at the start, little more than just another gang affiliation, but then he’d watched the Patriarch and three of his closest followers chase down that old woman with Paul and kill them.
Paul had died quickly.
The woman, whose name he’d never learned, had died all over the bank of the levee.
And Jaimie had learned the truth. Rougarou was real. And Rougarou would slaughter him without mercy or hesitation if Jaimie crossed him.
So Jaimie wouldn’t cross him. Jaimie would grovel and bow and serve his master and live to share the fruits of his victories. He’d do whatever the terrifying man-wolf-thing told him to do.
And someday soon he’d be someone important, unlike his loser father. Jaimie would be an important sub-leader when the Patriarch took over New Orleans. He’d tell others what to do and when to do it, and he’d finally receive the respect he’d been unfairly denied all these years.
Another laugh from across the street jerked him from his woolgathering. The couple stood and shook hands with the cop, then each went in different directions. The couple walked down the street, pointing and exclaiming and taking pictures like tourists. The cop walked back to his car, then drove away. None of the them looked in Jaimie’s direction.
For a moment he was pleased.
Then he realized that they hadn’t looked at him because they’d made him. If not, they would have at least glanced his way a couple of times as they looked around. He didn’t know how they’d spotted him, but they had. He was so used to being invisible to the people around him that he’d made some kind of mistake somewhere.
He had to report in.
*****
Robert drove around the corner without looking at the young man who’d been watching the Kents. If he was dumb but persistent, he’d follow the couple. If he was lazy, he’d quit following them and go home.
If he was really smart, he’d realize that they’d known why he was there and go report to his lord and master.
Robert didn’t know the young man’s name, but he knew the type. He was young and tough but brittle and prone to break if pressed hard enough, full of righteous anger for the way the world had mistreated him, and he’d sell both grandmothers for a bottle of booze, a fast car, and a fast girl.
Robert glanced in his rear view mirror and saw the youth fold the paper and walk away, not following Clark and Lois. That was good. Or bad. Depending on what he did next.
But the young man was not his concern now. He needed to pick up the Kents in six minutes. His car was the only place he trusted not to be watched or bugged, and they could speak freely in it. If there were no traffic problems, he’d make the rendezvous at just the right time.
He glanced at the fuel gauge and noted that he had nearly three-quarters of a tank left. Plenty of time to speak and plenty of time to hear.
He especially wanted to hear about that scab on Lois’ hand. It simultaneously amazed him and terrified him. She couldn’t be turned, not this quickly, but if not, where had the mark come from? If she was turned, why wasn’t she snarling at everything around her?
He remembered her eyes. They had glistened with controlled frenzy, chaos under iron restraint, violence begging to be released. He’d seen eyes like that nearly thirty years before, but never in someone sitting calmly at a restaurant table. The man he’d shotgunned to death at age fifteen had had eyes like that. Robert had seen them shining at him over the body of a prostitute who hadn’t quite finished dying.
Robert’s fear bubbled up inside him. He was about to invite an infected woman into his car – a place from which, if she decided to rip his throat out, he couldn’t possibly escape.
*****
Jane and Theresa walked into the small kitchen as Arthur stirred his coffee. Theresa tossed a pair of bloody driving gloves on the cabinet beside him and growled, “Souvenir for you, oh fearless leader.”
He inhaled the fragrance without picking them up. “I love the smell of bloody clothing in the morning. It smells like – victory.”
Jane gave him a crooked smile. “We’re not to the victory stage yet, Artie, so don’t light your cigar now, but it’s a step in that direction.”
“Good. Do you want to tell me how you acquired this lovely artifact?”
Theresa growled deep in her throat. “How do you think we got them? We killed one of the Patriarch’s pack.”
“That’s what I wanted to—”
“It was just before sunup. We pulled him off his motorcycle when he stopped for a traffic light at Slidell and Bellerville.”
Arthur started. “That’s near an elementary school.”
Theresa averted her eyes. “Yes. Martin Behrman Elementary. We think he was at the school looking for breakfast.”
Arthur’s eyes snapped to Jane, who nodded in agreement. Theresa continued, “The noise of his motorcycle’s engine masked our approach. He was on the ground before he reacted, but he was too late. I opened his abdominal cavity with my claws. Jane twisted his head and broke his neck. We both crushed his chest and shredded his heart. And we planted the false scents you gave us.” She reached out and took Arthur’s coffee. “That’s one less we have to deal with.”
She stalked toward her bedroom, slurping at the hot beverage in the cup.
Jane looked at Arthur. “I know that you know this, but she really hates killing, even when it’s justified. It might not be the best idea for you to send us out together again.”
He sighed. “I know how she feels, Jane, and I understand. Truly, I do. But who else would go? Guinevere is known to all of the Patriarch’s clan, as am I. Alphonse is as likely to try and reason with one of them as he is to fight. And Gawain is willing but still young and inexperienced. I leave it to you to choose your next mission partner.”
“You left out Lancelot.”
Arthur chuckled. “You would have to watch your back twice, once for the Patriarch’s pack and once for him.”
“I don’t care. Next time I go out, I want him with me.”
“As you wish.” He turned and reached for a fresh cup. “Do you think I should speak with Theresa or let her work through this on her own?”
She licked her fingers as if out of reflex. “You know her, Arthur. She hates killing even though she understands the necessity for it. She won’t betray you or let you down. But she pays a high price whenever she lets her lupine nature take over. Of all of us, she feels it the most when she takes a life.”
“Her conscience troubles her?”
“Sneer if you want to, but when Theresa kills, she feels like it robs her of another piece of her soul.”
“I was unaware that werewolves had souls. There are many who—”
Jane leaned forward and glared at him. “Call it superego, call it soul, call it conscience, call it guilt, call it whatever you want! I wish I could care about people as much as she does. I don’t know her backstory, but this life is a lot farther from her old life than anyone else’s here! And when she kills someone she loses another piece of herself from the part that’s still human inside her!” She straightened and took a deep breath. “I don’t think you can understand that. I do know that you don’t. And that’s a shame, because of all of us she’s still the closest to being a real human. I don’t want her to lose that.” She spun and walked away, muttering, “I don’t want to lose that.”
Arthur pursed his lips in thought. It was good to be reminded of the dynamics of the group, even to have pushed in his face the reasons his followers did what they did, why they felt the way they did.
And he understood Theresa better than Jane suspected. He and Alphonse were the only ones who knew about Theresa’s former life, because they had been the ones to find her after she’d been turned.
*****
It was back during the Roaring Twenties, that decade of excess before the forced austerity of the Great Depression. Arthur and Alphonse had been camping in eastern Kentucky after a trip from New Orleans to check out the werewolf pack structure in New York, a trip which Arthur considered a waste of time and effort. Just as dawn was breaking, and before the morning coffee was on the fire, a small white-tailed deer had flashed past the edge of their camp, sprinting as if being pursued by a pack of rabid tigers.
But it wasn’t tigers the deer was fleeing. It was a barefoot young blonde woman whose sparse clothing was shredded to rags, her slender legs flashing as she ran with impossible speed after the deer. Alphonse suggested later that her focus on her prey was the reason she hadn’t noticed, or had deliberately ignored, the two startled men sitting at a campfire in the woods.
Moments later they heard the crash of a tackle along the game trail. The deer bleated in terror and tried to get away. High-pitched growls and snarls filled the air, and after just a few moments the sounds of the struggle were replaced by the sounds of feeding.
They padded through the woods, still in human form, to watch the young woman gorge herself on fresh venison. “New Turn,” Alphonse whispered, to which sentiment Arthur nodded his agreement.
Then Alphonse asked a very interesting question. “Where’s the Natural what supposed to teach her how to live now?”
“I don’t know. If she was deliberately left in this state, someone has committed a grave sin.”
“Maybe it be a accident?”
“Perhaps,” mused Arthur. “If she has turned feral, or if this is some bizarre training regimen, we must leave.”
But when the young woman finished feeding, instead of burying her kill or just slinking away, she knelt beside it and wept bitter tears. It was not characteristic of any newly Turned One he’d ever heard about. He turned to Alphonse, who appeared to be as surprised as he.
Arthur softly approached the young woman and knelt down several feet away, out of her immediate reach. “Excuse me,” he whispered.
She spun on her heels and braced herself to attack, but hesitated when she saw his calm posture. Quietly, Arthur said, “I am not here to hurt you. I would like to help you if you will allow me to do so.”
Her cultured voice surprised him. “You cannot help me. I am possessed.”
“Possessed?”
She wiped her bloody hands on the remnants of her soiled clothing, then tried to wipe the tears from her eyes. “There is a demon within me that takes over at times and causes me to do – to do such horrible things as this. I know of no other explanation save that I am possessed by this evil spirit.”
He shook his head. “I doubt that very much.”
She wiped her nose and bloody mouth with the edge of her ragged dress. “Oh? Then I suppose you have a reasonable scientific explanation for what I just did.”
“I have an explanation, but it is neither scientific nor reasonable.”
She glanced around, then focused on Arthur again. “I would like to hear it while I am still in my right mind. Assuming that I am, indeed, in my right mind.”
“I believe you are as sane as anyone else you have known in your life. Before I explain, however, please allow me to ask you some questions.” He waited for her to nod. “Were you attacked and bitten by a large animal recently, say in the last four to six weeks?”
She frowned. “Yes. My husband – he and I were – we—” She sat back on her heels and sobbed for a moment. “Please forgive me. A beast attacked us and – and killed my husband and ravaged me quite badly. I did not expect to live, but for some reason God did not take my life.”
“I am truly sorry for your loss.”
“Th-thank you.”
“Now, another question if I may. Some days after your initial ordeal, did you have a terrible dream where you became a beast similar to the one which attacked you?”
The blonde stared at him. “How do you know this?” She leaped to her feet. “Are you in league with the devil who perpetrated this foulness upon me? Was the beast under your control? And are you now planning to entrap me in your hellish schemes?”
Arthur didn’t move. “None of your accusations are true, madam, although I understand how you might come to those conclusions. Please tell me what manner of man was your husband.”
His soft demeanor and his formal speech seemed to calm her. “He is – he was a – a Baptist missionary to Central America. We met and married two years ago while he was on furlough from the field. We were planning to return to Costa Rica in two months – no, it would be only a matter of days by now.” She moved her arms as if to cover herself. “Please forgive my rude state, sir. I have been – indisposed for some time.”
He didn’t laugh or even smile at her quicksilver mood changes or her sudden modesty. “There is nothing to forgive, Madame. What has been done to you is a terrible thing, but I know of no method by which it can be undone. In this, I am helpless to aid you.” He slowly stood up. “I can, however, offer you sanctuary from whose who do not understand your condition. I can teach you how to control your impulses and your dreams. And I can help you deal with your new life. All you need do is come with us.”
Her face betrayed her interest. “You speak soothing words, sir. But I would much prefer to be healed and take up my own life again.”
The sympathy in Arthur’s voice was real. “I am sorry to tell you this and in this manner, but that is impossible. You have contracted a – a disease, for want of a more precise term, and it is one which has no cure.”
“You are saying that – that I am to die?”
“To your old life, your old friends, your previous manner of living, yes. But you can live a long and fruitful life if you embrace the changes which have been forced upon you. I can help you to do that.”
Her eyes flashed. “As your concubine, I suppose?”
“Not unless that is what you truly wish. I would rather describe it as a new family ready for you to join it. I cannot force you to come with me, nor would I attempt to do so. But your alternative is to stay in these woods or some other place like it, hunting for your food, searching for temporary shelter, and avoiding human contact. Eventually you will be discovered, and I cannot predict your fate beyond that. You might be taken prisoner. You might be forced to be some man’s plaything.” He paused as her hands hooked into claw shapes. She apparently realized what she was doing and lifted them to waist level, stared at them for a long moment, then forced herself to relax.
Arthur waited for her to return her attention to him. “Or you might simply be killed, either by accident or by design. It is your choice, Madame.”
He waited as she thought through her options. Then she stepped closer to him. “You do not paint a pleasant scene, sir, but it appears that your offer is the least threatening of the paths set before me. For now, at least, I will accompany you and your companion.”
“Thank you. His name is Alphonse, and mine is Arthur.”
She stepped closer and offered her hand for a shake. “I am Theresa Wilding. If you have any spare clothing, sir, I would appreciate the loan of it.”
Arthur nodded and took her hand. “I believe we have some things which will fit you. And we will stop at the nearest town to purchase more appropriate garments for you as soon as we are able.”
Their hands separated and she stood tall and confident before him. “I am at your service, sir. Within reason, of course.”
He nodded and looked into her eyes. There was no hint of humor there. Nor could he detect any fear.
This woman’s fires were banked and controlled, but there was steel in her makeup. Perhaps she would survive the transition to her new life.
*****
Theresa had not only survived, she had thrived. She had become the spiritual guiding force of the pack, the heart and soul of the group. She was the one who had found Gawain and convinced him to join them. She was the one who had stood unconditionally with Alphonse when Lancelot wanted to cast the older man out.
And now she was the one who was most pained by their guerilla war against the Patriarch. The role suited her even as it hindered Arthur’s campaign. Nevertheless, he would not exchange her for any three Turned Ones he had met over his nearly three hundred years. She was far too valuable to them all – not only for her physical skills, her vast courage, and her commitment to the pack as a whole, but for her heart.
Arthur hated to admit it, but Jane was right. Theresa was the heart and soul of the pack, and they couldn’t afford to lose her. She was as vital to their success as Arthur himself, if not more. They would not be the same without her.
