Long Form Roleplayers

Previous Chapters: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

A rooster crows, heralding the dawn...

Fernand Laurent:
“Sacre bleu! Ce maudit coq! Je le tuerai un matin!” I groggily look out the window of the guest cottage at my father’s house. My father always tells me that one day this will all be mine. Although I would never leave my flat in Paris, I do love being here in the country and would keep it for weekends and holiday leaves. William and I spent the winter in Paris but were here the week of Christmas, spending much of the time at my sister Amelie’s house a few kilometers away. My nephews and niece took to William immediately and it was unusual to see him without at least one of the children crawling all over him, often giggling at his courageous attempts to speak French.

I turn over to him, still sleeping despite the avian alarm clock at dawn. He had more of his nightmares last night. They’ve become less frequent but clearly they are as frightening to him as ever. He always tells me he can’t remember what the dreams were but I am certain they are of the horrendous attack by the Wolf. His tossing and turning and subvocal shouts were disturbing to watch. I cannot imagine what that must feel like for him. I lay there, looking at the early morning sun on his face, before I get out of bed to get dressed to join my father for his daily egg breakfast. At least the damn rooster keeps the hens laying.

William Banks:
Family is a tricky thing to be a part of, and speaking as a person who has lost my roots, seeing others with their so well established is a painful reminder of that fact. Knowing that I’m going to join this family helps, and over the course of the winter, they do welcome me as one of their own. We all know that legally it cannot truly be cemented, there is simply not a framework currently in place to make it more than fantasy. Simply put, our kind is not accepted yet. Still, it’s a fantasy I’m happy to play out for the rest of my days. As pleasant as this dream is though, there is always a dark spot that appears; a memory of a beast from a hotel room, me being chased in an alley, or waking to see those piercing steely blue eyes staring at me from a body covered in black fur. I have to take that to my grave, I can never let Fernand learn what he was.

France has been refreshing, the trip away from the states I never knew I needed. Been learning some French too, though I’m told my American accent is thick. The children are happy to be around me even if I can’t fully understand them. As for work, my vacation time from my detective work dried up and I officially quit the force. After seeing the acts of a monster on men, the crimes of men to each other mean less to me now. There are a few options open to me for new employment such as working labor for the Laurent family. I am also considering joining the force here in France once I’m good enough to speak the language well; A good word from Fernand would go a long way in the right ear. Another consideration that is pleasing to think about is bartending, if only to keep an ear out of tales of creatures of the night. My new life here is an open page, a new story to be written. Before that though, let’s wrap up the last one.

I awaken this morning to Fernand shaking me, so excited about today’s events. I push myself up and take Fernand in my arms. “Bonjour Monsieur.” I follow up with a deep morning kiss, yet another passionate waking moment in our lives after the nightmare had ended. “Alright Fernand, what are you dressing me up in today for this wine tasting event?”

Fernand Laurent:
“William, it’s time to wake up. My father will be already cooking breakfast. We need an early start to visit the wineries to introduce you to an authentic French wine tasting.” You pull me into your embrace and kiss me. Suddenly my urgency begins to wane. “The wineries are somewhat, comment dites-vous, ‘stuffy,’ but not formal.” Before you can say anything, I add, “I didn’t say it makes sense.” I lay out the clothes we bought for you before coming here. “These will do.”

I kiss you again. I know how you struggle to be your own man as we forge our new life together here. I can see the constant conflict in your expression. How do I tell you that there is no hurry, that I will take care of you? Not just now, but always.

William Banks:
I lay there with a smile watching you lay my clothing for the day while my eyes adjust to the morning light. Finally I force myself up and start to get dressed, watching you for approval as I button up my shirt and make sure everything is nice and tidy, even if this outfit is less formal than I had originally thought it would be. “How did you sleep, Fernand?” I ask simply enough, always worried that something of that creature is left in you, like a tar stain that can never be cleaned. I can smell the breakfast cooking, and I aim to get this answer from you before heading out of the room, much like I do every morning.

Fernand Laurent:
You look so handsome as you ask how I slept, as you do every morning. I think of it as our ritual. “Comme un bébé,” I smile, trying to accustom you to French. You put on the clothes we bought for you to evade the French judgment of visitors as peasants or snobs. Still, nothing we wear is strictly prêt-à-porter; everything has been altered by my tailor. “You look handsome, as always.” I give you another kiss as I take your hand to lead you to the main house.

The path to the house first passes the henhouse. The chickens are now free to roam and seek food once the overnight threat of foxes has passed. I glare at the rooster and I believe he glares back.

You are not logged in. - Chickens

The path continues through my father’s prized roses. Some of them were planted by my grandfather and my father continues to carefully prune, feed, and give the old roots what they need to thrive.

You are not logged in. - Roses

The front door is open as we enter, my father Marcel greeting us both with a kiss to each cheek. I beam at him, even at his age, he is - and will always be - my idol.

Marcel Laurent:
My son. He always looks so strong. “Did the chickens look well?” I ask something that seems crazy. No one asks chickens if they are well. Of course if they had any sense they would ask them what they think they’re getting away with. They always have the most guilty look about them.

“I made madeleines. They are on the counter. Next to the Bottles. I think I opened a Beaujolais.” My knees have always been sore in the morning, but baking for Fernand and his friend seemed right. I do my best to hide my shaking hand. Ah, the hand will shake as time marches on. I take my seat at the recoin au view.

You are not logged in. - Madeleines

Fernand Laurent:
I kiss my father on one cheek and then the other as I laugh at his teasing question. “The chickens look fine, Papa. They scatter when we come by as if today is the day they become coq au vin.” I know my remark about eating his precious poultry will scandalize him and I give him a wink.

“Just a taste of the wine, Papa. I am driving William to the vineyard in Chateauneuf-du-Pape today.” I take a bite of the madeleine as I pretend not to notice the tremor in my father’s hand. It has gotten worse even since my last visit and I am saddened to think he is in decline. I hand a madeleine to William. “These are delicious, you must have one. Or three.”

William Banks:
The trip through the rose garden is always nice in the morning, the morning dew on them sparkling really shows their beauty and award winning status. As for the chickens, they may be fancy, but to me they are just food. Speaking of which, breakfast has me smiling as I know that we don’t have too much time before heading out. I give a courtesy nod to Marcel, “Bonjour.” Then after a polite moment of restraint, I happily take one of the madeleines, a second one in fact. “I have no doubt they are Fernand.”

Being here with the family is always a little awkward, I often feel like an outsider. Marcel is a respectful man, give me my space, but I can’t help but to wonder what his feelings are about me and Fernand. France is more progressive than the states, that much is true, but still… There are a lot of people who find the act of two men together as unusual. Marcel does seem to welcome me though, and perhaps I shouldn’t question that. So for now I sit quietly enjoying the food while I let father and son talk.

Marcel Laurent:
Not every day do I get to make anything for Ferd. Or even get to see any of his friends. They walk in, the chickens make their aria. Of course just as they should. For foxes, snakes, and other intruders. I have a plan…. “Fernand, s’il vous plaît. I have need of my medication at the chemist in town. I am sorry, I forgot they close soon and I’ll have to wait overlong if I miss them. Can you make a pick up for me? I’ll entertain William here. He has stories to tell.”

Fernand Laurent:
“Of course, Papa.” I turn to the door as I reach for the car keys, then turn back to grab two madeleines and wink at William. “What is it you’ve said, ‘Two more for the road?’” I head to the car, checking the time. This stalls our trip to the vineyard somewhat but not by too much. My concern for my father’s health is more important.

William Banks:
Stories to tell he said… I suppose I could share a few regarding my time as a detective, though most of it outside of Gruesome Alley are rather boring, and honestly not worth telling. Most of it boils down to catching drug dealers, dealing with gang war violence, and of course the occasional homicide. Still, if he wants a story, I can think of something; figure I have at least 20 to 30 minutes to kill before Fernand gets back. Finish up my current madeleine and take a drink while I try to keep things polite.

“Monsieur Laurent… May I call you Marcel? You said you were looking for a story? Perhaps I share the story about the stake out Fernand I did to catch Adrian Wolfe. He was a sicko for sure…” Take another drink to see what he is really fishing for.

Marcel Laurent:
“I would be most pleased if you called me Marcel. The hardest part of aging is men calling you Monsieur like I had a Barony or some merde.” laugh to my witty words
“I had maybe a deeper question. Tell me of the Gruesome Alley. I heard press, and retired Inspectors not running for office, they do talk and listen, they do. I was most concerned that you are well. These things can stay with you.” I pour a glass of Beaujolais for my young friend. Sitting back, knowing stories only happen when you ferme la bouche.

William Banks:
“Alright Marcel it is. None of us are getting any younger.” I offer a smile the best I can while taking a drink, and yet for the last 6 months I’ve been trying to put all this behind me. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention how sometimes I wake up thinking that Fernand had changed next to me during the night, not that I can tell Marcel that. That’s crazy talk.

“You want to know about Gruesome Alley. Well, that criminal I mentioned, Adrian Wolfe, turns out he was a serial killer who killed a bunch of gang members and mobsters. Ripped them apart like some terrible art display, it ending up looking like a mons…” I catch myself. “An animal killed them.” I cling to the official cover story that was put out in the papers, after all the truth is pretty hard to swallow and the fiction they cooked up was easier for the normal folk to understand. Can’t very well say there is a crazed Werewolf on the loose killing criminals now can we?

Marcel Laurent:
I hear the words. I hear the words that aren’t said, oh yes, I have that dreadful habit myself. Usually around the time when I should say to my son “I love you and think you did well.” My hand betrays me… shaking is unstoppable and the glass hits the floor. “I am so…. clumsy…” I stand to get a dustbin and broom and shake more and sit.

“I need to say something…” I swallow hard, The mess will wait. Countless wine glasses have died on this floor. “Tell me of the monster. It’s important.” I swallow hard.

Do I have to tell you of the dreams? The fears for my son? “It is important, William. You know it is.” I am suddenly feeling like a crazy man again and have spoken unforgivable words. I freeze so the story can be said. “Please.”

Fernand Laurent:
I arrive at the chemist, who takes a moment and recognizes me after a moment. “Fernand Laurent! I have not seen you in so long.”

“Alas, Monsieur Rodon, I have lived in Paris for many years. And fortunately not in need of medication. I come for my father’s medication.” The chemist turns back to hand the medicine to me and says, “Forgive me for saying this, Master Laurent, but your father’s health is failing. Take care of him.”

I leave and look at the medicine, Tegretol. I know it’s for seizures. I take the bottle and think of my father’s trembling, of his mortality, as I drive back. He’s my idol, my role model. Losing him … I know I will face it eventually but I’m not ready. I want him to stay, not only for myself, but for him to watch my nephews and niece grow up.

William Banks:
I am already thinking about what to say, he mentions the word “Monster” and I’m annoyed with myself for letting that slip. “Monster. Slip of the tongue I’m afraid. The only monster here was a man who took the opportunity to slaughter evil men so he could get jollies off on it.” As I say it, I see that look in your eye though, it is clear you know things, fear things. To be honest, there is a fair bit of curiosity in my mind about this, especially since it concerns the man I love.

“Alright, I’ll drop the cover story because I respect you and am concerned about Fernand.” I reach for my glass and take another drink, my mood changing as I remember that night last Halloween. “The creature murdered criminals without remorse, they were food for it, people that wouldnd’t be missed. There was a double agenda too, safeguarding us people from the bad ones to help propagate its food source. It uses us, and I hate it. Hate all these creatures that prey on us, and god damnit, one day they will pay.”

Marcel Laurent:
It’s so hard. I can see his face. And Banks saw it. “I am so sorry for your experience. No man should ever have to see that.” I look at my shaking hand. “Could you favor me a fresh glass? I am not done, and you must know, this year’s crop will make beautiful wine if this Beaujolais is any telling.” Of course you are a fine man and we rejoin with wine, and I take the moment to reset my heart and resolve.

“I must remind you, I had experiences….” I set the glass down, we shan’t have a replay of that mess. “Box 22 of the Palais Garnier, the Paris Opera House, they cut out the floorboards and the walls, the carpets, the seating. There was no mop able to clean this horror. And there is a smell, I’m sure you know it.”

You are not logged in. - Opera House

I pause waiting to see what this arouses in you and listen closely to my chickens.

William Banks:
I start to pour another glass of wine without response. My hands are steady thanks to my youth, and yet you can tell from my general movements that I too am haunted like you. I slide the glass over carefully. “All this fancy wine, Fernand is trying to make me a French Gentleman. Just between us though, I like the simple stuff better. A good beer goes a long way with me, and I don’t mind a low price tag either.” I drink some wine and get to the point.

“Yeah, I saw it. A large black wolf creature. I saw it twice with its glowing blue eyes, fur black as midnight, claws, fangs, and something I might only passingly call a spear for its member. It attacked me in the alley one night, and while I was praying to God for a quick death, it did the unthinkable to me there. It left me alive so I could suffer that night over and over again in my sleep.” I take another deep drink.

You are not logged in. - The Creature

Marcel Laurent:
“I asked… for that reason. You may need help. A confessor. And no, do not take that to the medical people. They will find a cause to experiment on you.” I take a deep breath. And know it’s my turn to be direct. William has been patient.

“At the opera house. I was favored by the experience to see great operas and stage presentations of the renowned Stanislavski. I found that method a useful thing. I play scenes in my head and maybe judge my plausibility or conclusions. As you imagine any story with such a monster courted absurdity. I was unafraid." Smiling.... "So I watch you and my son. And I play out scenes. They start with questions, you know how they might work? Imagine the scene in my head...." my voice goes dry. Merde! I make myself breathe. "Imagine the scene that plays when that smell Is on you, William. And it's on Fernand. The conclusions are... legion."

William Banks:
“You are right that I dare not tell this to anybody outside of those who have seen the thing itself. I even fear telling Fernand about it, he would think I'm crazy, or worse, think he is to blame. No sir, I’m taking this to my grave.” I start to unbutton my shirt. “That night in the alley, the creature scarred me, marked me, and I have a feeling you might be able to shine some light on that.”

I reveal my chest and show how a V has been cut into me, from my nipples down to my navel. “It’s not the most appealing scar for a man who once dreamed of chasing a wrestling career. Anyhow, what do you make of this Marcel?”

Marcel Laurent:
My chest catches. There is an honesty a man delivers when he bares his skin to another man. We are bred to compete and find weakness. We are bred to dominate. And when such a thing happens, it brings a depth of truth words fail at delivering. The rivers of burning salt run down my face. I can not stop them. The smell is there.

“I am a horrible man….I am sorry for your pain.” I swallow. The bottom of the glass is easy this time. One does not guzzle, but maybe that’s why Americans insist on trying to make it. My resolve. “It is the initial of the monster. He put his name on you.”

The trembling slows as I feel the gifts of wine. “I must ask you. Is Fernand the monster? You would only smell like that if you had… congress.” I reach under the table to a drawer and grab something in my hand.

William Banks:
I knew you were going to ask that, if Fernand was the monster. When you think about it, even in those early days, hindsight being 20 / 20, it is obvious that Fernand was the only one who could have been the monster. Second guessing this like some sort of Sherlock Holmes novel isn’t going to do any of us any good though. Afterall fact is stranger than fiction.

“You can relax sir. The creature has moved on. The second time I saw it was in New York City on Halloween. I got the impression that it was stuck in Fernand because I was so close to him for weeks. Finally he emerged, and of all times, right after I proposed. That night I talked with it, and we made an agreement. It would leave Fernand and move on to a new body, and in exchange I had to remain silent about this, and never hunt it.” I take another drink also emptying my glass, then proceed to pour us both another round emptying the bottle.

“We talked for a bit. Once we finished, I then saw it…” I seem to hesitate as I search for the right word. “I saw it jump to another person, leaving Fernand in my arms. I managed to tuck him away in bed, and convince him he had too much to drink, and then while he slept, I cleaned the room of any black fur that was there. He is completely unaware of what was in him, that is unless he figured something out on account that sometimes I talk in my sleep.”

Marcel Laurent:
I listen to the story. The curse of the inspector, you strive to guess rightly, and hate it when you are so damned clever. The tears run hard when I hear my Fernand was in the hands of… him. And doesn’t yet know. I have work I intended to accomplish with this conversation so I steel myself and wipe my eyes.

“And you care for him?”

William Banks:
“Of course I do.” I say it without hesitation. “I uprooted my entire life and sacrificed my career to come here and live with him. You should have seen it, the way we mingled and danced on that damn case. It burns that I'll never get the justice for my father I deserve, but to have life with Fernand… that’s worth it.”

Marcel Laurent:
I empty my hand and slide a small box to you. It’s maple with my Laurent crest on it. “I had two things I want to say in conclusion. Fernand will return soon.” I clear my throat. “I had always wanted another son. Eleanor was unable and passed away young.” The Box is opened with two men’s rings revealed. “One was my fathers. The one on the left should fit Fernand. It was mine.”

You are not logged in. - The Rings

I leave the meaning to unfold for the young inspector.

William Banks:
I look at the box and am taken aback by the rings inside. Everyone knows that wedding bands are one of the most expensive things a man can pay for, and given that I’m running on what is left of my severance pay, it’s not something I can easily afford until I find stable work. “Thank you sir, that means the world to me.” I’m clearly holding back some tears of my own now.

Tucking away the rings, I start buttoning up my shirt knowing that Fernand will be back soon, and we can’t have him wondering why I would be showing off my scar. Afterall, he is an inspector too. “One last thing sir. Let me tell you that if that creature breaks its word to me, then I’ll have nothing left to hold back my rage. I will hunt until my dying days.”

Marcel Laurent:
The words drip with fury I understand well. I could waste time saying that this beast should not be hunted, we are incapable maybe. We need strong allies then maybe. But I will lose that argument. I am old, but not stupid. “I also had one other thing to offer. I said you will need a confessor.” I drink a steady sip before continuing. “Please contact me, day or night. I will be your solace. I know tricks to make sleep work, I learned them the hard way. Would you do that? Trust me to keep dread secrets for you?”

William Banks:
“I understand sir. Thank you for this, truly after the last half year, it’s good to have somebody to talk to about this nightmare.” I take your hand with both of mine and grip tightly. “As for thoughts of hunting the creatures, people have done it in the past. Orion is a special constellation in my family, the hunter who protects the weak. I can pass that along to whoever is willing to carry on the fight.”

Marcel Laurent:
I never dared to hope that after this talk I would be smiling. I take William's hand, so strong. My Fernand could not have a better protector. “We should clean up… Fernand will be coming. I will not make comments of your friendship with my son unless specifically invited to by you. Will that help?”

William Banks:
I nod. “I hear those maniacs in Germany are looking to put people like us down. It’s best we don’t say anything for the time being, until the world is ready to accept men like us sir.” That’s all I have to say on the topic when Fernand finally returns.

Fernand Laurent:
I pull up to the house and park. I take a moment to calm myself and wipe the moistness from my eyes as I leave the car and enter. I hold out the medication to my father and feel a strange mood in the room and I wonder what transpired while I was gone.

“Here is the medicine, Papa. Monsieur Rodon … sends his regards. I hope you two had a good conversation.” I look from Marcel to William to read their expressions.

Marcel Laurent:
I stand and reach for my wine glass. Fernand looks strange. No, he looks handsome and strong and everything I had ever hoped for. But his heart. I feel something. “Thank you. That errand was another forgotten thing. Was there expenses?” Standing, I realize that I had more wine than expected and decide to sit.

Fernand Laurent:
“The costs were nominal, Papa.” I open the medication, read the directions, and fetch a glass of water. “You should probably have one now.” I put down the glass and while my father takes the medication, I move the wine glass out of his reach.

William Banks:
Seeing Fernand come back into the room with the medicine, I’m quick to adjust my shirt and make sure it is fit and proper. Fortunately the father and son talk about the prescription costs buys me the time I need. I don’t interrupt this tender display of a man helping his father in old age, though part of me laments having been robbed of this experience myself by the creature we were just speaking about, this entity called Volos.

Marcel Laurent:
Without argument I take the pill and drink it down, putting the rest of the bottle in the table drawer. The scent of Volos around makes such things difficult. I can tell my hand shakes and I fight to suppress that. Watching William adjust his shirt, my rage fights for a place at the table. The beast had to mark him. I let out a deep breath.

Fernand Laurent:
For a moment, I think to abandon our plans to go to Chateauneuf-du-Pape to stay with my father. But there would be little I could do should we stay. “William, we should leave if we wish to have enough time for wine-tasting today.

“Papa, we will see you at Amelie and Arthur’s for dinner this evening, oui? We can pick you up if you do not feel like taking your customary walk.”

William Banks:
As this is going on, I notice something a little odd, but stay quiet. The chickens outside seem distressed. Maybe it’s just the cat messing with them though. I take another drink of wine while letting father and son finish their talk, me fingering the rings Marcel gave in my pocket as I do.

Marcel Laurent:
“Most agreeable, yes. I will make my way there near 7 then, yes?”
I stand and make ready for them to leave … and yes, the chickens. Not the triumph of making an egg. They are in panic. My face takes the iron one uses for keeping secrets.

Fernand Laurent:
“Oui, Papa, at 7.” I kiss my father on both cheeks as we take our leave. I walk silently with William to the car and when we enter, I pause for a moment and take a breath before engaging the starter.

“William, the chemist is very concerned about my father. And I saw his hands shaking today. I may need to spend more time here in Avignon for the next few months.”

William Banks:
With us in a hurry to move to the car, I can’t shake the feeling that there is something nearby. A threat… something I’ve felt before. Pa spoke of a hunter’s instinct with us, an intuition, and this feeling is like the one I felt back in the alley when I was being chased. Before I could think too much about it, Fernand is pulling me since we are running late. “Alright Fernand, no need to pull me!” I give a smile, slight glance back looking for anything that might be out of place, and then we depart.

Volos:
I watch from behind the shrubs as Fernand and William drive off. The chickens are squawking as they catch my scent. I am tempted to have them for my breakfast but Marcel will likely be disturbed enough at my appearance without devouring the poultry. I come out from hiding and approach the open door to the kitchen. I stand still for a moment, looking at Marcel. He is no longer the impetuous inspector with an unlined face and a strong, sturdy body. He is old and frail; I can smell his illness. Humans are so short-lived. I stay there at the doorway, wondering if he will sense my presence.

You are not logged in. - Volos

Marcel Laurent:
The room darkens a shade. I got the chickens so I could tell when he was coming for me. I had been concerned long ago about such things. There’s always the difference between being ready for something to happen and then it coming. A drop of gravity in my stomach let me know he’s here. “A house call? In the middle of the day? I had thought death would come for me in the night. Did you plan on painting my kitchen with my spleen?” I stand. Turning to see him.

It’s painful. Seeing the monster. I had only laid eyes on him a handful of times and that was plenty to stoke nightmares for decades. “You laid your hands on my SON!” shaking with rage. “You scarred his…. partner! What now?” It was perhaps the worst hospitality I have ever shown in my house. I have no weapon against this monster. Words will have to do.

Volos:
I listen to you rage at me and only a slight curl of my lip indicates that my temper has been piqued. I cannot deny that you have reason to be angry but my forbearance will have its limits. “If I meant you harm, Marcel, I would have killed you in the tunnels under the Paris Opera House. It seems time and infirmity will have their way with you for that. I wished to see you before that occurred.

“I took your son for the same reason I took you, to have eyes on those hunting me, to know when it was time to move to the next hunting ground.”

Marcel Laurent:
“Infirmity!” I want to hit him with the table. I’m certain that would be pointless. I turn my back. I had a bottle of Madrian left for times I wanted something strong. Heavy, dry, and dark. I open it slowly. My mind is racing. He is correct. If he wished me dead, I would be dead. Even if he wishes for a snack, that would be much more direct than this. “You have never come out in the open so brazenly, that I know. Is there something I might do for you?” I pour a glass. Even in such circumstances, I force myself to be true as a host and pour a second. I walk to the beast and look up into his terrifying face. A steady hand offers a glass of darkest red wine. I sip mine openly in front of him, showing I am not a poisoner.

Volos:
I see your fear subside but not your anger. I take the glass with a nod of my massive head. “French hospitality is still unparalleled,” my rumbling tone makes it difficult to tell sincerity from sarcasm. I look at the sturdy kitchen chairs to make sure they will not be crushed under my weight and sit so as to meet your eyes at the same level.

“The scarring of Fernand’s partner was a poor decision. I thought it terrifying enough to cause them to remove themselves from hunting me for fear of worse to come. I underestimated their persistence.” I sip at the dark wine; not Bloodrose, but few vintages approach that quality. “I have a few reasons for visiting you, Marcel, I think you will find none of them nefarious.”

Marcel Laurent:
I am tempted to have dark laughter. "As an Inspector I learned, We French are animals. If we do not have our rituals of etiquette, we start killing each other before the sun fully sets. I trust the vintage is satisfactory." I could fuss over madeleines or try to rush him to the point. I patiently wait. “You know, I have idle time now. I get to carefully watch patterns and their patterns. It seems you like the taste of a particular kind of man. A criminal. A bastard. A loose end wanting justice. Am I correct?”

Volos:
I watch the wine as I swirl it, weighing my response. I take a sip and reply. “When we … knew … each other, prey was prey. The patrons of the Opera were well-fed and quite good eating.” I pause.

“The Great War changed me, Marcel. I saw what humans could and would do to one another was far worse than any atrocities I could inflict upon them. This was always true but now your kind had the weapons to destroy one another completely. It was in my interest to begin culling the packs of predators to preserve my herd.”

Marcel Laurent:
My molars grind for a moment. Your herd? The ice threads into my blood again. Your voice is so deep, so strange, like the sounds are made by your jaw, but a deep gravel, infernal like a volcano strangled to a thinner manageable sound. I want to run suddenly. I can feel my heart and know he can as well. I stop myself and drink, working to take in what you deem so important to tell me. I get the deeper meaning, suddenly.

“Volos, the herd is in need of being preserved? Have we come that close to our own destruction?”

Volos:
I take another sip of the wine. “I fear you will come closer still, Marcel. War is coming again. It is already here. If I am correct, it will reach France within the year. I came to tell you to move your family - Fernand and William, Amelie and her family, and yourself - as far from here as you can go. Put an ocean between you and this land.”

Marcel Laurent:
The news stops me cold. I had seen this monster kill men, but never the truth. “A year…. So soon?” I stammer. “I thank you for the warning. Should we leave in secret? Or should I tell the boys why we are going?” Mentally already packing, planning. A ship to New York, then deeper into America. So much to do.

Volos:
“I cannot be sure if you have even that much time. You can tell them whatever you wish, perhaps that your contacts from the Sûreté have given you intelligence that it will happen.” I swirl and sip the wine. “Marcel, you may already know from William that Fernand is unaware that I occupied him. After you saw me materialize in front of you, as I switched hosts from you to another, and we spoke there, I knew it would haunt you. I did not intend to do that to your son. I did not intend to materialize with William but I had been deprived of my Wolf form for too long.

“Whatever you tell them, I would not speak of me.”

Marcel Laurent:
I marvel at you. In so many ways a monster, ruthless. And before me now, concerned for my nightmares and that of my son. My sons. I nod and agree. “I have cautioned William against trying to kill you. One dark day a weapon will be found to do that, but I don’t think we have it. I will go to my grave and never speak of you.” I am a sewer of emotions, and thankful for wine. “What will become of you?”

Volos:
I have a sense of what you’re thinking. “I know you think of me as a heartless beast, Marcel. But I do have a code of honor, such as it were. I always pay my debts, whether actual or perceived. I used you - and Fernand - in ways that I feel I owe you both.

“I appreciate your concern for me but I will fare well. While I did wish to warn you and your family of what is certainly coming, this has been on the way to my true destination. I will leave here for Germany. I am going to Berlin.”

Marcel Laurent:
Berlin? The puzzle piece falls into place. The Germans are planning another war. The National Socialists seemed like buffoons to Paris. My friends had graver estimations. “I appreciate your honor. You go to hunt Germans then?”

Volos:
“Their leader, their Fuhrer, has been hunting rare and powerful artifacts from around the world. In my way, I have done that for millennia, in search of an energy strong enough to restore me to my full self, to not need to inhabit humans to maintain my existence. Perhaps his army scouring the world for these artifacts has done my work for me. I intend to find where they are stored and take whatever may assist me.

“I may eat a few battalions of German soldiers on the way there and back.”

Marcel Laurent:
The news of haunting artifacts has that icy ring of infernal designs and plans. People want to think evil of their political enemies, but this hints at deeper horrors to come. One being this monster achieving his “full self.” If this is a sliver of his power, we are doomed to serve him or kill him while we can. I am not able to do either, so I remain quiet.

“Is this the last I will see of you?”

Volos:
“In all likelihood, Marcel.” I drain the remaining wine from my glass. “There is one last matter I wished to discuss. Or rather, offer.” I pause, trying to make this next sound less gruesome than you will probably view it. “You are ill, Marcel, I smell it from within you. I could sense Fernand’s concern as he drove away. I can help, at least for a while, but you may find the means … unsettling.”

Marcel Laurent:
I freeze. And immediately hate myself for it. I am not a fluffy bunny. I could be prey any instant yes, but the monster is in a good mood and I am grateful. I sip wine to balance myself. “What means? This may require explaining first.”

Volos:
“It is my blood that allows me to regenerate when injured, why I am not susceptible to the diseases of this world. It works on humans as well, but ….” I take what I suppose humans would call a dramatic pause, “it must come directly from my artery. You would need to feed on me.”

Marcel Laurent:
A moment of revulsion. I want to stand and run… and then realize, few have been offered this gift. “Will it stop the cancer? Or do you know?”

Volos:
You entertain the offer more quickly than I anticipated, a sign for me that you are worthy of this gift. “It will stop the cancer you currently have. And the palsy it causes. It will not prevent this, or another, cancer in the future.” I am quiet after this, to give you time to consider your course of action.

Marcel Laurent:
“How do we proceed?” I need to take my family to America. I won’t be able to do this as a cripple. I need my vitality back. I stand and step closer…. My hands are shaking and I feel slightly nauseous. I stop, and strip off my shirt. My hands are impatient with buttons, but Fernand finding a bloody shirt will make him panic. I strip down and stand ready.

Volos:
I nod at the firmness of your decision. “I will pull your mouth to where it needs to be when it is time for you to drink.” I raise my right paw to my throat. With two needle-sharp claws, I dig through my thick, sable-colored fur to my throat. I thrust the talons in to puncture the artery and pull your mouth to the wound just as the viscous blood begins to gurgle out. My voice rumbles low, “Drink, Marcel, until I tell you to stop.”

Marcel Laurent:
Fighting panic, this is a one way trip. I see the wolf bleed, proving to me again it happens. I slip into the embrace of the wolf and drink from his neck. My mouth is awash in blood! I gag at first and have to force myself to swallow. Then… THE FIRE! Oh there is nothing that tastes quite like this. No cut of steak or lamb is like this. I’m wrapped deeply in the life of this monster. Gripping tightly, the pain in my joints fades instantly. My head clears and I am slammed with an instant sobriety! My arms grip around the muscled huge body of the wolf Volos!

Volos:
You hesitate, then begin to feed. I wrap both my arms around your body, gently holding you as I would a young cub, one huge paw resting behind your head to keep your mouth against my bleeding throat. I smell the cancer dissipate, your strength and mental clarity restoring. The minutes slowly pass as you take my essence inside you. Finally, I know my blood has done as much as can be done for you. I gradually pull you off of me, “It is done, Marcel, you can stop now.” My self-inflicted wounds begin to heal instantly, barely a few drops leaking into my fur.

Marcel Laurent:
There was once a performance of Chinese drummers at the opera house. They took the stage with great drums and my head feels that depth of thunder. Slamming sounds deep and Earth-shaking… Your heart… my heart. They come together and match rhythm! Hammering and hammering as fire trickles down my throat. My strength doubles and I hear your voice as if from a long hallway.

I let go, my face red with my feast, the world a splatter of color and light again. I stumble back and land on my ass looking up at you. I see my hands. The skin is tighter. I snap to my feet and look at my reflection in the window. Yes, I can see that now, that reflection. My chest and arms defined, my skin unblemished and tight. I look back at you. “Thank you…” the words pale. Those words are used to thank someone for bringing a pastry. This… has no effective words.

Volos:
“This was payment of my debt to you and your son, Marcel, you need not thank me for it.” I look at the change in your appearance. “It seems you will have some explaining to do. Your new medication has been very effective.” I come to you, resting my paws on your shoulders, the tips of my talons barely touching you. I give your face one lick of my thick moist tongue.

“It is time I take my leave, Marcel. If we never cross paths again, be well. I have one more stop to make before I head to Germany.” I release your shoulders and, with a blur of Wolven speed, I am gone.

Marcel Laurent:
The plates in the kitchen rattle as you make an exit. The embrace. The lick. I would’ve quaked in fear an hour ago at such a thing. This was like an uncle’s embrace. Uncle. Maybe I should get used to that word. I go to wash for dinner….

Volos:
At my speed, my destination is mere minutes away but it is long enough for me to reflect that, as much as I revealed to Marcel, there was a piece of information I withheld about occupying Fernand. Fernand recognized the case from more than Marcel’s recollections - he could practically smell me and sensed he had to come. He had to come - to me. While any human can be my host, there are certain bloodlines that make a better match. And they are the most prized of my herd to be preserved.

I stay in the trees that flank the farmhouse, purposefully out of sight. This farmhouse is sized for a family, not for an elderly widower content to tend to his roses and those accursed chickens. Three children are noisily playing in the yard, two boys and a girl. The elder boy pushes his sister to the ground and she cries out, “Mama! Joshua m'a poussé!” An attractive woman appears at the window: Amelie, Fernand’s sister. She shouts, “Joshua Kane! Laisse ta soeur tranquille! Vous tous, ne vous salissez pas. Ton grand-père et ton oncle viennent dîner.”

Turning back into the kitchen, I can hear her say, “Arthur Kane, your children are driving me … folle!” I hear her husband teasingly reply, “They are your children too.”

In my hiding place, I am completely silent. The two eldest children are oblivious to me but the younger son keeps looking at where I’m concealed. I know I cannot be seen or heard and yet he senses something here. I take a deep breath and I pick up the scent of the boy’s blood. My maw twists into its parody of a smile. Certain bloodlines are better matches than others and, when those bloodlines cross and mix, I am closer to my goal. And now Marcel can protect this chosen child.

In another blur, I leave the Laurent-Kane household to depart France and head to Germany.

Published: 2022-06-05, viewed 57 times.