A herd of students streamed through the hallways, predator and prey intermingling in a teenage safari. Some pushed, elbowing their way through the crowd, more out of a need to assert their superiority over the pack than in their desire to get wherever they were going. They asserted their alpha status over their underlings, who were identified as sure as if zebra-striped, by their cheaper clothing and the telltale knowledge that existed in their eyes- they weren’t popular, and it either ate at them in a way that either made them subservient and hungry for it, or hardened and soured them towards a hatred of those accepted few.
The one who saw this early-morning scene unfold in such an animalistic hierarchy stood at his locker paces away, realizing that not too long ago, he would have seen only students in the halls, popular and not, converging together. It would probably never be that way again, he thought, unhooking the shoulder strap to his backpack and holding it in his hands instead. It was very likely that he’d never again have a perspective that wasn’t tainted by an innate, animal eye and sixth sense of the instinctive natures that existed in everyone… and, giving one last look at the bestial interactions that seemed to surround him, he turned to his locker and resolved to push it out of his mind. He didn’t want to let that thought that had become such a recurring theme these days resurface, but even such a dismissal of it couldn’t keep it from existing, waiting for another chance to remind him of his state: the changes are coming faster, and there isn’t anything you can do to stop them.
He dropped his backpack to the floor, and knelt to transfer its contents to his locker, flipping back the blue top that bore the silver-stitched initials: ‘AVM’. Ambrose had, upon many occasions in his youth, dared his friends to guess the completion of that letter ‘V’- and never once had any of them successfully managed to come up with Vespasien. Only his friend Gino had ever declined to guess at all- surmising that a name like Vincent or Vance would doubtfully accompany such a French name as Ambrose Maurlias, and that his time would be wasted with the game.
What Ambrose pulled from his book bag was anything but books- there was a notebook on top, and a case with pencils as well, but that concluded anything school related, and the bag was still filled to capacity. A cheaper pack may have split by now, but nothing less than double-stitched corded blue canvas and leather would touch the back of a Maurlias. Instead, what came from the gaping maw of the bag were ten packages wrapped in white paper and scrupulously taped. Ambrose had learned his lesson weeks before when he’d dropped one of the bundles during this morning transaction and the contents, which were only wrapped but not fastened in any way, spilled out over the floor. Not a few people had given him disgusted looks for the nearly-raw slips of meat that lay in watered down, bloody heaps at his feet, and whispered to themselves as they passed the freshman in the hall. He knew that they couldn’t have guessed the meat’s purpose- that he would take them into the bathroom at lunch and devour pounds of it in minutes before going to the cafeteria and buying a hot lunch (which he would also eat)- but he couldn’t bear the idea of rumors, or to seem… different, in anyone’s eyes. So the meat he bought on weekends with his sizeable allowance and hid behind the preservatives in his refrigerator only ever entered his locker as wrapped fortresses- and anyone who’d been witness to the spilling incident had long abandoned its memory for the sake of newer, juicier rumors and happenings.
Ambrose had just transported the last package to his locker shelf- an easy feat, since his recent growth spurt had taken him near 6 feet tall- and was checking the bottom of the canvas bag for any spilled blood runoff, when his locker door slammed shut and a thin figure appeared in front of him. It took him a moment to acknowledge their presence- since his first, jolting look up at the sound of the metal clamor had taken his eyes no higher than their shirt. The white tank top, which had a small tear near the bottom that had been repaired with a row of safety pins, was silk-screened with the large letters “Save an Animal: Eat a Chauvinist Pig”. This was enough to tell him exactly who it was, even before his eyes traveled up to her face.
“Good morning Angelina.” He was, as always, glad to see her, and even though he’d been at her house almost the entire night before, it felt like it had been ages since he’d seen her. More than once he’d tried to coerce her into letting him pick her up in the mornings- but she would never hear of it. She lived in a very different neighborhood than Ambrose, and wouldn’t allow him to go so far out of his way, into what was in reality a ghetto district. It wasn’t any trouble, he always persisted- he had his own car- but once Angelina made up her mind, there was no stopping her. So she rode the bus in every morning.
“Morning. …You left early last night.” Angelina said. She leaned up against his locker and scratched at a spot on her head, revealing a patch of writing on her inner arm just above a collection of black and white armbands. Part of it was illegible, but Ambrose could make out a single reminder she’d made to herself, scribbled in what was now smudged ink: ‘Wolf’s Rain on tonight- don’t forget!’ She followed his line of sight, but didn’t make mention to it, dropping her arm back to her side and waiting for her question to be answered.
“Not really. I left after the movie was over- you were already asleep.”
She rolled her shoulders back and placed a foot up against the locker beneath Ambrose’s, her knee out, causing a number of small folds to appear on the thigh of her jeans all the way up to their low-riding waist. She moved with something more decisive than grace- a knowledge of her own worth, and a desire to be comfortable without the taint of concerning herself with what others thought. It was a quality that Ambrose still could not entirely understand- or, if he did, he couldn’t manage to translate it into his own life. As unfathomable as it was to him, though, he recognized its rarity in Angelina, and almost more than anything else, it was what drew him to this girl that he was so different from.
Angelina nodded, acknowledging what he’d said, and then narrowed her eyes and focused on Ambrose’s neck. “Are you wearing it?” She asked, and leaned forward. Ambrose’s automatic reaction was to move away from her reach, knowing what she intended to do, but a single responsive look from her, full in the face, was enough to keep his feet planted.
She reached out, and with fingers tipped in a chipped, old black polish, folded down a corner of his American Eagle shirt collar to reveal a flash of metal hanging from the front of a leather-studded band. Ambrose was almost afraid that she’d turn down the remainder of the fine material to reveal the band’s entirety, but the glimpse seemed to satisfy her, and she nodded, leaning back up against the locker.
“Good. I was afraid you were going to change your mind and throw it away.”
“No,” Ambrose said, fingering his neckline, nervous that what was beneath would be visible, “that wouldn’t make any sense. I got it to wear it.” He didn’t add that he’d forgotten to take it off that morning- after he’d come back from Angelina’s in the early hours in the morning and crawled into his bed, he’d forgotten to take it off after his transformation, even though the three days of the full moon’s cycle were completed.
Angelina didn’t add that it would also be a waste of $79, since bringing up the added cost of the registration for the rabies tag and the veterinarian’s examination would only bring up the latter in Ambrose’s mind- and she knew he was particularly embarrassed by the whole ordeal. Even now, he looked flushed with the warmth of the dog collar’s mention, and the slight redness of his cheeks matched the raw bit between his eyebrows, where he’d doubtlessly tweezed away the hairs that had grown there in the night, Angelina thought. Not for the first time, she felt a wave of protectiveness for this boy-who tried so hard to be a man- that she was so connected to. Angelina had always possessed what she felt was an ‘inner mother’- her own was so detached from her life, and even though she provided her daughter with clothing and food, her involvement in Angelina’s life ceased there. Perhaps it was a blessing that she hadn’t passed on her values to her daughter, who’d instead structured her own framework about what she was willing to do to survive, but her lack of nurturing couldn’t possibly be seen as a benefit, due to the ordeals it had caused Angelina. On numerous occasions, her inability to protect her only child had led to the girl’s assault by older men- often her own boyfriends, who had an eye for the slight, self-possessed daughter of the exotic dancer. So it wasn’t any wonder that Angelina had turned instead to this ‘inner mother’- the ability to look after and raise herself, and it had aged her beyond her years to the existence of an independent, goal-oriented person who was not only determined to raise above her station, but also to do it on her own terms. It was this attribute of Angelina’s that reached out to protect Ambrose, stringing a thread through her caustic shell of distrust and cynicism towards men. This chivalrous, confused boy had become her only vulnerability, and a part of her both knew and was frightened by it- never before had her protective streak managed anyone’s life sans her own- but she had long since accepted that this apprehension was dwarfed by her feelings for him.
“Well,” Angelina said, “you’ll get used to it. Pretty soon, you won’t even realize that it’s there.”
Ambrose frowned, leaning around her to slide his lock back onto the metal door. “I’m not going to wear it all the time.”
Now it was Angelina’s turn to frown. “What? Why not?”
“I don’t need to- just during those three days during the month.” He kept his voice low, his eyes darting around at the people that surrounded them. Angelina sighed, pushed off from the locker, and took a step into the middle of the hallway.
“Fine. But at least keep it with you when you don’t- in your backpack, or something.” She flicked at the mostly-empty bag that hung off the crook of Ambrose’s arm. “And if anyone ever finds it, you can just tell them it’s mine.” She smiled and touched the white choker around her neck. It did seem like the sort of thing that she would wear.
“Fair enough.” He would have said more, except the bell rang out, and people began to fan out into classrooms, locker doors slamming shut in a metallic symphony devoid of rhythm. Ambrose hooked his bag strap back up onto his shoulder so he’d have his arms free, and wrapped them around Angelina for a cursory hug- the extent of what he was comfortable with as far as PDA.
“I’ll see you in biology.”
Angelina returned the hug, but not the words- her attention was instead focused on something over Ambrose’s shoulder. Down the hall, Ambrose’s brother Dreu, and Dreu’s friend Matt were standing by a trophy case, glaring at her. She didn’t mistake the look in Dreu’s cobalt blue eyes as anything but hatred and blatant contempt, and if she had been anyone else, the derision would have cowed her. Instead, she thought, as she always did, how strange it was that someone so handsome could be so foul and detestable- for she couldn’t deny that he was handsome. Those blue eyes, which would have been a match for Ambrose’s had they not held the character of such a sly creature, were not the only beautiful thing about him, as she well knew. Every inch of his body was almost…aristocratic, she could say from firsthand, detestable experience.
She pulled away from Ambrose’s hug, and smiled at him to assure that nothing was wrong, and that she would indeed see him in their biology class. She decided to leave out the mention of the crude gesture that Matt had made at her, leering in his letter jacket, or that the two had given each other a knowing look before disappearing into the crowd. She knew that it would only upset Ambrose, and that she didn’t want to get him involved in whatever they were planning- if they were indeed concocting something- mainly for his own protection. For one, she didn’t want to remind him of what she’d done with Dreu. He knew why she’d done it, and for all intents and purposes, it seemed like he’d forgiven her. Her actions, though hard for him to accept, had been beneficial to the both of them- her, for cementing her future, and it had given him an edge in his life-long search for his parent’s approval. Another large reason for her silence…was that she didn’t want to think what would happen if Ambrose became upset with his brother and hanger-on, and tried to stand up for her. He was becoming more powerful every day, and the onslaught of changes had been thus far rapid and…unforgiving. She didn’t hold any feelings for the contemptuous pair that obviously had nothing but ill-intentions for her, but knew what Ambrose could be capable of… and that if he’d ever done anything to harm someone, his conscience would never allow him any rest. All of this ran a steady track through her mind as she watched Ambrose go off down the hall towards his class, and she put her hand up over her mouth, thoughtful. Some things were best left handled on her own.
* * *
Ambrose found it hard to concentrate all day. For one thing, he was exhausted to the point of being comatose, and what precious little time he could be considered conscious, his mind was swimming with everything that had happened over the last three days. He knew, without being able to pinpoint why, that his encounter in the park was the most significant thing that had happened to him since the initial attack, and that it simultaneously drove him miles closer to answering his questions about what had happened to him- and complicated things more than he’d ever be able to understand.
He’d been searching for answers ever since his transformation- but knew that he’d not been getting very far. Everything he could find about werewolves seemed steeped in the hypothetical, the mythical, and even the whimsical. Every movie he saw pointed him no closer to answers, but instead, drove him to fear that he’d become the monster they depicted, bloodthirsty and immoral, what little human souls they retained terrorized by a need to propagate the carnage that had created them. To Ambrose, who had grown up with an unrealistic, rigid set of self-morals, as innate and set into a framework as Angelina’s self-preservation was, his greatest fear was that he would lose the ability to control himself and those standards of decency and principles that he felt were tantamount to his worthiness as a person. …Not that he even knew if that was what he was, anymore.
Books from
the local library, Angelina’s roleplaying manuals, and even occult books had
offered only a little more information than the sensationalist
It had been a full moon all weekend, and it had been its magnifying pull, more than anything, that had driven Ambrose to choose to return to the park in search of the black wolf- and answers. Friday’s search, armed with his incredible lupine sense of smell, had yielded nothing- it had been too long since that night in the park with Angelina, when the large dog they’d thought had been a stray had leapt out at them. In his mind, he could still see the heckles of the great wolf standing on end, black bristles tipping the bladed shoulders of the beast, and how he’d put himself between it and Angelina, its yellow eyes blazing. No matter how clear the memory stood in his mind, however, his nose could not possibly pick up on a memory- all it had to guide it was the trails of scents that intertwined around every blade of grass and hung in the air. He could smell everything that had gone on in the park- from the existence of a mother rabbit’s burrow beneath a park bench, and how she’d taken her little ones out to feed in the night air three days before, to the number of children had played on the swing set in the past week- but he couldn’t possibly go much further back than that, especially not as he was so new to the heightened sense, and it confused him and was hard to manage. It had discouraged him, but at least being stared at all day- the existence of such an immense ‘dog’ in the park, roaming without a collar was certainly a disturbing sight- had given him the mostly embarrassing (though practical) idea for the dog collar and rabies vaccination tag, which Angelina had helped him with the following day. She’d even gotten him an iron dog tag to affix to the collar, a little decorative embellishment that Ambrose personally felt was wholly unnecessary- but as it had been a gift, it would remain.
Sunday night, he’d ventured out into the park again, determined and pleading to find some answers. What he found- to his surprise and fearful excitement, was a trail that permeated his nose with the heady scent of a wolf, leading into the forest. He’d tracked it as quickly as his nose and feet could work together, feeling all the time that there was both something up ahead- and that the great woods somehow had eyes, for no matter where he turned, or how quietly he moved, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something knew that he was there, and was waiting for him. Almost when he’d given up, and the trail seemed to be running in circles, Ambrose saw a shadowy, almost liquid form running through the trees, and without thinking, had sprinted after it, throwing abandon to the same wind that carried upon it the scent of hope and possibility for his questions. Together, he and what he was sure was the wolf bounded through the underbrush, the wind whistling around their ears, muscles tightening and releasing in a fury of pumping limbs. Pursuant and pursued raced, never getting close enough for Ambrose to see what he chased- and it seemed like forever, as it led him around and through the woods. No matter how Ambrose called out to it- yelps, barks, and pleading whines that would have driven any dog lover within earshot to cry in remorse at what sounded like a mortally wounded animal- it was as if it never heard him, and would increase its speed to a frenzied gate whenever he came close. Only when Ambrose had nearly given up, and the muscles in his legs throbbed with the tension that he’d forced upon them, had the wolf suddenly stopped in its tracks, and rounded about to face a stunned Ambrose. It stood before him, and somehow, by the stance of the great black wolf, and by being able to catch its scent so clearly, it was obvious to Ambrose that this proud, authoritative wolf… was a female.
He hadn’t a chance to ask any of his questions, for as soon as they’d stopped, she came to his side, and, in a combination of yips and barks that he realized he could understand as if she’d spoken clear as day, said “I hope that you were paying attention to the way you came in.” Even though the language was completely lupine in nature, it seemed to be… seductive and confident, in a very predatory, secure way. And then, before he had a chance to see if he could speak this language as well, she was gone, a shadowy blur into the night that he couldn’t hope to catch. There, in the brushwood, he’d collapsed, and laid on the sticks and earth, tongue lolling from his mouth in an attempt to catch both his breath- and a comprehension of what had just happened to him. It was hours before he managed to get up and follow the winding track of his own scent, lingering in the air with the sweet, heady additive of the female wolf filling his nose as well, to make his way out of the forest. With each step, he made sure to commit to memory the trail- he couldn’t bear to lose what was obviously a chance for resolution.
He’d not gone home that night- not immediately. First, he’d shown up at Angelina’s, exhausted and filthy- dirt was caked up in between his paw pads, and he left heavy, obvious paw marks on Angelina’s carpet when he jumped in through her window. She’d covered them with a laundry basket and assured him it was alright- her mother never came into her room anymore. Then they’d spent some time together and started to watch the movie that Angelina fell asleep during. Ambrose hadn’t lied to her when he said he’d left after the movie was over- but he’d omitted that he hadn’t exactly watched it after she’d drifted off, her fingers entwined in his mostly grey fur. He’d been too consumed by thought about the female wolf. It was obvious that she’d been the one that had bitten him; he’d been able to recognize her when she finally had stopped running and stood before him. But why had she done it, and what did she want from him? Would she be able to tell him how he could reverse the process… and was it even reversible at all? So many questions piled up in his mind, and even when he’d jumped back out the window and ran through the night to home, he’d been unable to sleep those last few hours of the night in his own bed, and had lain awake during his transformation, which occurred in those hours that it took the moon to crescent again, ever the slightest sliver of a shift that created such a difference in Ambrose’s body.
It was why he was entirely unable to concentrate on anything in his classes- his fatigue was complete, and his mind entirely occupied. The only time he managed to divert his mind was during lunch. Like usual (or, at least, it was fast becoming his ‘usual’), Ambrose emptied the meat content of his locker into his backpack, and went into the handicapped stall of the lowerclassmen bathroom, which was the ideal place for him to duck into, since it was the only stall with ‘walls’ that went all the way to the floor. He doubted that anyone would actually get down on the cold tile and peer in to see what he was doing- even if they could hear the ravenous sounds of him devouring the contents of the packages- but he was becoming accustomed to taking every precaution.
In minutes, he was finished, and on his way out, threw the wrapping into the trash. The night janitor that came in after everyone had gone home would doubtless find them, like he had every night for the past few weeks, but if he thought it was peculiar to find ripped white paper wet with blood in the trash, he didn’t say anything about it. He’d been a janitor for almost thirty years, and after working in an emergency room as well as a high school, he’d long since ceased to find anything shocking. People, he’d discovered, will throw away anything- and more often than not, they’re things they want to stay hidden. Whoever was disposing of the blood-soaked papers every day in the men’s bathroom, he figured they must have a good reason for it- and as long as no one was reporting students getting hurt, he wouldn’t mention it to anyone. Although he did wonder, after a time, what this boy could possibly be hiding- that was as far as it ever went.
After his ‘pre-lunch’, Ambrose went through the cafeteria’s food line, and sat down with his tray across from his friend, Gino. He’d been having lunch with him since they were both in second grade, and he and his father had moved into the large house across from the Maurlias’s. If he’d had to choose a best friend, this nervous, tall boy would be it- although, looking across the table at the blonde, basset-hound eyed freshman, he couldn’t ever see himself disclosing his secret to him. Although they’d played together as boys, and Gino was also a member of the fencing team, Ambrose had seen then growing apart since his relationship with Angelina had deepened. Somehow, the trust that they shared was unable to be rivaled by any other relationship in his life. He still enjoyed Gino’s company, but couldn’t imagine that he’d be able to react to Ambrose’s change even half as well as Angelina had. For the most part, this idea was driven by how he felt about being changed- he didn’t think that anyone could accept him, or understand him. Not in this world that was so uninfluenced by magic, and in which fear fed on the unknown. He was partially right, however, in believing that the way Angelina had taken care of him, and accepted him during these changes, was unique, and that none could rival that bond they shared. And although he kept his secret closely guarded mostly for the sake of appearing normal, a very small- yet significant part- of the reason he did was also because he knew not to expect that sort of devotion and connection from any other.
Lunch that day was ravioli, with a side of very questionable bread and a section of mushy peas that could have been fashioned into a workable glue without much effort. Ravioli had never been his favorite- in fact, before he’d been bitten, he would have left it on his plate and subsisted only on the side-dishes rather than trying to tackle the watery sauce on the meat-filled noodles. These days, however, food was food- and he found that he needed at least two or three times more of it than he would have before. He wolfed down the ravioli first, the overcooked meat inside not half as palatable to him as the bloodied equivalent he’d had minutes before, but it was still more satisfying to him than food had ever been to him, pre-change. Gino, as usual, didn’t pay any mind to the way Ambrose ate- instead, as soon as his friend sat across from him, he’d launched into a tirade about the fencing team, and how he wished his father would let him quit. He’d never wanted to join in the first place, and was not particularly suited for the weapon that Ambrose had such a hand for- but the idea of disobeying his father, the steadfast Gambino, was unheard of. The man had single-handedly talked himself into the most lucrative oil market in town, and forged a business empire out of his self-legend of being able to get whatever he wanted. No one in the business world could stop the imposing, 6”5 man; a 16 year old downtrodden boy was unlikely to succeed where they had failed.
Ambrose didn’t have any advice for Gino- in fact, he was lucky to be able to follow the conversation at all. His exhaustion had only waned in the face of the rejuvenation that food provided. His animal instincts, which were asserting themselves more all the time, inherently made him aware that if he were in the wild, and too tired to eat on the precious occasions that food was available, he would surely die. A pack would not take care of a wolf that didn’t have the instincts to survive- even though wolves are family-oriented, and take care of their sick or wounded, they will not expend effort on the behalf of an individual that is a constant drain on their resources. He didn’t know entirely how he knew this- but, more importantly, all this inherent familiarity with the happenings of packs made him wonder if there were more werewolves out there- and if they traveled in a pack, a family. Would he ever be a member of such a group? The idea frightened him, and he pushed it out of his mind as the lunch bell rang to signal the period’s end, and he and Gino dumped their trays on their way out the cafeteria to their next classes.
His brief burst of alertness subsided quickly. Twenty minutes into his next period, his body realized that it had gotten enough nourishment, and switched into a sort of half-asleep stupor. By the time he was headed towards his last class of the day, he was the walking undead, staggering through the halls with foggy colors swimming in front of his eyes. He might have ducked into the bathroom again and had a very unsanitary nap, stretched out on the tile floor of that handicapped stall, had Angelina not seen him on her way to World Regions and insisted on helping him to his French class.
“Are you going to be okay?” She asked him once they reached the door. She had her hand on his arm, focused on his blinking, tired eyes.
“Yeah, I’m just… tired, is all.” Angelina nodded, and looked into the classroom before turning back to Ambrose, putting her hand up to his forehead to make sure that he wasn’t burning to the touch.
“Alright. Well, don’t be afraid to take a nap in class if you need to. Your grades can stand it,” she said, to buffer any protesting he put forward- but he acted as if he hadn’t heard.
“Besides,” she said, “you have a substitute today.” She indicated for Ambrose to look in at the classroom, and sure enough, behind the desk where Mrs. Mirielle usually sat, an unfamiliar man stood, dressed in a grey pullover and black slacks, a long white ponytail hanging down his back. They were startled to see that he was staring them clear in the face, and Angelina looked back at Ambrose with a flinch.
“I’ve never seen him before,” she whispered, still holding Ambrose’s arm in her hand. “Did you see that he was wearing gloves?” She said it less out of a scandalous ‘fashion faux-pas’ tone that most would adopt to mention such an oddity, but rather, with fascination. How people looked or dressed had never concerned her, but something as eclectic as gloves reminded her of her roleplaying, and intrigued her.
She was waiting for Ambrose to respond, but he was truly too exhausted, and the late bell was just on the verge of sounding- so she touched his face gently with the tips of her fingers, and whispered to him to call her when he got home- she wouldn’t have time to see him after school, as her bus left immediately- and then she spirited off down the hall, sprinting so as to get to her class before the bell.
Ambrose watched her reach the first set of lockers before a voice drew him into the room.
“I’m assuming you’re a member of this class. If so, it would be a little difficult to teach you out in the hall. Please come in.” It was the substitute, and when he motioned, Ambrose noted that he indeed did wear a pair of black gloves- thin ones, seemingly made out of leather, as if for driving- rather than those of the winter ilk.
Ambrose mumbled an apology, and came inside the room just as the bell sounded, taking his seat near the back of the room. He couldn’t tell, for he was barely staying awake, but the man’s eyes followed him all the way to his desk in the middle row, and only surveyed the rest of the class after the boy had sat, his head in his hands to support its weight.
“Hello class.” The man picked up a piece of chalk and began to write on the board, turned away as he continued to speak. “My name is Professor Duvert.” He turned, and what he’d written on the board was shown to be simply his last name. “However, you can call me Monsieur Duvert.”
With every other class of the day, Sabin Duvert had spoken entirely in French, but Mrs. Mirielle’s notes had mentioned that the last period of the day was the beginner’s class. So he lapsed back into English with ease, although it was slightly more tinged with an accent than usual, due to the long day of reverting back to his native language. He wiped the chalk residue off the tips of his gloves, and looked over the class- it was mostly composed of freshman and sophomores, it seemed, although there were a few upperclassmen who sat near the windows, gazing out and obviously disinterested. They were the telltale ‘credit seekers’- those students who just needed that last foreign language credit for graduation requirements. I wouldn’t be surprised, Sabin thought, if they come out of this year with only a tourists handful of French, able to ask how much and which way to the facilities, and little else. It was a shame. French is such a beautiful language.
It was only his second instance of substituting at a high school in all his years of teaching. Primarily, he was a university professor, and it was a rare occasion that every substitute in the district would be called and be unable to work, causing the university to be called to beg teachers who would be willing to substitute. Not many of his colleagues were willing, for that matter- they seemed to harbor a sort of self-created superiority that supposedly put them above such trivial forums as high school. Sabin, on the other hand, was willing to impart knowledge in any form- and had never had a problem filling the need of a high school that was desperate enough to solicit a professor for the day. He was well-read, and had been throughout his extraordinarily long life- which was longer than any of his colleagues could have possibly guessed- the man looked as if he were in his twenties- and his mental abilities were the collective of both an innate intelligence and the composition of his existence; he was qualified to teach very nearly any subject. To teach his native language, however, was a rare treat that he wasn’t often afforded. The only preparations he had to make for the last-minute fill-in was to make sure he both had on a pair of gloves to cover his nails- his sleeves pushed down so as to cover the scars on his wrists, and to make a larger effort than normal to concentrate on keeping his features as steady and human as possible. His university students had long since accepted that their Professor was a peculiar man, and one wrought with mystery, but he had no desire to get into the same old questions with this new group. He had long since departed from being ashamed of what he was, and it wouldn’t have been the end of the world to him, had he frightened the lot with his…duality (quite the opposite, in fact- the presence of fear most likely would have exhilarated him), but for the sake of teaching, he didn’t want to offer the students any distraction.
For the most part, he was successful- the age-mixed class before him had no idea what this man was, or indeed that he wasn’t even entirely a man. They weren’t blind, however, to the gloves, which struck them as odd or “crazy freak”, as one girl in the back whispered to her friend (which Sabin heard, and dismissed as unimportant), or to the fact that their substitute was unlike anyone they’d ever seen before. Ambrose, and his heightened animalistic instincts, may have been able to sense something beyond this, if not for his head drooping to the table, and his eyes closing. The last words he heard before he surrendered to the sleep that had threatened to overtake him all day was from the front of the room, asking the students to turn their books open to page 112. And then, in a thankful blur, everything swirled into the nonexistent.
* * *
“Angelinaaaaaaaa!” There was blackness at every angle, the jaws of what seemed like emptiness itself. Ambrose had never heard such anguish in all his life, screamed in that one word- and now he heard it in his own voice, a desperate cry as he leapt forward. Suddenly, he saw Angelina there, or at least, what seemed to be her, almost hovering before the darkness, a disembodied tentacle eking its way toward her, a gilded crown in its clutches. Without knowing why, a feeling burst through Ambrose that spoke of eternal terror and sorrow if that crown touched her head- and he ripped it from her and the tentacle that had brought it from the darkness, and prepared to fling it into the nothing.
The next scream he heard was even more bloodcurdling than the last, and he almost looked about to see who was the soul that yelling out in such agony, until he realized that it was him, and the voice he heard was once again his own. The last thing he felt was a tortuous rip, and before the incorporeal tentacles ripped him asunder, his world erupted into black, and then a cascade of red. Then everything was bleary, a swimming nebula before his eyes. And no more.
Ambrose couldn’t possibly know, but at this point in this most macabre dream, he was not the only one who was experiencing the surreal concoctions of his weary mind. The mind of one Sabin Duvert had eclipsed into the enigmatic dream-world, and had a dream-seeing eye on this boy who had fallen asleep, minutes before. He hadn’t been intending to perceive Ambrose’s dream, although he’d noticed the tall student collapse onto his desk- it had just become such a powerful nightmare, with some very numinous roots, that it he’d found it hard not to exercise his ability to dream-see. While Ambrose was reaching for the crown, and experiencing the consuming obsidian nothingness, Sabin had assigned the class work that would keep them singularly occupied at their desks, and by the time he felt the strong pangs of Ambrose’s destruction reverberate to his mind’s eye, he couldn’t help but slip into a calm, almost nonexistent state that would allow him to observe the dream without alerting the other students.
Sabin found
himself looking down on a forest that was thickly packed with ominous trees, a
mountain range looming on the near horizon.
The forests of Borca, near the
There, between the trees- Sabin could see a wolf, laying prone, its head lolled over a protruding tree root. It was dead, he thought, but not long after he’d made this assumption, the body suddenly jolted, as if shocked from underneath. It was a dream, and anything could happen, Sabin knew, but he found he was startled by the sudden movement.
Then it happened again- it was as if a pulse ran through the limp body, and the wolf’s every limb and muscle throbbed until each hair on its thick coat stood on end, a beacon to the sky, collecting what seemed to be invisible electricity from the dark clouds that were a permanent fixture in the sky. The body leapt from the ground, though it had obviously not moved by its own volition- its legs still hung limp, and its head drooped to the side. It was hovering, suspended in the air by some invisible force, and Sabin was so intrigued that he wished he had his sketchbook handy to document the happenings- even if it were only a dream.
Suddenly, a shadow coursed through the forest, snaking around trees with ease at a speed no mortal could boast, seeping through the air like a liquid armed with intelligence. It was headed towards the wolf- and in seconds, it had reached and consumed it, bathing it in a black aura which was followed by a dripping, bleeding redness. Another jolt flowed through the wolf, and then the shadow fell from it, disintegrating into the body and into the air, falling to the ground and disappearing as if it had never existed. The wolf was brought gently back to the earth- and instead of collapsing upon four dead limbs, was supported by four strong paws. Its head shook, and golden eyes blinked. It was alive.
And it howled.
* * *
With a jolt that was not unlike the shock that the wolf had sustained, Sabin was pushed out of the dream, and was once again whole in his consciousness, sitting behind the desk at the head of the room, staring out over the class. The boy at the back of the class was still asleep, his head tipped sideways on his outstretched arm- although he was no longer dreaming. A quick glance at the clock told Sabin that the bell would ring in a handful of minutes, and he waited through that time staring at the sleeping figure. His mind was full of a curiosity that he’d nurtured and fed since he was a boy, and had journeyed into the woods to discover what his own, shadowy dream creature would lead him to.
After the telltale sign of the end of the day sounded, ringing throughout the school to alert every student and teacher that it was time to be free- he’d not needed to dismiss the five rows of French pupils, but instead only nodded as they snapped up their bags, slung them over their shoulders, and become animals once more- pushing and shoving all the way out the door.
When it was
just him and the sleeping figure alone in the room, Sabin rose, and tugged at
each finger of his gloves in turn, so as to pull them off and drop them to the
desk. He then rolled up the sleeves of
his pullover, still looking at Ambrose.
He’d wanted to alleviate some of the heat that had been pressing on him
since
Who is this boy, he wondered, stepping out from behind the desk and taking decisive steps down the middle row of desks. He’d very seldom been privy to such fascinating dreams- especially when he was striving to be so human. Either my abilities are developing in bounds, he thought, or there’s something special about him. He actually hoped it was the latter, despite his long desire to cultivate his dreamworld skills- for his inborn curiosity and attraction to the mythical and the magical overpowered even the drive to self-improvement.
He stepped up next to the boy- and looked down on his sleeping form with scrutiny. He didn’t seem to be any older than 17 at the most- although if anyone knew how deceptive the appearance of age was, it was Sabin Duvert. That was what it appeared to be, however, and he assessed it along with everything else- the expensive clothing, the blonde hair, the eyes twitching faintly with the end of REM sleep- it all seemed very normal, and anyone else might have simply decided they were mistaken, woken the boy, and then gone about their way. However, nothing could escape the sharp eyes of the half-anju- a glimmer of metal at the boy’s neck shone for a fraction of an instant as a stray beam of sun shone through the window… and then disappeared again as a cloud drifted across the sky. Sabin folded down a piece of the shirt’s material, unknowingly mimicking the earlier actions of Angelina- and saw that a black leather collar circled his neck, fastened in the back with the same sort of buckle that he’d seen on a fox that frequented his lover’s side. It was the piece in front, however, that he wanted to get a clearer look at it- there seemed to be a number of tags, including the one that had glimmered in the light- a silver tag with raised lettering- and he reached to turn it to his view.
As soon as his thumb and forefinger touched the metal, he felt a searing pain tear into those two fleshy points- with a deafening bellow, he leapt back and held his burnt hand in his other, cradling it with a hiss at the unexpected pain. With the onslaught of the smoldering ache, he’d momentarily lost control, and his true features burst through his human façade, transforming his pale, delicate features into monstrous apparel. As if they’d been pierced, a red color bled into his eyes and a flash of more sets of purely red, Anju eyes appeared and then were hidden again, seeming to disappear into the pallor of skin on his forehead. The ends of his hair appeared to be picked up by an invisible gust of wind, evaporating into a shadow, and he issued his hisses of pain through an elongated set of canines and premolars.
It took him a moment to regain control, and when he finally coerced his more human façade to resurface, the ache still existed- signified by two blackened, deadened marks where Angelina’s gift had touched his skin. He looked back at the offending bit of metal- only to see that the boy was sitting straight up in his seat, pushed away from the half-Anju, an unreadable look painted across his face.
“I thought that was silver,” Sabin said, dismissing the look for the moment, and gesturing with his uninjured hand to the bauble at Ambrose’s neck. He saw the boy immediately recoil, and start as if he himself had been burned.
“No!” He cried, and then composed himself and said it with less fearful shock, “No… I can’t… I mean… no. I don’t know what it is.” He paused, and then added as if it needed to be said, “It couldn’t be silver, though.” He still stared at the man, and by the look in his eyes, he had obviously seen the transformation, Sabin decided- but by now, he was assured that there was something unique about him. Something about the way he’d reacted to the transformation, and in his protestation of silver- that, along with the dream, he was sure he’d pieced it together, and he was pleased with himself, despite the searing burn still pulsing in his fingers.
“I’m not entirely sure, either,” Sabin said, referring to its purpose rather than its composition, “but you can be sure that it’s iron.” He’d never known any other metal to affect him in such a way- the weakness to iron was derived from his anju half. He remembered a day, long ago, when contact with it had felt almost like a less significant burn, a secondhand memory of pain and aching- but that was in the early days, before he’d accepted the anju as a part of him, and the two had grown together, existing as a single, dual entity. Now, they were so tied into the same existence that he no longer thought of the weakness as belonging to the Anju, for indeed he couldn’t separate the fear-demon from his person or identity.
Ambrose still sat at his desk, eyes never moving from this man- or whatever he was. The bellowing cry at his being burned had snapped him from his slumber in an instant, and Sabin had been right in guessing that Ambrose had seen the minute transformation. He’d been riveted to the spot, unable to move his eyes from the man. At first, Ambrose wondered if this… Duvert… was going to transform into another werewolf, and he’d held his breath at the rapid changes that had coursed through the man’s body. But after those red eyes had appeared and then gone again- and his hair had done that thing with the shadows, he’d abandoned all his guesswork at what he was. But he knew he was no longer dreaming.
“What’s your name, boy?”
Ambrose blinked with surprise- he would have expected those teeth to extend again, or even for this changeling to attack him, rather than this mundane, authoritative question that could have come from any substitute.
“Ambrose Maurlias.” He didn’t know what had possessed him to include his family name, but it came from his lips, unbidden in that form. The man nodded, sitting on the top of a desk across the row from Ambrose’s.
“And you can call me Sabin. I doubt I’ll be your teacher ever again, so the formality is hardly required. …Not that I was exactly your teacher this class, anyway.” He crossed his arms, and Ambrose saw a glimpse of old burn marks at Sabin’s wrists before they folded together at his chest.
“I’m sorry. I… didn’t get much sleep last night.” It felt strange to be apologizing as if this was a regular teacher berating him for a nap, and after all these ordinary questions, he almost wondered if he’d imagined the entire changing. Until Sabin’s next question, that is, when he suddenly felt gripped by an invisible hand.
“Didn’t get much sleep? Was it a full moon?” Sabin asked, his smile infused with knowledge.
Ambrose hardly breathed. “What?”
“Full moon- I’m assuming by the aversion to silver and the… dog collar, I suppose it could be called- that you’re a werewolf. And by the dream as well, although I admit I don’t quite understand that entirely.”
The dream- Ambrose hadn’t thought of it, since his awakening had been so sharp and forced. He could still remember it; although pieces were starting to float away into the abyss of his memory- what was it that Angelina had been wearing? He didn’t have the time to commit to its cementation, and he abandoned the thought- whatever it meant, the dream would have to fall away to the more important matter of this man- and that he’d discovered his secret. He didn’t bother asking him how he knew about werewolves- Sabin Duvert was obviously no ordinary man, and came from a world of magic, like him. Or was it? Perhaps he was something evil, and had been sent to hurt him, or keep him from knowing how to reverse his condition. The female wolf in the park- maybe he’d already come too close to finding the answer, and this Sabin was a demon who was going to kill him.
The long silence caused Sabin to laugh- he could only guess what was running through the boy’s mind.
“If you have something to say, you can say it, you know. There’s no one around to hear.”
It was true, in fact. By this time, the buses would have already pulled away from the school, and being a Monday, only academic clubs met in the afternoon, and very few operated on the first floor- so the entire school would be mostly abandoned, Ambrose knew. It hadn’t been what was keeping him from speaking, but somehow, receiving the permission of this imposing man was enough to cause his lips to move again.
“What are you?”
“Such a good way to begin,” Sabin said, meaning it as high praise. His methodical, curious mind had been searching for answers and making connections for decades, and he saw an intelligence in the root of Ambrose’s questioning that he approved of.
“I’m much like you,” he started, “a half-breed who was, in his youth, solely a man. I was coerced into a vulnerable position by a creature called an Anju, and it tried to destroy and overcome me- but in the process, we became irrevocably linked. An Anju is a living nightmare- a manifestation of fear, and to gain access to the mortal realm,” Sabin motioned with his arms to indicate their surroundings, “he needed my body. But when we became tied, neither could survive without the other- and we became one. I’ve existed in this form for many, many years.”
Ambrose was silent for a moment, but words came, again as if unbidden, to his lips.
“Don’t worry- I won’t tell anyone what you are…Sabin.”
This caused Sabin to laugh uproariously, and Ambrose wondered what he’d said that was so funny.
“Thank you, Ambrose. That’s very noble of you. But I don’t think I’m quite as concerned as you…with others knowing what I am. I certainly don’t seek others out to reveal myself, but to be honest; it’s been a long time since I’ve tried to deny what it is that makes me whole.” He said the last word with a longing tone, as if the sound of it was a caress to his ear, and it was accompanied with a faint smile.
“But what
if it isn’t who you are? Didn’t you ever
try to change back?”
“It is what I am,
Ambrose. And yes, there was a time that
I thought the process was reversible- and by ‘I’, I mean what used to be known
as we- the Anju tried to find ways to finish what he’d started- destroy what was
left of my human soul so as to occupy my body alone and uncontrolled. But this is who we are, what I am. You can’t extricate the parts about yourself
that you don’t like, and hope to remain whole.” There was that word again, said
with almost a loving conviction.
Ambrose shook his head, desperate that Sabin understand; it was as if he were a representative of the magical world, and could grant him some sort of reprieve from this affliction. “But this isn’t what I am. I’ve been changed, and I know about the werewolf that did this to me.” And, without thinking, he became a stream of information- telling Sabin about the initial attack, and then about finding her scent, chasing her through the woods, and finally about what she’d told him.
“I don’t know what she wants- but she can help me. She has to.” He added, almost to himself. He didn’t know how to vocalize it to Sabin, who seemed to have accepted his existence as paranormal. Ambrose didn’t think he could continue to exist as such as supernatural in a world so devoid of magic. He was so out of place, and it ached that he didn’t understand why it had happened to him. At least Sabin knew the reason for the Anju’s attack, and what it sought. Ambrose didn’t even know if his transformation had any purpose, or if it had just been some meaningless attack.
Sabin had sat, listening to the troubled teen spill out what he saw as the greatest breakthrough in his quest to become normal again, and was quiet through the tale’s entirety. Even after Ambrose fell silent to muse on his magical fate, Sabin remained still. He was not unfamiliar with werewolves, being a lifelong study of magical people and beasts- and based on what the boy had told him, this female wolf was indeed the propagator of his lycanthropy. In fact, he knew better than Ambrose could have ever guessed what the female wolf would want from this new werewolf- and he thought back to the slight girl that had left him at the door of the classroom- the brown haired, sharp-eyed thing that had been so gentle, touching his face and looking at him with love. Animal instincts were hard to overcome, Sabin knew- and he didn’t know if Ambrose would be able to hold out… and not break whatever special connection he had with that girl. But it was sure to happen, he thought, if he succumbed to his creator’s animal need to procreate. He debated a warning, but knew as soon as sure as he caught sight of that overwhelmed look in Ambrose’s eye… that some things were fated to happen, and he had no desire to further wrack at the poor boy’s peace by warning him what ordeals he would doubtless face. If he was meant to, and he was strong enough, perhaps he’d be able to fend off her advances- and come to terms with what he had become.
“I will tell you this, Ambrose,” he finally said, selecting his words carefully, “some things are predestined- life is too interconnected for them not to be.” He thought back on the dream, practically the nightmare, which plagued Ambrose- it had been too strong, too poignant not to be either prophetic…or reminiscent of what had been. “Whatever is happening to you now has happened before, and it will happen again. It’s as true as it is cryptic- and you’ll find that there are even more puzzling things for you to accept- if you get to speak with this female again, the one who changed you- born werewolves speak in a cryptic tongue.” He sighed, not knowing what he could tell the boy to give him comfort. “Just know,” he finished, looking him square in the eyes, “that there’s something special meant for you. You’ll find what you seek.” With that, he stood, and clapped the boy on the shoulder. He wished there was more that he could say to him- but Ambrose was obviously so early in his journey that he would have to find his way himself- and with the help of those who were meant to be a part of his life. Sabin was glad to have met him, and felt that there was a certain prophetic quality to their encounter- but that dream, which suggested a looping, eternal existence of this boy’s soul, tied in with that of the undying, cursed wolf spirit, told him that he was only meant to cross the paths of this destiny, but not become a part of it. He would have liked to see what happened with Ambrose, the boy werewolf who reminded him so much of his own struggle- but it wasn’t meant to be. He could only hope that this juncture in their paths had given the boy some direction, and some hope.
“Goodbye, Ambrose. And good luck.” With that, he rolled down his sleeves, picked up his gloves- and with those few words, Sabin Duvert walked out of Ambrose Maurlias’s life.
The passing of this man, though he’d only met him for what seemed like an instant, hung heavy in Ambrose’s mind. He would find his answers, as Sabin had said- the words seemed to be permission, even encouragement that he was meant to return to the female wolf and discover what he was. That night- he would go that night, and get the answers that his heart and mind yearned for, each more persistent than the other.
He rose from his seat, stretching his muscles- and before he walked out of the room, took a last look up at the board, where the word Duvert still was written, scratched out in chalk. And somehow, in that instant, and without knowing why he was so sure of its truth- he knew that he would never meet Sabin Duvert again.