??A Howl In The Night??
?She’s mine?
?From Novel r0m@n�
?Chapter 32?
? Something Smells Fishy ?
I stare at the b©dy beside me, wondering what on earth I should do.
The red-haired man looks like a gangly puppet; bent, broken, and lifeless. His breathing has almost st©pped entirely, and his face is a strange shade of purple. How do you revive a dead person? Should I just leave him and try to escape?
For some reason, I can’t cast him aside. I creep closer, looking at his bloodied head and b©dy. It seems like his head hit the side of this well pretty ha-rd . At least I think we fell in the well.
He looks familiar to me, just like the other strange werewolves I saw since I landed in this strange place. There is something about him that I just can’t place.
I raise my hand to his shoulders and head, twisting his b©dy so that he is lying on my bruised legs. Carefully examining his face and hair, I notice a gigantic g@sh stretching across the back of his skull. It doesn’t seem to be healing like a normal werewolf wound would. In fact, none of my bruises or cuts seem to be healing either.
I tear my long-sleeved shi-t and press it against his g@sh, ti-ghtly binding it as much as I can. His breathing slowly becomes more regular and steady, and a strange emotion lifts my spirits. He is alive. I don’t have a dead person on my hands.
The rest of his b©dy is bruised and his knee is turning at an awkward angle. I slowly try to raise his p@n-ts above his knee, being careful not to be too rou-gh with his clothing. A g@sp escapes me as black and blue dances from his ankle to his knee, at which point the knee doesn’t even look like one anymore. It’s an explosion of color—which I as-sume is probably not a good thing.
I let my f!nger skim across the t©p of the bruises, which probably wasn’t a good decision judging from the whimpers and yelps escaping the man’s dry and crustedl-ips. His voice is hoarse and strained, so I lean over to the pool of water in the corner and scoop some into my hands. “Open your mouth,” I whisper to him, hoping he will un-derstand.
It takes a few seconds, but slowly he obliges me, though wincing in the process. I let some of the water drop into his mouth, and he swallows it greedily.
The well is close to empty, but still meager puddles of liquid are scattered around our prison. I wonder what has happened in this world, because this is the very first time I have even seen water since our arrival. Although if my visions are correct…
“Mona?” A tiny whisper escapes the red-haired man’s mouth, and his arm slowly lifts up in a somehow angelic gesture. “Where… where are you?”
I nearly jump all the way across the well at his words, the chills suddenly creeping up and down my back. Every hair stands on edge as I grow scared to hold him, but scared to let him go. His eyes have been closed ever since I first met him, so there is no way he could know my name.
Or… is there?
Out of impulse and a bitter frustration, I lean towards the beautiful stranger’s ear. “She’s dead,” I whisper in a b!tt!g tone, the words embr@cing his ear in a sickening ca-ress. “You will never see that weakling of a creature ever again.” The most horrible thing about my words is that I don’t believe them with every portion of my being. There is some p@rt of me that refuses to accept that these people I keep encountering aren’t worth any of my time.
He shakes a little bit, still leaning against my b©dy. I draw back in alarm as his arm brushes against my own. “I… don’t believe that. Because she is right here.” At first I don’t hear him at all, because his voice is so low. But his de-ep tones are so intoxicating that he pu-lls me in, forcing me closer and closer until I am caught in his sticky web.
“How would you know that?” I ask nervously, unable to turn my face away from his. His eyelids start to flutter and in shock I nearly hit his face with the back of my hand.
To my dismay, his eyes fly open and they sweep over my face and our surroundings. His gaze is powerful and authoritative, yet I s-en-se a vulnerability about him that is somewhat endearing.
“You’re funny, Mona.” He smiles tentatively, probably straining inside with the motion. “Nice joke.” His acknowledgment makes me feel empty and heartless inside. He seems to have so many false expectations of me, expectations that I simply cannot fulfill.
“It… isn’t a joke,” I respond dubiously, suspicious of even myself. His smile disappears instantly, and his eyes r0ûghly close, like a child that has just been told that Santa Claus isn’t real.
I check the bindings around his head to make sure they are ti-ght and putting pressure on his wound. Moving to shift his weight so that he is leaning against the wall, I notice the red dancing around my own arm. The bruises and blood covering my elbow are almost as bad as Griffin’s knee. I guess before I never noticed the pain when I used my left hand because the strange red-haired man consumed all of my thoughts.
“Where is this place?” He asks while trying to push himself farther up against the wall.
“It must be hell,” I comment softly to myself while examining my arm, “otherwise both of our injuries would be healed by now. It’s been a good fifteen minutes since we landed in here. I think.” As expected, he hears me and once again his eyes fly open.
“Surely you are kidding.” His b©dy shakes slightly.
“No. Well, yes. p@rtly.” I lean against the side of the well and sigh. “It doesn’t make too much of a difference where we are anyways.”
Silence stretches between us as he thinks about who-knows-what. His hands keep curling and uncurling before his eyes, and tou-ching the water at his side. I take this minute to examine him, trying to figure out how I know his name. Griffin is handsome, almost annoyingly so, with fiery hair and dark brown eyes. The endless chocolate pools morph into a beady black as his brow furrows in concentration.
I watch in fascination as his right hand grows fur and claws, the wrist and arm rippling with new muscle. And then, just as easily, the transformation reverses and he is back to normal. “I never imagined hell to be like this… that I would be pushed into a well with you for all eternity so we can die again and again,” He mumbles, “I always thought I was at least a decent person… this must be my punishment for leaving you when you were a child. I guess it’s too late now-”
“No,” I correct him, the hint of a smile at myl-ips, “I’m pretty sure we aren’t dead. This isn’t really the result of a punishment, but a traffic collision.”
“But… you said it was hell!”
“I’m pretty sure this is the world I have been seeing in my visions for quite a while now. Months, actually.”
“What in the name of…” He ru-bs his head in frustration, “the last thing I remember was Xavier and the others busting in and crashing the Sharuken ritual.”
There it is again. I must be surrounded by lunatics.
“I have no idea what you are talking about. There was no Sharuken ritual. You and those other werewolves are creeping me out,” I sharply correct him, using bitterness to mask my confusion. It seems like I am the only one without these crucial memories, and I’m not sure I want to know why that is.
His frustration increases, and he ru-bs his head on his knees. The bandage all but falls off, and I crawl over to him to fix it. “Mona, I don’t mean to be impolite…” he asks softly as I concentrate on tying the knot, “but did that old hag re-move the mating mark on your stomach as well?”
“I don’t have a mating mark on my stomach. Never had one,” I scoff, ignoring the throbbing in my elbow. I ba-rely notice he is moving until he catches my elbow and holds it ti-ghtly.
“Don’t strain yourself,” he whispers, “neither your b©dy or your mind. The hag’s ritual was probably not completed when… uh… all this happened. Your remaining memories will come back to you and your injuries will heal, all with time.” I shake my arm away, but then hold it with my other arm.
“I don’t remember anything about how I got us here,” I begin with confusion, “but I know all of my visions of this place are exactly what I have been seeing since we arrived. The grey death that covers this place like a heavy fog is so distinct I would recognize it anywhere. I know for a fact that no humans live here, and that this place isn’t on earth.”
Griffin says nothing, just staring at me as if he is trying to decipher a puzzle.
“I saw a Shifter here just lying against a tree, with no cares in the world. Without the red eyes!” I exclaim, and he nearly falls onto the we-t floor.
“I’ve been smelling them too,” he chokes, “everywhere I turn. This really must be hell, otherwise we wouldn’t have landed in a Shifter’s nest.”
“That’s it!” I grimly smile with exhaustion, “that’s what this place is. A spirit world of some sort, the world of the Shifters. We’ve only seen them in our home, and now we get to see them in their natural habitat.”
Griffin looks exhausted now, his br@in probably overwhelmed from all the information it has received. He stares at me for a few seconds, and then he slumps against the side again. This time, he stays there for quite a while. It takes me a minute to realize he has fallen asleep.
I look around the well, and then give up on thinking. I must be going crazy, otherwise I wouldn’t entertain such ludicrous thoughts. A Shifter habitat?
Might as well get some sleep myself and let this craziness leave my head.
* * *
For the first time, there is rain.
It pounds on the stone walls, swirling around the spires and turrets. It care-sses the clear windows, dripping off each stone like blood. It must be God’s wrath, come to us in the form of liquid terror… a symbol of worse things to come.
He turns away, distraught from the never-ending sight of rivers pouring from above, washing the land with change. Never before has he experienced such fear, shaking throu-gh his soul with an overwhelming intensity. The old is being t©ppled, the regime coming to an end. But it is difficult for him to grasp—the “end”.
End only exists in the relation to the beginning, omega to the alpha, and there is no beginning here. There is only the “is”, the simple state of being that stretches farther than the eye can see. No one knows when it started; it just was—was, and is, and always will be.
The continuous roar of the darkening clouds as it hastens to take the land beats upon him until he can take it no more. The tsunami of fate is gathering, preparing a tidal wave that will deliver the final b!ow, wreaking eternal havoc in the process. It is impossible to accept that the is could become the was, that the continuum could be disrupted.
At the very least, he cannot sit and watch as the destruction envelops this world. He tries to remember that he isn’t powerless. He can control the destruction, wield it to his liking. This isn’t something that is impossible to avoid.
If only they could find them. For this… this would make all the difference.
The last grains of sand trickle down the glas-s walls and tumble towards certain death.
* * *
The first thing I hear is a horrific scream, cutting throu-gh the air and fog with an intensity that swallows the silence, only leaving the nameless dre-ad in my heart.
“Mona!” Someone is by my side, shaking my shoulders. My hands shake, nails digging into my attacker’s b©dy. A de-ep, strangled noise brings me to full consciousness, and my eyes fly open.
“Griffin?” As the figure before me comes into focus, I remember my circu-mtances and re-lease my grip. A strange wheezing noise follows, and the red-head clutches his throat. “What happened?” I ask, alarmed. He doesn’t answer immediately, still g@sping a little bit before removing his hands from his n£¢k.
“Well, all I know is that one minute I am asleep, the next you are screaming your head off and trying to strangle me,” He mutters, shaking his hands. “I will say, you have a pretty good grip.”
“I’m sorry.” I stare at him, then at my own hands. “I don’t know what c@m£ over me.” So, that was my scream.
“Well, good thing you got out of it before you killed me,” Griffin laughs, a dry, hoarse sound that shocks me. He notices as well, and gathers some water in his hand. As the liquid trickles into his mouth, I start to recall the vivid pictures that had been dancing throu-ghout my head.
“I had a very vivid dream,” I start talking, mainly to myself. “But even though it was so crystal clear at the time, now I can ha-rd ly make s-en-se of anything. I think it had to do with where we are, and what we are supposed to do now that we are here.” I twist in my position. “I think it had something to do with rain.”
There is silence for a while, Griffin scru-bbing his shoe and I raking throu-gh fractured memories.
“I wish I had dreams like that,” he finally says, “I only dream about sheep and bunny rabbits and flowers. Or nothing at all.” Griffin tilts his head towards the sky, and I do the same. The sky is near impossible to see with the fog lying just above the well, but there is a strange beauty in it—watching the mist swirl around the round opening, as if performing a dance just for us.
“I wonder if they will ever find us,” I murmur abs£ntly while counting the bricks lining the t©p of the well.
Griffin turns his head to stare at me. “They?” He probes, and I look back at him.
“Yeah, you know… Yi, Danae, Xavier… I was escaping from them when I bu-mped into you,” I explain, “I wonder if they would even look.” The mist seems to intensify as I speak, almost opaque in appearance. I doubt anyone would be able to sp©t the well from here, and we can’t make any signals because we are about twenty-five feet from the surface.
“Why in the world would you try to escape?” He asks in alarm. Instantly my mind flashes to past events, and I mentally sl@p myself in the face. It wasn’t very strategic to flee from them, now that I look back in hindsight; I think what most propelled me to do so in the first place was Xavier and the discomfort his pres£nce made me feel.
“I’m not sure,” I avoid Griffin’s piercing gaze, “I think the most important reason why is because I like it better when I am alone.”
I try to ignore the trembles that are erupting de-ep within my heart.
“Mona,” He says softly, “Xavier will always come and look for you. I mean, he broke into Headquarters like a mad man to st©p the ritual.” Frustration sizzles between us, reverberating around the well.
“What the cra-p is the Sharuken ritual?!” I bark, tired once and for all of hearing this nons-en-se. “Why am I the one being left out here?” I ba-rely notice the tear budding at the corner of my eye until it runs down my face. Scolding myself for acting like an emotional idiot, I lie back against the wall again and close my eyes. Crying over such a matter is silly. Crying over anything is silly.
“It’s… nothing, Mona. Nothing you should worry about,” Griffin answers, his eyes shifting upwards again.
“No, Griffin.” I turn and place my hand on his shoulder. “I nee-d to know, so I may un-derstand.” My hand shakes as I realize my immediate familiarity with this man, and the easiness with which I t©uçhed him. This behavior cannot be explained or excused unless I can have this last piece of the puzzle.
I re-move my hand as he sits and stares, probably trying to figure out how to phrase his next words. The cold of the endless night wra-ps around my form, chilling me to the bone.
“I will,” he finally agrees, “but you have to tell me something else first.” Hesitantly he inches over until his shoulder almost t©uçhes mine. I can feel his clos£ness all too well, and the shivers begin again. He notices, and reaches over to cover my hand with his own. The warmth pulsates from his skin into mine, and everything, if only for a second, just feels right.
“Tell me everything.” His intoxicating whisper dances into my ears, disarming my s-en-ses. “Tell me all that has happened to you since I left you at that horrible orphanage.”
It is with these words that the past comes to life, scorching my consciousness with burning br@nds. The dark room. The loneliness. The arrogance.
The hopelessness.
“W-why?” I choke, swallowing de-eply. My throat scratches, burning with thirst.
“Because just as much as you do… I want to un-derstand.”
And just like that, I begin the story. I start, and then the story takes hold of both me and my words. It twists and weaves, pu-lling out phrases like notes in a single melody. The melody is larger than me, larger than life, stretching over countless minutes and hours. Hours, minutes… who dares to try and measure at times like this? Time is of no substance here, for the emotions and feelings should not be restrained by such a factor.
There is a moment when the heart is raw, scru-bbe-d ba-re of the layers that restrict it. It could last a second, it could last an eternity. And in that moment, whether you will it or not, anyone and everyone is able to view your innermost soul in all its innocence. There is no defense. The slightest movement can knock you to your knees, deal the final, crushing b!ow.
A single droplet lands on my forehead, dripping down my face and knocking me out of my stupor.
Wordlessly I lift a single f!nger to t©uçh the water, and then bring it back to eye level.
“Mona, what is it?” A dark voice shocks me, and I jump nearly ten feet out of my skin. Griffin. I had forgotten that he was here with me.
“Oh! Oh, nothing. It’s just—did you feel that?” I feel the walls building just as quic-kly as they fell; the shaking starts, the jumping nerves. How could I ever let myself crumble so easily?
“Feel what?” He looks at me, and then at the sky. His eyes are dark, scarily so, with his face clouded in some sort of depression. “I think there may be a small rain shower coming our way.”
It hurts.
“No, no,” I mutter, “well, yes. Rain. But that isn’t what I’m talking about.”
It pounds at my head, my sanity.
“Mona, plea-se just tell me.”
“It’s the… the voices! Don’t tell me you don’t hear them.” I try to close my ears, but it bur-sts throu-gh anyways, scaring me with its ferocity. “It is so loud.”
“It’s just us in here,” Griffin tries to soothe me, “there are no voices besides yours and mine.”
My eyesight blurs, but I can vaguely make out spheres of light bouncing around the well. They seem to be the source of the noise. Even more bizarre, the crushing noise I hear is of my own voice—spinning my story, my web of secrets—echoed back to me in the most chilling way possible.
He catches me as I coll@pse, my mind overwhelmed by the voices. “Mona, hang in there,” he tries to comfort me. The voices only grow louder in intensity.
“I knew it,” he mutters, “This is all my fault. I nee-d to get her out of here, get here some food.” I can ba-rely hear him, but at the words my stomach clenches in pain. My throat yearns for liquid.
I can hear Griffin’s shouts, though distant, ringing around the area. The droplets of water multi-ply, but I can ba-rely feel them running down my skin, soaking my hair. It is really raining now—raining bullets of burning fire that are doubling by the second. The cold grows worse, but also numbing, slightly alleviating the ceaseless murmurs.
I gather the strength to look up, my eyes cleared up slightly. There they are again, the spheres of light ba-rely larger than a dime but spellbinding in its brightness. The roar of the storm seems to add to my sanity, though the very fact that I am seeing such things takes away from it. When will things ever be normal? If Fate has determined to kill me, let it happen now so that all this can just be over. Nothing has been resolved, and Griffin has not fulfilled his side of the bargain, but nothing would make me happier than to have some shred of stability. Even if that stability is death.
And then the impossible happens.
“Griffin! It’s… it’s a Shifter! Right above our heads!” I scream, clutching at his arm. Although later the scream almost seems unwarranted, with the way it just peers over the edge of the well, silent and unmoving. Its beady eyes pulsate a dying red, devoid of ferocity or strength.
“I s-en-se it,” Griffin says in a low, throaty whisper. I do not look at him, scared to break my contact with the Shifter above. The Shifter has the power to kill us both, for we are tra-pped like goldfish in a bowl.
The wind b!ows more and fiercely, the rain falling almost to the point where one drop is imperceptible from the other, a continuous stream of water pouring from above. It soaks our clothing, our bodies, and the bo-ttomof the well to the point where it feels like we will never be dry again.
My hand curls around an arrow, silver and with a point so sharp that it could split a hair. The accompanying bow starts to materialize by my side, slowed by the chills echoing in my b©dy. It takes me a moment to remember that my left arm is broken, so that I would not be able to shoot the arrow anyways. I wonder if I would even have the strength, for in addition to my physical weakness, something in my heart keeps protesting at the use of such weapons. Something keeps telling me this isn’t the answer.
It continues to stare at me, but something about its red eyes does not seem as threatening as it should. The feeling reminds me of when I encountered a Shifter resting against a tree not very long ago. It looks almost helpless, almost like the victim, especially when its eyes are not burning with hate.
I watch in wonder as the small spheres of light start to rise, the voices growing louder but even still being drowned out by the rain. It is magical, the way it proceeds towards the Shifter. It is impossible not to wonder what the spheres are, and what the Shifter plans to do with it.
It is difficult to see, with the rain sl@pping my face, but I see the spheres hover before the Shifter. The Shifter shifts its attention to the spheres, and when its eyes move the spheres instantly move as well, as if gravitated to its gaze. Bewilderment is the only emotion crossing my mind as the spheres simply disappear, as if entering the Shifter throu-gh its eyes.
“Mona, are you okay?” Griffin asks with worry. “What are you staring at? What is it doing?”
I don’t answer him for a minute, ru-bbing my eyes to smear away the rainwater. When I look back up, its just the Shifter again. It is staring straight at me.
The eyes now are brighter, but not bright with the emotions I am so familiar with. They seem filled with sorrow and pain, the same feelings that the voices were expressing. Did… the Shifter just swallow my voice and feelings?
I wonder if this is a manifestation of my own insanity or the fact that I am seeing with more clarity than ever before.
“Look at the bo-ttomof the well. If this rain doesn’t st©p soon, we might be…” Griffin’s words snap me out of contact with the Shifter and I instantly realize the source of his worries.
“What are we going to do?” The water is at our knees, and quic-kly rising. It starts to swallow the bo-ttomof our thin jackets, and I snap to my feet in response. The chills are even greater, swallowing me entirely.
Griffin stands up as well, his arms shaking almost as much as mine. I can see his knee about to give out, so I run over to support him. We are inches away, but his pres£nce does not comfort me as much as it probably should.
“I will try to use one of my Spiers,” I offer, a dagger starting to appear in my scratched hands. “We can use it to get out of here.”
“Mona, the only person able to see your Spier is you,” Griffin replies, “I wouldn’t be able to use it. I think it doesn’t work on physical objects anyway.”
I mentally sl@p myself in the face as my hand reaches with the dagger to try and stab the walls. Of course, it doesn’t work, my hand ban-ging into the smooth bricks instead. “If only there was something to gr-ab onto,” I mutter, scanning the sides again and again for a ledge of some sort. For anything.
But of course, with our luck, we are being held prison in a very well-made well.
“Mona, I just want to tell you that I am sorry,” He looks me right in the eye, his face bent with darkness and remorse.
“And I don’t accept your apology,” I reply abs£ntly, scanning the floor and the ra-pidly rising water. I spare a glance to the t©p of the well, where surprisingly the Shifter has disappeared, leaving us to die in its wake. I mean, it’s not like I expected it to save us, but at the same the fact that it just left without doing anything at all leaves me feeling rather empty inside. At least it could have tried to attack us, because then there would be something. Something besides this.
“You should. It would make me feel a lot better about our imminent deaths,” Griffin mutters, to my amusement.
“Who said we were going to die?” I laugh throu-gh the cold. “You shouldn’t be sorry, for none of this is your fault.”
“But it is.” He ru-bs his head in dismay. “From what you have just told me… if only I had realized before now…”
“Realized what?” I ask with concern. He looks really stressed out, and his attitude is bringing me back to reality as well. There isn’t going to be a prince with his white horse who is going to magically save us. This will really be our last words.
“I never knew that-” A thun-dercl@p erupts in the night, stinging our ears with its ferocity. We st©p and look at each other, instantly alarmed.
“Lightning,” I murmur breathlessly. Instantly a bright light floods our vision for less than a millisecond, as if to echo my observation. The water is up to our w@!sts, and rising higher. It feels like I am in a swimming pool, with the walls so high that I cannot escape it. And this storm is only going to get worse.
“Griffin,” I take his arm, “we must die laughing. So tell me a joke.” I throw aside my lack of memories and questioning of our relationsh!p.
Death experience? I laugh inwardly. It should be called the bonding experience. I feel like I’ve known Griffin now for an entire lifetime.
“What?” He seems confused, so I punch his shoulder in joviality.
“Tell me a joke! I want to hear one!” I urge him.
“But I’m the worst joke teller in this universe.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I am. So you go first.”
“Well, what happens if a wolf falls in the washing machine?”
“Uh, I have no clue.”
“He becomes a wash and werewolf.” He then makes a BA-DUM-CHA sound with his mouth and breaks out into a wi-de smile. He must know he made the worst joke ever known to mankind, otherwise he wouldn’t be so proud.
Even though it’s stupid, I find myself laughing anyway. Laughing until the tears fall, falling like the rainwater washing my face and arms. Crying until it is impossible to st©p, impossible to forget about what’s in sto-re for us.
Griffin’s soaking hands surround my b©dy—while choking up with either tears or laughter himself—although he’d probably admit to neither. Laughing or crying, to me there is no difference at all. They both result from that small p@rt of your heart that produces the de-epest of your emotions, that makes you human and separates you from the animals. There is such magnificence and attra-ction in the manifestation of those feelings, but vulnerability accompanies its fragile beauty.
I embr@ce the beauty, reveling in it as the tears turn into diamonds before our eyes, rich with despair and utter hopelessness. As the diamonds splash into our own personal death capsule, it seems to make everything seem even more bleak, yet even more beautiful. I don’t un-derstand why, or even how.
The water is up to our w@!sts, and the real panic intensifies to a whole new level. I am constantly shifting between giggling and bawling in a crazy way that probably shouldn’t ever be tried at home.
“Griffin, I hope you know how to swim,” I whisper genially, trying to ru-b my hand up and down his arm to generate warmth. Nothing happens, unfortunately.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “I don’t know if I can with this leg. It’s killing me.”
“It… it was a joke, Griffin. Well, it would be good if you could, but-”
“Luckily for you two, I can,” A de-ep, commanding voice erupts from above, shocking us out of our weird embr@ce. It takes me a second to gather myself, and then with a stony expression, I finally look up.
No. Freaking. Way.
T B C