Chapter Three

Tricks of Memory

Choosing the Course

Hope's knees quivered. She gripped the counter to stay on her feet as she connected the information on the newscast to the woman she'd seen being attacked in the alley. The woman had been found dead. More terrible than dead, she'd been torn apart by animals. It was unclear yet how, or by what. Shit. Dental records had been necessary to confirm her identity. Torn apart by animals.

She'd pretty well convinced herself that she had imagined most of the attack. She almost believed it had been a couple of teenage hoodlums trying to mug her just as the police suggested. Not that she'd told them, or anyone, her interpretation of the night's events. Her conclusions were entirely too strange.

But now? The woman had been covered in bite and claw marks, as if by vicious animals. Her name was Sarah Collins. She was twenty-two years old.

Just what had she really seen that night? Why couldn't she get the police to understand that the men and dogs she had seen were connected? She sucked in her breath and tried to regain control of her pounding heart as her grandmother walked into the kitchen.

"Hope, my dear, did I hear something break?" Granny's eyesight wasn't the best anymore, but she saw the shattered bowl at Hope's feet easily enough. "Goodness! What happened?"

Hope stared down blankly at the scattered shards. When did she drop the dish? She only saw the young woman's happy face pictured before her eyes. She looked back at the TV. They were still telling about where her body had been found and cautioning others to watch out for dangerous animals.

Granny must have looked at the screen too. "Oh my! The poor girl didn't have a chance. I just can't imagine what would take a soul so far from the path." She shook her gray-haired head sadly, probably thinking the woman had been a lost hiker.

"I—" How could she tell Granny that this was the girl she had seen attacked? She couldn't. It would only worry her grandmother. She wished she could talk this out with someone. Maybe putting her fears into words would show how unlikely they were. But she couldn't talk to Granny. And not Steve. He already thought she'd fallen off the deep end. She wasn't close to anyone else. Hope bent with a towel and began wiping up the broken pieces.

Granny bent her light frame, kneeling to help Hope. "Are you all right, dear? I've been worried about you. You just haven't been yourself since you were hurt."

That was an understatement. Except, to which "hurt" was she referring? The first time that had put Hope in physical and mental therapy for six years? Or this recent one that would likely send her back? No, she wouldn't worry Granny about this.

It would pass, like all terrible fears do. Wouldn't it?

* * *

The wind blew through the trees as Athair led Dàn and Rath toward the territory of the Bear Clan. As they loped over long miles, Athair thought about the two young men with him.

Long ago, before they had fled Ireland, the oracle gave one truth about each of the boys as was the custom with newborns. According to that ancient one Dàn would hold the future within his grasp, and Rath would find his destiny as the sword of fate.

The prophecy for Dàn was easy to understand, for he was a true seer. In other times, with a chance to learn from oracles, a shaman and other seers, he would have strong sight, perhaps without known limits. Athair chose him to travel to the Bear Clan in the hopes their seer would agree to teach and guide him.

It would take little to make him formidable in his talent. Already he used his skills unconsciously and was usually one step ahead of everyone else. When Athair went to tell him of the decision, Dàn was in the middle of preparing his travel pack. He had known he would be chosen.

Rath's truth held more mystery. It possibly was general and meant that he would fight for what was right. Or it could mean that Rath would be Dàn's defender? If so, then he was already fulfilling it.

Both boys were dedicated and serious and lacked the youth they should have enjoyed. Of course, they had their young bodies, but they were controlled by the calm minds of elders. Neither had been given the chance to act young and carefree. After the massacre, Acair had taken these two to hunt as they were the only ones old enough to control their wolf forms. From then on, they had shouldered responsibility like adults and missed out on what should have been their childhood.

As dusk was gathering, Athair turned to look to the young men behind him. "Return to yourselves", he thought to them. A shimmer of power and mist flowed over them, and all three of them shifted to human form. "We draw near the edge of our territory. Tomorrow we will need to announce ourselves. We should hunt here, and then find a place to rest for the night."

Neither boy answered him but shimmered into wolf form again. As he did often, Athair was grateful for the power of their magic which allowed them to shift any items they carried with them. Each had brought a small pack, which included changes of clothes and other small necessities. When they shifted forms, the items were bound to them. A simple spell learned early kept human objects from interfering with a wolf's movement.

Athair watched as the two wolves moved out together to flush game. Rath was strong, heavily muscled and dark gray. A nearly black wolf. Dàn was lean, fast, and white. They worked well together and quickly, cleanly catching two rabbits, enough to satisfy their hunger. Because they did not wish to show themselves just yet, they devoured their dinner without a fire or cooking it in the human way.

Athair chose not to hunt. He anxiously studied the area looking for any wolf or human sign. They had crossed the last road many miles back. By avoiding the settled areas, they had made it this far without any contact with humans.

Clans did not live near each other because they tended to fight one or both clans into extinction if territory lines came into dispute. Athair had led Rath and Dàn for nearly three weeks now, and it was likely they would soon be met with less than open arms. Still, anything besides open violence would be considered a good sign.

* * *

Hope wondered if what she remembered had really happened that night. She went over and over the event, first with the police after the body had been found, and then later by herself, replaying every detail, even the illogical ones.

She knew she had seen a dog-like animal go into the alley. She had seen several other animals in the alley, in addition to the men. They attacked the woman, and then one of them attacked Hope. Then an animal looked back at her from the alley after the attack.

All this was fact, but remembering details and specific impressions was not so easy. And her conclusions were impossible.

She had begun to think the animals were the men, which was completely crazy. She knew that couldn't be, and yet her conclusion felt right. Four animals. Four men. The one who had attacked her and those animal eyes, shining out from the darkness.

Werewolves.

She was so far gone around the bend that she had Steve take her to the library while he went grocery shopping, and she spent almost two hours researching local animal attacks. What she found was that a very high percentage of those killed were attractive young women, traits animals wouldn't notice. Just what was it that werewolves looked for in prey? Her nervous fears beat at her as she sat at the round table again, surrounded by a stack of books about fantasy animals. She found plenty of information about the mythological beasts, but none of it was reassuring.

Common legend said that werewolves were any mortal able to change into a wolf or a half-wolf. This ability was explained by the use of magic, a curse from the Greek god, Zeus, or a biological disease called Lycanthropy. The books went on to tell how werewolves were difficult to exterminate. They could be killed with silver arrows or bullets and could also be burned to death, decapitated, or drowned.

She also found a few supposedly historical accounts of villages in Europe that had been harassed by the monsters. In each of the two cases she read, a werewolf was caught and convicted of stealing and killing children. To Hope, these accounts seemed more like the lynching of pedophiles rather than proof of werewolves.

"Do werewolves exist?" Even at a whisper the question sounded insane.

As a teenager, she'd seen a shrink to help her with her issues. Did she still have the number? Maybe she should set some time aside for a visit. Wouldn't that be an interesting discussion?

No doubt the professional would see her questions about werewolves as more evidence of her repressed guilt. Who knows, perhaps he would be right.

* * *

Athair woke at dawn when Rath nudged his shoulder slightly with his nose. The three had slept in wolf form and were now surrounded by seven silent unmoving shadows. The shapes were of wolves. But by their unnatural stillness, he discerned that they were members of the Bear Clan, not true wolves. Athair had hoped that they would be able to greet the neighboring clan at the border on equal terms. However, the Bear Clan didn't seem to remember the territorial lines as being in the same place he did. If they expected a challenge, the situation could turn unpleasant very quickly.

Athair searched the shadows for a leader to address. He turned slowly to the largest of the shadows, which stood closest to them. As Athair focused his attention on it, the shadow defined itself into a golden-eyed, tawny wolf, which stepped forward aggressively. This new wolf had a strange scent to him. Athair shifted to the form of a man and stood with his arms relaxed, trying to appear unthreatening. Both Rath and Dàn remained wolves and bristled at his sides. He would have to talk to them later about diplomacy.

The golden-eyed one shimmered into a tall blond man who said bluntly, "I am Sundair. What are your intentions here?"

"We seek trade and friendship." Athair extended his perceptions, hoping to catch some of Sundair's emotions to help him know how to best approach him. Yet all he sensed was a subtle mixture of turmoil overlaying a fierce protectiveness.

"We need no more trade or friends."

One of the smaller wolves at his side shifted into a slender blond woman. She looked delicate next to the man. Laying a hand on Sundair's arm, she spoke quietly in another language. He answered her, and she turned to Athair with a slight smile. "We will take you back to our Alphas if you wish. Otherwise, you must turn back here."

"We would be pleased to meet your Alphas. I am Athair, son of Ankulf. And these are Rath, son of Rayvir, and Dàn, my chosen son. We are of the Eagle Clan." Rath and Dàn both shifted into human form.

The female's smile, though still tense, brightened somewhat. "I am Domari, sister to Sundair, son of Sandulfr, son of Sulf. We'll need to travel quickly and silently for the next few days. There are human hunters in these woods, among other dangers." After that brief explanation, she and her brother shifted to their wolf forms and started off toward the west at a ground-eating lope. Obviously, she was done with conversation and expected them to follow her, which they did. Athair, Rath and Dàn found themselves in the middle of a loose, fast-moving formation.

"Thank you, Athair."Dàn's silent words entered Athair's mind as they ran.

"You know my feelings for you."Athair didn't want Dàn to have any disadvantage among the Bear Clan. In elder times, the clans placed great importance on a man's lineage. "I did not wish you to lose face to any here." Often, posturing can be as important as strength. Parentage could be important to other clans in a way that had not existed for the Eagle Clan since the massacre.

"My lack of status will cost our clan. I didn't know. I am sorry."

"You have nothing for which to be sorry. No harm has been done. Your mother was good and honorable. Take pride in her. As for the rest, never feel shame over that which you have no control. "

Several miles flew past before Dàn answered back. "I wish I knew of my father."

"I would tell you if I could." Athair felt Dàn's bleak emotions, and they tore at him. If only he could offer him more. But Dàn yearned for knowledge that none left in the clan held.

"I know. I think my differences must come from him and I worry about who he might have been. Who I may yet become."

"As much or more than any other, I am proud to call you son. You alone control who you become, not your mother or your father. You have more strength in you than you know. If you wish to use a family kinship, you may use mine or your mother's. Many chose to honor their maternal line. No one would think that strange."

And with more luck than they had any right to hope for, maybe Dàn's father was a man from another clan and not someone different. Or something worse.

* * *

Hope sat at the kitchen table staring at the faded business card clutched in her hand. She had found the number of her psychiatrist yesterday. But should she call? How did one recognize the moment sanity slipped away? Was she crazy? Or simply crazier than usual?

More importantly… Was she going to turn into a werewolf?

The question sounded nuts, even to her. In the past, she had found ways to cope without becoming too delusional. Years of facing one day at a time had shown her that anything could be dealt with if it could be broken into small practical steps. But what was the first step when the world of fantasy suddenly merged with one's own life? The first step in this should be to determine what was real.

Of what facts was she sure? She was attacked on the night of a full moon. She did see canines run into the alley before the attack. The attack included several spooky things, like the men's and dogs' ability to move without making noise and those strange eyes that glowed like they belonged to a night predator. After the attack, she'd seen the dog or wolf again. The woman, Sarah, had been found dead and torn up.

Hope had read so much about werewolves and even watched some movies, that the information blurred together in her brain. None of it confirmed the existence of werewolves outside of fantasy. She still had no answers and had made no headway on her first step.

Still, that was the only conclusion that she could think of to explain all the facts.

Either werewolves were real, and she might be one, or they were fantasy, and she was a lunatic. At least she had found the phone number for her psychiatrist. But should she call now, or wait for Granny to catch her with a chew toy?

There were many conflicting sources, but most agreed on one point: If a werewolf bit a person but didn't kill them, he or she became a werewolf.

But what if the person bit the werewolf? Yuck.... Not a pleasant thought.

Not to mention that she had also been nipped and clawed, and the marks were slow to heal. She still didn't know what that meant, if anything, but she checked for fangs each time she brushed her teeth. And what about all that hair? Was there a hair remover on the market with that kind of performance ability? If so, she had a great idea for an advertisement.