A few miles north of Highway 105 just outside of Sour Lake sits a home on four acres of property. The home is a well-kept doublewide set back from the road. There are no other houses within view.
Behind the home is a metal building large enough to house a boat. The double doors are pulled to and are triple secured with varying types of locks and a keyed entry system.
A swing set sits in the unfenced yard to the back of the house. A child with platinum blonde locks, no older than the age of three, is currently climbing the wrong way up the slide as her mother supervises. The mother, who shares the same brilliant shade of hair, is barely twenty.
An older male, late 50s by the looks of him and sporting a thick five o’ clock shadow, sits on the back steps of the double wide, sipping a beer and overlooking the young woman and daughter. There is a smart phone clutched tightly in his other fist. On the screen is an online news article about the attack in Beaumont’s Riverfront Park the night before.
“Maizie!” he called out to the young woman. “We have a problem.”
She becomes momentarily distracted as her daughter comes down the slide and tumbles backwards into the grass. She’s unscathed but knows her mother will put up a fuss anyway, so she begins to cry. Maizie scoops the young girl into her arms, stroking her daughter’s platinum locks and cooing softly.
The sky was growing dark and the man was becoming impatient. Sliding the phone into a breast pocket behind a pack of cigarettes, he rose from his seat and gestured behind himself.
“Bring Darla inside. Now!”
—-
Walmart
September 17, 4:13 PM
This was the first time Raye had been in this Walmart without having to steal. Patrick wasn’t paying attention and neither were the employees — they hardly ever did — but she only pocketed things if she didn’t have a better option (which was often, admittedly). Since Patrick had brought her here to shop, she was happy to take advantage of it.
She was currently picking out some bras. Patrick was standing at the end of the aisle, facing away, surly arms folded across his chest. The image made her smile. He had taken a similar position a few moments earlier on the underwear aisle. What a gentleman.
Raye had already picked out several other items. Among the basket were several tops and pants; she chose primarily darker colors–black, navy, chocolate, hunter. She wasn’t a big pastel gal.
She had socks, a pair of sneakers, and toiletries. As soon as she was done choosing bras, she walked over to where Patrick stood; she gave him a once over before he could notice. He was well groomed with short brown hair and blue eyes, average of height and build. He was in “street clothes”, which was to say he wasn’t in uniform: he wore an ashen grey Astros t-shirt over loose blue jeans, and black Nike sneakers. He was her elder by quite a bit–she guessed early 40s.
“Finished?” he asked as soon as he realized Raye was standing next to him.
“Yep.”
Patrick took control of the cart and together they headed to check out.
—-
The swamp
September 18, 2:04 AM
An expansive swamp materialized around Raye. It was night; scores of insects and humidity choked the air around her. Somewhere nearby, an owl cried out and male alligators bellowed their courtship song. Cypress trees towered all about her, blotting out the moon and casting eerie fingers of darkness over the still, stagnant pools of water.
She woke a moment later, roused by the deafening chorus of the swamp’s inhabitants. She was on a strip of land yet untouched by water, though the ground below felt swoll and soft like an over saturated sponge.
Her senses were much keener than usual, but the most prominent among them was her sense of smell: she could detect and differentiate every animal within the past week, the thick stench of water, the scents of cypress and decaying moss. Every sound buzzed in her ears, as well; swarms of mosquitos sounded like a Boeing 747 landing next to her.
She rolled to her knees, and could make out the faint edges of the trees. The owl she’d heard earlier was quite close; within four yards at least. It acknowledged Raye cautiously with a swivel of its head.
Raye slowly edged over to the water. She could see her reflection clearly, and she was still in human form. She was confused but not at all frightened by the circumstances–the swamp was invigorating. Her muscles felt fuller and stronger than ever, her heart was hammering furiously in her chest. She wasn’t sure how she came to end up here, but it felt RIGHT to be here.
She was hit with the sudden desire to run until her body gave out, but wasn’t sure how she could accomplish such a task with so little land at her disposal. She could see that the water around her went on for miles, with the infrequent bit of land here and there, but she couldn’t determine how deep the water was without testing it first.
So she did just that. She rose to her feet, which she realized were bare. She looked down just in time to notice a sizeable wolf spider scurry across the exposed skin of her right foot before it disappeared into its burrow a few feet away. She also came to the realization that she was only wearing the pajamas she’d gone to sleep in.
She stepped out into the water, which was only ankle deep at first, but the earth was soft and she sank slightly. She trudged onward, the water presenting almost no resistance, and when she had gotten a few yards from where she was, the water was barely cresting her knees. She began to run.
The water was warm and the only opposition she felt moving through it was drag created by the thick fabric of her pajama bottoms. Otherwise, she was moving as easily as she could on land, and with that…she broke into a full extension, quadrupedal gallop. The sound of her legs crashing loudly into the dark water gave her a special sort of delight she couldn’t accurately describe; it just felt really, really exciting.
A raccoon on a nearby tree chittered angrily at her as she flew past. She lunged at it with a snarl, which only caused the raccoon to retreat further up the reaches of the giant cypress.
She noticed a log floating in front of her. Pumping her legs harder, she readied her body to leap over it. Just as she reached it, to her dismay, the log whipped around to face her, one end of it opening to reveal rows of arrow-head shaped teeth. The log — which morphed in front of her eyes into a rather large alligator — propelled itself toward her with its massive tail, jaws snapping like a spring trap inches from her face. Raye barely had time to dodge the massive animal, a startled scream simultaneously escaping her throat as she did so.
That’s when she woke up in the dark on the pull out couch in Patrick’s living room, dripping with sweat and panting.
—-
September 23, 6:00 PM
Patrick’s House
Much to Patrick’s relief, she had been getting along with few issues while staying with him.
Part of him had expected Raye to purloin a few of his items and flee. He didn’t have many items of value that she could actually carry without difficulty or rousing suspicion, but perceived value didn’t always dissaude those who were homeless. Most worryingly were the guns, which he kept in a locked safe in his closet.
Raye wasn’t a typical homeless person, though; after only less than a day, he had been forced to tell her she didn’t have to ask his permission every time she wanted food or a drink, she could just take as much as she needed or wanted. Someone had obviously taught her manners. He wanted to ask about her past, but she was usually quiet and didn’t speak to him other than to ask about this or that, so he didn’t feel it was his business to dredge up old memories that could possibly be painful at this point in their relationship.
He had procured the items they found at the crime scene from the station, which consisted of an old backpack with a few clothes and personal items in it, most of which she tossed since he had gotten her new ones. Among the items she kept was a small photo album and a very sharp, blue-handled butterfly knife that he had a hell of a time convincing the chief to relinquish.
He’d been researching her condition when he could, and so far had come up with nothing of use. Most of what he could find online ended landed him on some years old forum or Yahoo group full of pre-teens who were too obsessed with Twilight and calling themselves werewolves when they were clearly not. The libraries and book stores weren’t very helpful either.
The next full moon was a little over three weeks away, so they had some time. What would happen if he couldn’t find anything by then? Would she eat him? Other people?
He had tested her reaction to silver. There was none. Holy water was another consideration he had hypothesized but not tested yet.
There was also the possibility that she wasn’t a werewolf. That possibility crossed his mind at least once a day. Maybe the animal — the “dog” — hadn’t actually bitten all the way through the ankle. Maybe they shared the delusion because they wanted to. Maybe they were lonely for the companionship.
Maybe.
—-
They were eating dinner in front of the television when Raye put her fork down and said, “Someone’s here,” a few seconds before the doorbell chimed.
He couldn’t explain it. In the past few days, he had observed not only her exceptional hearing, but also an extra keen sense of smell. And her muscles seemed to have become more toned, as well. There were a lot of things about the young woman that couldn’t be explained — including the rapid healing — which likely meant it wasn’t a shared delusion as he’d hoped. The thought made him shudder.
Patrick got up to answer the door. He could see who it was through the window: his neighbor who he occasionally drank a beer with, Steven O’Brien. When Patrick came into view, Steve raised a hand and smiled.
“Hey buddy,” Patrick said as he opened the door. “What’s going on?” he asked amicably.
“Hey. Sorry to bother you, but I need to borrow some milk, if that’s okay?” he asked, holding up an empty container with a small grin.
“Sure…come on in.” Patrick stepped to the side to allow Steve passage. The door opened up directly into the living room, so he noticed Raye right away. She regarded him with a weak, uncertain smile. He smiled back.
“Hey,” he greeted. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner.”
“We were just finishing up,” Patrick said. “This is Raye, she’s my… um…” he trailed off, not sure how she wanted to be introduced. Friend? Roommate? Transient woman he picked up because she’s a lycanthrope and he doesn’t want her to kill people?
“Niece,” Raye finished, cheeks flushing slightly. Patrick guessed she was as put on the spot as he was and couldn’t think of anything more convincing. She extended her palm in greeting. Steve stepped forward to shake it, so he either bought it or simply didn’t care.
“Oh, Rey! Like Star Wars,” Steve said as he shook her hand. “Steve, nice to meet you.”
Patrick let out a discreet sigh of relief. Thankfully, Steve was too distracted by her name to realize they didn’t look anything alike.
Raye was taken aback by Steve’s comment. “Oh, I… haven’t seen it,” she replied shyly, hoping he wouldn’t make an issue of it. He didn’t.
Patrick picked up on Raye’s discomfort right away and intervened. “Spelled different, actually. Let’s see about that milk now,” he suggested, patting Steve on the shoulder.
The two of them went into the kitchen and Raye turned her attention back to the last of her dinner.
—-
The legendary tales of the rougarou have existed in Acadiana for centuries as a means to force troubled children to obey their parents, lest they be devoured whole by la rougarou. They are said to prowl the swamps and forests of southern Louisiana at night, unconfined to the cycles of the moon unlike their European cousin, the commonly known werewolf.
Due to the fact that the legend IS so well known among the Cajun people, Jonathan worked hard to keep his pack as low-profile as possible. As such, most of them held full-time jobs, had little to no history with law enforcement, and mainly kept to themselves. Jonathan had even moved his family from Louisiana to Texas, since chances were good there were no other rougarou in the state.
Until recently, anyway.
His daughter Maizie’s husband was Frank, a shitbag alcoholic who used to enjoy getting wasted before a shift. The consequence that arose was he’d gotten himself shot and killed by cops after attacking and injuring a woman in downtown Beaumont, leaving Maizie to raise their child, Darla, without a father.
Frank wasn’t pure rougarou like Maizie and the others, which meant that Maizie had to bite Frank in order to turn him. Maizie, Darla and the others had been born as rougarou. It was legend that the original rougarou, or loup-garou, was borne from voodoo magic; a man’s body with the head of a wolf.
What Frank’s death now meant was that there was another rougarou who wasn’t part of the pack roaming the area and further risking their exposure, which left Jonathan with only two options: get her to join the pack or kill her. Hopefully the former rather than the latter, but he would prepare himself for either.
If she were still anywhere in the area, the pack would sniff her out soon enough.
—-
September 29, 12:40 PM
Joli Plat Restaurant
Henriette Darbonne found herself at a quaint building located on Calder Avenue near the freeway access road. The outer appearance made the restaurant seem rather mundane in comparison to other local restaurants; tan brick with dark windows and a single door. The only indication this was a restaurant at all were the words “Joli Plat French Cuisine” painted on the building’s facade in dark brown lettering.
She pulled into the parking lot which seemed devoid of activity for a Saturday afternoon. Several vehicles were parked in the back lot while only one lone vehicle was currently in customer parking: a shiny dark blue Chevrolet Cruze. She parked the Corolla next to their vehicle and got out.
It was a bright and warm day for late September, which wasn’t at all unusual for the gulf coast. Henriette was donned in a spaghetti strap camisole and short shorts, with a pair of scuffed Chuck Taylors strapped to her feet. Even with those precautions in place, she was still lightly perspiring. It didn’t help that the air conditioner had gone out in her car, either.
She entered the restaurant and the interior was so dark that it took her vision a moment to adjust. When she was able to regain sight, a slender young man stood before her with a menu in his arms, and smiled pleasantly at her.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Are we expecting anyone else?” he asked.
Henriette smiled back. “No sir. I’m meeting my friends here,” she responded, lifting her arm to point in the direction of the only two patrons currently in the restaurant: a young woman with strawberry blonde hair and a man with brown hair and blue eyes.
The young man nodded and gestured toward the dining couple. “Go right ahead.”
She pulled her purse closer to her body and approached the booth. Patrick was facing the door, but Raye turned to acknowledge Henriette before he could. She flared her nostrils.
Henriette spoke up before either of them had a chance. She held an open palm out to Raye and said, “I have been searching for you for a couple of weeks, miss Jenkins. It is good to finally meet you face to face.”
Patrick instinctively pushed the woman’s arm out of range before Raye could return the greeting. Judging by her deadpan expression, it wasn’t likely Raye wanted to reciprocate anyway.
“I’m sorry, you are?” Patrick asked bluntly.
Henriette was unbothered by their paranoia and wouldn’t have expected any less, given the circumstances. She continued to keep a jovial expression.
“I am Henriette Darbonne and I am a practitioner of voodoo from Gueydan, Louisiana. Miss Jenkins came to me in a vision the night before the attack and I have been searching for her since. I believe I can be of some help to you, miss Jenkins and mister Huntman.” She paused to read their expressions, which were nothing less than incertitude.
“May I sit?” she asked. Patrick’s mouth was set in a hard, stern line, but his eyes flicked to Raye. She looked to Henriette and nodded softly.
“Thank you,” Henriette said, and started to take a seat next to Raye. Patrick waved his hand in disapproval and the woman stopped.
“I shall sit next to you, then?” she asked, and Patrick nodded in agreement. He slid over to allow her room and she took her position next to him. Henriette could appreciate and work with Patrick’s guardianship over her.
They had yet to place their food order, but already had drinks in front of them: Patrick with only a water and Raye with a Sprite. A different young man than earlier came over to take Henriette’s drink order; she ordered a sweet tea. Patrick made it a point to let the waiter know she would be on a separate bill. As soon as the waiter left, Patrick linked his fingers together impatiently.
“You are a rougarou, miss Jenkins,” Henriette began with little preamble.
Raye balked. “Excuse me?”
“La rougarou. A Cajun werewolf. Like the European werewolf, but somewhat weaker,” she elaborated.
“Weaker how?” Patrick asked.
“A werewolf must be killed with silver. Rougarou are sensitive to silver but it is not required to kill them. They can die from traditional means…such as your handgun bullets,” she explained.
The waiter was coming back to table to take their orders, so a collective hush fell over them as he approached. Raye went first, ordering the beef tartar with a quail egg and a side order of gumbo. She had never in her life craved beef tartar but at the moment it sounded exquisite.
Although Henriette had not had a chance to glance at a menu, she ordered the cheese plate to go (she had never known a French restaurant not to have a cheese plate) and requested her next tea also be to go. Lastly, Patrick ordered the bone-in lamb chop in a port-shallot reduction. Once the waiter had received the necessary amount of satisfactory information, he shuffled off to the kitchen to put the orders in.
“You aren’t suggesting what I think, are you?” asked Patrick.
Henriette chuckled. “At this point there is no need of killing her. But she will need to be contained in order to keep her — and others — from coming to harm,” she said.
“What about a cure?” Raye asked.
“The only cure is death,” Henriette replied. Raye’s gaze shifted desperately to Patrick.
“How do we keep her contained?” Patrick asked, avoiding the touchier subject.
Henriette shrugged. “Build a very strong cage, reinforce it with silver. I would suggest doing so in an isolated area for extra assurance.” She paused. “If you get it built I can add protection spells which will help reinforce it further.”
Patrick shook his head. “Silver has no effect on her. I’ve tested it already,” he explained.
“It must either enter through the blood stream or must touch her when she is in lycanthropic state. It will be harmless otherwise.
The full moon is less than two weeks away. The sooner you can begin on a cage, the better.”
The waiter returned with Henriette’s tea and cheese plate to go and instructions to pay at the counter. She smiled amiably and exited the booth, tossing a couple of dollars on the table for a tip.
“I will be in touch closer to the full moon. Build the strongest possible cage you can,” she suggested. “Good day.”
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