Admittedly, it’s not much. What’s a man—fuck, former man—to do? You’re still a man, my mental voice pleads. Except, that’s not true. Every book I was able to steal during my quick forays outside, all whopping five of them, claim I am now something else.
Something more.
My days of being a human male are over.
The speed with which I traveled the streets, avoiding detection, the strength and cunning—I know how to pick locks now, for fuck’s sake—that allowed me to break into the shops I took these books from, cement that fact into reality.
I’m a werewolf.
A creature out of fiction and myth made manifest.
I can’t order any more books online, of course, because the world needs to assume I’m dead. My money is officially worthless, except for the cash stashed in my safe. Hundreds of thousands of it, because apparently I’m not as stupid as one would think.
Bullshit. That money is only there due to my paranoia of one day losing my lifestyle. The fever with which I prepared, made sure I had backup cash and bars of gold stored.
Turns out, it wasn’t paranoia after all. The wealth in my safe is going to come in handy now that I’m on the run. I have a matter of a day or two left, then I have to hightail it out of here. This home I literally sold my soul to build is no longer mine. The regular world will come to believe that Silas LeBlanc is dead and, for my sake, it’s best that it stays that way.
Imagine being captured. Taken in for questioning. Trying to get anyone to believe the absurdity of what I’m living through.
Hello, padded room. And at some point I’ll transform again, killing God knows how many. After that? A transfer straight to some science facility where they’ll experiment on me like the genetic freak I’ve become.
Did I mention my muscle mass increased by at least ten pounds? Fuck, I was fit, but the way my biceps threaten to rip through the sleeves of my shirt isn’t funny.
Another round of bangs echo from my entryway. Consumed by the empty feeling in my gut, I ignore it, even when that reedy voice calls out again. “Save us all the time, you pathetic mortal. You’re a dead male anyway.”
My temper sparks, acidic words on the tip of my tongue. Not a mortal anymore, thanks to you fucks. I bite the inside of my cheek to hold them back. My silence doesn’t help hide me—I’m sure they can sense me or some shit—it’s more to piss them off as much as they’re pissing me off.
I flip through another thick book, landing on a page with an image that stops me cold.
Or burns me up, rather.
It’s a depiction of a woman in the middle of a fire storm, her posture defiant against the deadly flames that surround her. It’s an old drawing—circa 1580s—the style almost crude and boxy, although common for its time. The woman’s dress is hanging off one shoulder, baring a breast, her chin thrown back in a prideful tilt.
As if she’s silently proclaiming that she has nothing to be ashamed about.
Even with the small demons dancing in the periphery of that fire, waiting for their turn to have her.
It reminds me of the witch from my dreams, the one they originally sent to kill me.
The one they betrayed.
And, yet, it doesn’t. Something’s missing from this drawing’s aura.
A few more flips through the pages, and I find exactly what it is.
This next drawing is one that speaks to my spirit.
It doesn’t matter how far removed from life one is, here in the Big Easy voodoo influences run deep. Down to our very cores. There’s no ignoring or escaping them.
The priestess is the typical woman characterized in voodoo art, a glorious, African-descendent beauty whose appeal is still evident, even with the blurred strokes used to make the painting.
She’s earthy.
Enchanting.
Terrifying when one considers the calculating gleam in that stare. A barely veiled threat that translates perfectly off the page.
The witch sent after me looks nothing like this Creole temptress. Her golden skin is several shades lighter than what I’m looking at. Whatever her ancestry is, the only thing she has in common with this depiction is that energy surrounding her.
Death.
Malice.
Sensuality that pulses in wicked ways off the very surface of her skin.
The witch sent to kill me, that creature of fury and flames, would be a hell of a ride to fuck.
I might not even make it out alive.
If she really does return to finish me, I just might have to negotiate with her exactly how that event is going to go down.
Namely, with my swollen dick lost inside her.
And why the fuck am I even thinking about this right now? I’m supposed to be figuring the mess of my life out.
Then I need to map my next move. How I’m going to get out of this city that’s been my home from birth.
Pain. Deep, needling heartache. Leaving this place behind will be one of the hardest choices of my life, but I’m fresh out of options.
Actually, I’m not. I can always give up. Let them have me.
Die.
As if reading my thoughts, they start banging on my fucking door again. “You’ll have to come out eventually, werewolf.” The last word is spit out like the slur it obviously is to them. An insult of the highest order.
I rub my throbbing temple, the volume of that demand aggravating my hypersensitive ears. Jesus. It’s like they want to be noticed by everyone in the city. No way my neighbors aren’t hearing this shit.
The cops must’ve been notified I’m in the house by now.
Impossible. Cloaked. Hidden. No mortal witnesses. I twitch at that disembodied voice in my mind that I’m starting to come to know so well.
Alright. I’ll admit it. That part of my transformation, this infallible instinct that’s both entertwined with and separate from me, is useful as hell.
Multiple laughs ring outside my door and I brace myself for a fifth round of knocking. Of demands I have no plans to listen to.
They never come.
The laughs morph into short, startled shouts, followed by a crackling, whooshing sound that reminds me of fir . . . No. It can’t be. I’m probably imagining things.
Wishing for a presence that isn’t anywhere near here.
And then comes the silence.
Blessed silence for the first time in three days. Well, those witches are gone. The city remains loud and boisterous outside these walls.
Knock.
Spoke too soon.
Knock.
My shoulders shoot up to my ears.
Knock—knock—knockknockknock.
I’ll kill them this time, I swear I will . . .
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
I grind my teeth at that obnoxious pattern of taps against my door. Turning slowly in the armchair, I glare in the direction of the stairs leading to the first floor.
“Let me in, LeBlanc.”
HER!
Logical thought abandons me in an instant. Impulse takes over, a tidal wave of irrational shit, every emotion-drenched idea running through my mind ending with her.
Her.
Her.
Her.
My killer.
My obsession.
The one temptation—of the many dangled before me that night—that assured my fate.
Fucking Jezebel manifested to bring me down. The cruel fantasy that opened my heart to accepting that deal, leading me to this twisted time and place.
“Let me in,” she practically sings from the other side of my door. “It’s in your best interest.”