Here is the next part to my book, Here with the Wolves. I welcome any feedback and/or constructive criticisms you may have. Enjoy!
And not a moment after the Grandfather set foot on American soil did he see them: thousands of indigenous werewolves. Left alone amongst the Indian populous, the wolves had bred and multiplied with nerve-wracking speed. The Grandfather set to work, but could not make as much as a dent in them.
His crew was outnumbered.
He wasn’t canny enough to outwit the wolves, or anticipate their next move.
So what did he do?
He came up with a brilliant plan, a plan to mix just enough wolf blood with his own so that he could ‘think’ like the wolves and outsmart them. He was wise enough to know, however, that if he didn’t choose wisely, his offspring would be just as much wolf as the creatures he sought to destroy. Somehow he managed to find a woman whose bloodline had almost been completely drained of wolf and he took her for his bride. The result of the union was a tiny daughter. The mother died giving birth, leaving Columbus to raise and train his young child. He would have no outside help, for too many wolves had discovered his plan and wished to foil him to save their species.
This did not stop Columbus: he knew if he could kill the wolves himself, he would find a way to use his daughter as a tracker.
But in an unfortunate turn of events, the girl was left behind when Columbus set sail for home. She was left with her people, a child with pale skin, to stand out and be humiliated by both her Indian and wolf kin. How easily they could have killed her and freed themselves from worry, but wolves are merciful. The girl was spared and raised in the ways of her mother’s people.
Her father returned one day, and took her away with him. Being a gullible child, she allowed herself to be molded into the killer Columbus had meant her to be. He raised her, not as his daughter, but as a creature with a purpose. In other words, he treated her as a slave. By now he was formally married, to a noblewoman, and could not afford his relationship with an Indian woman to get out, so he lied about the child, saying he found and captured her to be his handmaid.
And just a few years before he was sentenced to prison, Columbus sent his daughter back to her country of birth and set her loose on her people. She killed without compassion, without the faintest repentance. She was everything her father had hoped for, and more: she married a human man and produced half a dozen grandchildren with the need to kill wolves already imbedded in their minds.
Down through the generations this went, but the wolf Slayers began branching off, some going their separate ways and their blood would eventually clear, leaving them nothing more than human beings.
But the few from Columbus’s line decided that with the ever-growing wolf population, their purpose in life was meant to go on. And every so often, one of my bloodline will marry a wolf, just to keep the blood fresh. This happens every three or four generations, just to keep us able-minded and strong.
There are a few other bloodlines, not from the Grandfather, thankfully, and most of us have congregated here in North America. A few dozen remain in Australia, a handful in Europe and Russia; none is Asia, and maybe only one or two in Africa. Obviously there aren’t any of us at the North or South Poles, because come on, why would a werewolf live somewhere so frigid?
Anyway, here I am: a third generation killer. Third generation means that I’m one-eighth wolf and the rest all human. The perfect mix. Or so the Grandfather thought. First generation is the offspring of a wolf and a human, a rarity these days, and second generation is one-quarter wolf and three-quarters human. Fourth generation floats along unspoken of, and fifth generation is almost too far gone, in dire need of marrying a wolf to keep their heirs from becoming too weak. For me, Rodger Vancouver, my father, is second generation, and my mother, Megan, is a human with Creole and Danish ancestry. It’s always a bonus to throw some fresh blood into the mix, or so I’ve been told. Besides, the Danes were top-of-the-line witch killers, so bring it on, right?
Three out of every ten people are werewolves. One out of every two hundred people is a wolf-slayer, like me, but only one out of every ten Slayers will embrace their birthright, the rest just turn and live blind to the ever-present threat of wolves. They go along, no better than a regular human. So we’re kind of outnumbered.
Other than that ominous cloud that hangs over our heads, we Slayers are basically pretty normal. My dad is a hunter, that is to say, he enjoys killing other animals just as well as he likes killing wolves. His ‘man-cave’ (I emphasize the word strongly) is stuffed full of deer horns, elk racks, and almost every kind of animal pelt you could imagine: from squirrels to grizzly bears and moose to leopards. He also has a few pack mules that he loans to hunters for travelling to hunting camps in the mountains. And he has a job as a mechanic.
My sister Viviana and our brothers Collin and Corey will be trained as Slayers also, but since I am the eldest of these siblings, the responsibility to keep up the bloodline fell to me years ago. Even though I wanted to reject it, I could not. Even though I am kind of supposed to hang out with my dad to learn stuff from him, I’m hardly ever around him; he and I are too much alike and we disagree on practically everything and have ever since my initiation.
So I’m closer to my little sister and my baby brothers, who live with our human mother. She’s a sweet little woman, Mom is. She reminds me of a little bird with her slender figure and silky brown hair. She is gentle and she wants what is best for me. But because she is only human, Dad never confided in her what he was. So I have been formally forbidden to ever speak of important things, such as wolves or my training.
It isn’t difficult, because Mom doesn’t pry into my life. She has accepted that I am to grow up to be someone amazing. That is why she’s never minded when I was sent to stay with a friend of dad’s, a man named Kenneth. All the same, I was never been able to have that strong mother-daughter bond. That was something I longed for, but it was too hard to try and be her friend when I couldn’t even tell her who my friends were or what I did for a living.
*to be continued*
(c) Briana Vedsted 2013