Wolf Sirens Forbidden: Discover the Legend (Wolf Sirens #1)

Wolf Sirens

Forbidden

By Tina Smith

Discover the Legend

Copyright 2012 Tina Smith

Smashwords Edition

Cover Image Copyright Tina Smith. All rights reserved – used with permission.

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted without express consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book may not be given away. Each reader is required to purchase their own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

1. Lila

2. The Girl with the Broken Wing

3. The Library Girl

4. The Scratch

5. Fresh Meat

6. Archangel

7. Entitled Creatures

8. The River

9. Predestine

10. Dolphins

11. The Last Day on Earth.

12. Life Eternal

13. Funeral

14. Reid’s Secrets

15. The Nature of the Beast

16. The Devil Inside

17. Infatuation

18. Bay for Me

19.Clear Cut

20. They Were a Feeling

21. Rogue Cresida

22. Suffering is Born of Desire

23. Elysium

24. Dusk

25. Prophecy

26. A Knight Hunter is Born

27. Huntress

28. Dichotomy

29. Wing Clipping

30. Teach Me

The Angel & the Wolf

Goddess of the moon, Artemis does not sway her eternal bow, she is the symbol of strength and commitment, and her guiding hands restrict me. The wolf’s arrow is ready, aimed at his heart. Restless waves of life inside beat like a fist hitting my chest. Immortality has a scent. I am his dark Seraph. I brace the bow under the deity’s power. I face the silver bolt to the snarling beast, fever radiating from his body. The rogue creeps towards me, his honey gaze wavers. Deep inside him is a secret, below the predator’s sable coat, behind the legend’s lunar glare. The hunter is restless but my feathers begin to fall like snowflakes. The moons rise, as I ready to strike in vengeance. An eye for an eye, they howl for me, justification cracks her stone veneer, lost on the path. I know why I am here.

Preface

There are many myths surrounding Shade. At the town’s centre lies an effigy erected in celebration of the demigod who slays the feared wolves: a many-centuries-old haunting figure that rescues Shade from complete anonymity. The angel-faced woman stands in the valley dressed in grey flowing robes, bow braced. The wolf towers above, lashing at she who attempts to strike her prey. The village now sees her as the deity huntress who saves the town’s children from being harmed, by slaying the fabled wolf. They dance in an annual parade dedicated to this feat in her honour, which ends with the re-enactment of the battle.

The legend says many hundreds of years ago in the valley forest surrounding Shade a wolf stalks a young woman who practices her aim in a clearing.

The spring breeze rustles seedlings from the branches that catch in her golden brown hair. Gliding from the shadows beneath the trees through the wavering grass his luminescent eyes lie upon her beauty and he stops, and though facing him with her bow braced she admires him too. The maiden’s brother who is off some distance spies the wolf’s approach through the trees. Apollo draws his bow and shoots at the beast. The stillness is broken by the hiss of his arrow and the wolf whimpers and falls before her. Apollo is pleased with his kill and he kicks the animal’s still live body for his amusement. Weeping, the maiden falls to her knees, horrified that her brother can be so cruel. He removes the arrowhead from the wolf’s blood-stained limb and readies his knife to finish the kill - indifferent to her affections for the animal as she pleads for his life to be spared. The siblings argue and Apollo leaves his sister in the forest guarding the wounded wolf, angered by her compassion for the carnivore who was surely attempting to take her life.

Artemis is no ordinary maiden. She does not see herself as separate or different from nature, but as part of it. She feels an affinity for the mortal creatures of the earth, as she is half human. The demigoddess heals the beast’s wound and continues to visit him secretly in a hidden cave.

Apollo spies his sister tending the wild beast. Angered, he tells Artemis that livestock nearby have been attacked and that the village plans a hunt to seek the wolf. Apollo places a knife in her hand for protection and to appease him she begrudgingly accepts.

Artemis runs to warn the wolf of the hunt, but Apollo secretly follows. As she approaches the dim entrance to the cave the wolf snarls and arches his back to attack. Terrified, she stabs him with the knife. But as her brother appears she realizes her mistake. Shocked, she drops the weapon upon the earth, but it is too late. Seeing the beast’s blood on her hands she cries in anguish.

Artemis wears the black skin from the wolf in penance, wandering the forest to grieve at night. She grows more distant and after a time comes to live in the cave alone. The other wolves of the valley call through the trees. She sees the pack is thin and weak, as food is scarce because men have taken more than they need from the forest. She knows they must justly give and take from the earth, so that food is plentiful again and the young should be spared, but the alpha soon takes a child from the town to feed her hungry pack. A lynch mob forms in the town. Outraged, the villagers come armed to find the den and in a surprise attack they cull the entire pack, accidentally striking Artemis as she was wrapped in the wolf pelt. When they realize what they have done, the men cover up the murder hurriedly and throw her body in the river.

In anger for her death the King of Gods shatters his mirror to the mortal world and with a shard slits his palm. Under a full moon his veins drip red-gold liquid into the river. The pelts of the deceased pack, which now hang outside the village homes, are rained with his immortal blood. Zeus curses the town so that when bitten the villagers will become human by day and wolves by night, so that they may learn they are just like all creatures and king of none, and as the men place the pelts over themselves as clothing, the leather bonded with their skin and melted into their tremulous flesh; grotesquely twisting and hunching their resisting bodies into plumes of hair as their hands became claws.

The immortal blood of the God of Thunder and Skies created the first werewolves to avenge his beloved daughter’s death and the egos of men, damming them to eternity as man and carnivorous beast.

The cherished daughter of Zeus becomes the first huntress of Shade and her spirit casts punishment on those that harm unfairly in her forest. Her symbol is a damsel with an arrow. She hunts during the crescent moon, aiming her bow at the unjust, defending the young and vulnerable.

Legend has it she keeps the natural balance of the forest to this day, and she chooses daughters from the valley to enforce her sacred laws.

Zeus takes Apollo to Olympus for protection and awards him power when he comes of age. The twin brother of Artemis becomes God of the Wolf, perhaps as punishment for his sister’s death. He is associated with the sun and is protector of flocks and packs, but also a bringer of plague and illness. He wields his power to undo his sister’s legacy.

1. Lila

Animals don’t know hope, only fear and hunger. New beginnings are hard. My mother and I moved to Shade, because it was where she grew up. Sophie hadn’t done as well as she expected out of the divorce and houses were less costly in the country. She hoped in her heart we could start over, but I knew it would all be the same, only now the backdrop had changed. In trade for cement and crowds, we now inhabited a foreboding landscape of trees and vast fields of grass, a pointless exchange.

The more reasons I gave her not to go, infuriatingly, the more justification she found to leave the city. Despite the trepidation, on a wing and a prayer she moved us to the obscure country town, surrounded by mountains and nestled in a valley amongst forest only she seemed to know existed.

The first night in the dark of our new house I heard the wolves cry. In fright I huddled under my covers, unable to fall asleep, until long after the foreboding calls had ceased, and the wind rushed about the house creating the bellow of a storming ocean from the trees.

That night I dreamt about the unfamiliar sounds. A girl stood in daylight on the riverbank, with dark cropped hair, in a white nightdress. She waved at me with a friendly expression. When she heard the wolves bay against the rumbling backdrop of swaying trees, she turned and they joined her. I watched as she stroked them, running her hands through their soft coats. She smiled at me and I stepped closer through the grass. I put my hand out to stroke a deep brown wolf, and with an abrupt flash of its teeth it bit my hand. I awoke with a start, gritting my teeth in a cold sweat, amongst the unpacked boxes, which filled my room. The dim light from my window indicated it was morning. The wind had stopped.

I had a shower to warm my blood and readied myself in the eerie quiet. In the downstairs kitchen I had to open the screen door, despite the cold winter air, to hear the distant intermittent roar of traffic, from the nearest major road, no louder than a seashell to my ear. When I was done I locked it firmly. Sophie was still asleep, warm in her bed. Our new home was on the fringe of the town, just out of reach of the river that divided the valley.

I wasn’t alone when I stepped out the front of our new house, into the foreign sage-tinted landscape. It was winter. As I squeezed my gloved hands together to warm the tips of my fingers, a dog barked as a clank vibrated the fence. Our new neighbour, a man with a salt and pepper beard, and dressed in a brown coat, exited the gate next door.

How was your first night? he asked in a gruff voice, as his dog, wagging its tail enthusiastically, came to inspect me.

Fine, except for the noise, I answered cautiously, stroking the wiggling labrador’s neck.

What’s that? Ah, the howls, he said. They know they’re not like them. He motioned towards his dog in the cold morning air as I crouched patting the friendly animal in the driveway. The old man pulled a wheelie bin from the side of his house and gestured toward the overweight labrador. Last night they wailed so loud, I thought they wanted him for dinner. They fear us humans, he added. Perhaps noticing my anxiety, he assured me that to see a wolf was - as rare as hen’s teeth.

I knew they were out there, as I glanced at the moss green hills that lined the horizon against the mottled grey sky. I asked him if he had ever seen one.

He scratched his whiskers.

They stick to cover. They’re smart these days…just don’t go out in the night. He winked at me as he rumbled the garbage bin down to the street curb, breathing a plume of steam in the cold morning air. Keep your windows latched.

He was referring to the curfew and I suspected teasing me a little. There was frost on the shaded parts of the lawn, which crunched underfoot. He coughed, returning up the drive. Ben’s the name.

I’m Lila – Crain, I said, straightening up.

You don’t have a cat, do you? His eyes gave a lively sparkle.

No, why? I asked, feeling suspicious of his reply.

They’re not normally that loud, he said, glancing at the hills. Something must have spooked 'em. Better watch out, they like the young ones, he added, smiling with squinted eyes and missing teeth. Eliza Timbly- he recalled - gone through three. The most expensive one was six hundred dollar, pure bred, it lasted two hours. He chuckled. Some people learn the hard way.

We must have looked like cat people and I couldn’t argue with that.

He raised his eyebrows.

I’ve got a shot gun and I’ll use it if they get on my property, he informed me. Whether or not he meant the cats or the wolves was unclear. He realized I might be one of the activist types and I thought I saw a look of alarm cross his face.

Have you used it? I enquired.

He smiled proudly. I’ve got a 308 Winchester rifle locked and loaded - ready to go.

Loaded? I questioned. It was obvious to me Sophie had no idea our closest neighbour was an elderly man who enjoyed shooting a loaded weapon as a hobby. She argued the city wasn’t safe.

-For when I spot one, he explained, nodding slowly and squinting with determination.

Ben Flinds was a recluse. He had a pair of binoculars and he watched the trees over his back fence each evening with the radio on, and as we soon learnt, shot at anything that moved, especially after a few whiskeys, much to my mother’s terror. She was happy when by Christmas his guns had mysteriously gone missing from his home, including the unlicensed Colt 45 auto handgun hidden under his bedside table drawer. Mostly he shot rabbits. I had seen the skins from my second floor window in the sunless morning light, slung on the railing of his back porch.

Thanks, well I better be off, don’t want to be late. I dusted my gloved hands and headed for the main road.

First day of school, huh? C’mon Choc. He called his dog in the gate and latched it. But I had the distinct feeling he watched me as I left.

I was late. Buses ran every hour twice a morning and twice of an afternoon along the main road, shipping the out-of-town kids, and the few employed in town and those shoppers that found it to be a convenient mode of transport. It was less of a community service and more of a safety issue. Parents could rest assured their children wouldn’t disappear on the perilous walk home on the edge of town or be caught out past dark. It was rumoured the creatures which lurked in the valley knew they were hunted, and signs of their intelligence were legendary. Precautions were taken, though no one had seen one in the town for years. If it were not for the hollow calls in the night, they would have all but been forgotten. I supposed that in a small place like Shade the wolves gave people a preoccupation, because there wasn’t much else.

I texted: ‘Neighbour has loaded gun’ to Bec back home, while I waited at the bus stop, shivering. In spite of myself, I still hoped vainly that my father would come to his senses and rescue me.

2. The Girl with the Broken Wing

The heavens opened up as if to welcome me. My first day, as I awaited my timetable in the school foyer, I saw her picture. A news clipping that read: ‘Dolphins first’ was stuck next to it on the encased school notice board. Shade Public High boasted a football team and some sort of school dance troupe, signs of the small town life that was meant to nurture me.

I saw the outline of my own wet hair and morose reflection in the glass as I looked over the collage.

The girl in the centre of the photo was pretty and unusual-looking at the same time, with almond eyes and the hugest grin on her face. I thought I might see her here in the halls.

My wet sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as I counted the numbers of the doors and listened to the murmurs of studying children reverberating through the cracks in the doors. I looked at the timetable in my hand under a flickering fluorescent light - Geography 107b - and put it in my pocket, my palms clammy.

The class was full. I tensed, avoiding the rows of inquisitive stares, and a woman with narrow, uneven blue eyes and dark hair shook my hand as she continued her address to the class and pointed to the board, which read Mrs Bealy, Geography. I was expected. The teacher asked no questions as she handed me a printout and gestured towards a seat in the first row, which hadn’t been taken.

Gladly, I ducked into my chair, as though my presence wouldn’t be noticed. I slid down in my seat as the teacher continued her lecture, and felt stares come at me from all angles. There was some commotion up the back of the class, which I wasn’t brave enough to glance at. Muffled laugher, which was obviously at someone’s expense. Mrs Bealy continued to speak, ignoring the commotion. I kept my head down and pretended to be paying attention to her speech about the Italian Alps. Listening to the fussy short movements of bored teenagers, my muscles tensed and my heart began to palpitate. Steadying my breathing I tried to occupy myself by taking notes. It wasn’t until halfway through class that I dared peer around at my new classmates, risking eye contact. To my far right in the second row was a pretty blonde girl with a ponytail. She was in a short skirt, dark blue, which could have been a sports uniform under her white cardigan, I couldn’t quite tell. She was wearing lipstick in a deep berry shade, something my mother would criticize me for daring to wear. The other two girls either side of her were equally as angelic and toned: a redhead with a straight fringe and a curly-haired girl with a pointy nose, and I knew better than to think they wouldn’t have at least been acquaintances. I assumed all this before consciously noting the fact that they were wearing identical navy skirts.

The more I glanced at them, the more flawless they seemed. All three looked athletic and neat. More than neat: perfect. Their skin glowed pale iridescent, bathed in a glow from the window, which seemed to avoid the other students. They could have been angels – with manicured eyebrows that framed unnatural sparkling green and blue eyes. The other kids seemed like me, casual in comparison, rough around the edges: baggy clothes, and acne-scarred, oily-haired with flyaway hairs and the pain and insecurity of puberty written on their faces. I wondered if I was the only one who noticed them. I tried not to stare, pulling my eyes away. I looked down at my grey tracksuit pants and street sneakers and knew in that moment my dance/street look was just frumpy. My hair was all split ends and washed-out blonde highlights. I had gained weight since being grounded permanently, so baggy sweatpants and a brand name t-shirt was my uniform. I told Sophie I wasn’t going to make an effort here. I had refused her offer to purchase the school jacket, glad to not have to wear a uniform after St Agatha’s. But right then I felt decidedly underdressed.

I had considered that if I was smart maybe I should try to fit in. It sounded like something Sophie would have said if she’d had less of an abandoning parenting style. I was lucky in that way; neither of my parents cared to look closely at anything I did. I was acutely aware that was how my mother and I had ended up here in Shade, and why I reluctantly accepted my sentence.

I pulled my sleeve over my tattoo, looking ahead as a stare came from the desk adjacent, from the most unnaturally bright eyes, belonging to the curly-haired one. I thought she must have been wearing contacts.

She looked alarmed as I caught sight of her raised brow. Not bothering to return the glare, or not brave enough to, I slouched further in my chair. My hand instinctively covered my wrist. Judging by her expression, I assumed right then that I was too imperfect for these affluent looking country kids. I wasn’t going to fit in.

How could I know that my innocent presence terrified them far more than they threatened me, or what I had just triggered? I was what they had feared, what they had been hoping wouldn’t come. I had no way of knowing that I had surprised them or what they had sparked in me, which would soon ignite. I was simultaneously smashed into a thousand pieces inside and mysteriously, very slowly, began to reform from within, shard by shard.

The next few days passed in a grey haze, illuminated only by the penetrating eyes of the aloof clique, with that same alarmed look on their faces.

The school was surprisingly large for a country town, but families were big and nearly all the surrounding town’s teenage population attended the public high in Shade Valley. I was an outsider, an introvert, and clumsy. Locals didn’t welcome newcomers from the city. The vernacular for me was ‘city slicker’, ‘tourist’ and my personal favourite: ‘yuppie’.

I fumbled and dropped my math’s workbook on the linoleum on my way to class. I saw them again. They had that same look on their faces as they passed, like I offended their sense of smell. The darker boy’s amber brown irises glared at me as they glided past. I flushed crimson as his wide-shouldered friend brushed by and looked me over with his sapphire eyes.

Shrugging off all the icy stares that followed, I told myself it was just that I was new. Maybe I would grow on them but I felt like a trespasser and by the second day I wasn’t being ignored so much as avoided - by everyone, including the popular clique, who eyed me apprehensively from across the canteen as they downed their food.

Lunch hour was spent staring at my sandwich miserably. The minutes dragged as I became agonizingly self-conscious. I didn’t need to look around to feel the silence from all directions. I wasn’t a native inhabitant and I was beginning to feel like a freak. I failed to relax as I breathed out in relief on the bus home, unable to shake the agonizing discomfort from school as I watched the grey sky from my window seat. When I arrived home, throwing my backpack off, I wilted onto the floor against one of the cream walls of our new house, my head in my hands. Every shuffle was amplified in the shell of a house, scattered with half emptied boxes. Sophie wasn’t home.

I spent the rest of the late afternoon diligently unpacking the remainder of our belongings. Trying not to think about it. I wasn’t paranoid. No other students had approached me, despite their curious expressions at lunch and in the halls, though I offered no threat. It was as though a very bad rumour had been spread about me that everyone at school believed without question. They gazed at me and I failed to understand what was written in their indifferent stares.

Over dinner I bravely told my mother how coldly they were treating me. She gave that expression, that wince, which told me I was bothering her by merely speaking. This was followed by an evident pause. Sophie had made some sort of an effort with the dinner laid out before us, which had no doubt exhausted her. Usually we ate alone or in front of the television whilst having our