Lightning clawed at the sky, ripping the curtain of swirling black with jagged fingers, and the thunder rumbled much later.
The storm had rolled in quickly, out of nowhere, a sudden cloudburst on a perfectly clear night. They'd needed the rain, and they'd gotten it in spades for almost forty-five minutes.
Now it was moving out.
Dylan sat just inside the mouth of the damp cave, staring blankly into the woods as he waited out the downpour. He had buried his mother's severed head deep within the cavern, under a pile of rocks in an inaccessible pit, where no mortal human being could ever hope to find it.
He rubbed his eyes. He felt defeated, broken, so emptied out that he could not even summon the rage that was burning somewhere deep inside.
LaGory.
He had won. The vampire lord had killed everyone he loved.
Dylan had a new reason to live now - before he was through, he would see LaGory dead.
But at the moment he was too numb to even think about it.
He sat on a boulder, hugging his knees to his chest. Swatches of fog drifted through the forest; tendrils of it wafted into the cave. The temperature had dipped about fifteen degrees since the storm broke. Dylan shivered and rubbed his bare arms with his hands. A transient stream chuckled at some private joke, cascading down a rill carved in the cave floor, its ephemeral lifespan locked in a symbiotic dance with the lifespan of the storm.
The rain was slowing, hissing quietly in the trees, and before too long all that remained was the pattering of spent raindrops splashing on the ground as they slithered off the quivering leaves and swaying branches. For a moment he considered staying in the cave all night, until another wave of goosebumps puckered his flesh. He would be more comfortable back at the mansion.
If he could only deal with the ghosts...
Dylan rose and flexed his knees, then launched himself into the air to a thick limb of an old oak. He leaped from tree to tree to avoid leaving footprints, and before too long the lights of the big house stabbed through the surrounding darkness. He swung around a branch and hurled himself out into space, landing lightly on the roof near the spot where LaGory had killed his mother Lillias. He scanned the shingles with his keen night vision, and he detected no blood; the rain had washed it away.
In a week or two he would file a missing persons report on Lillias Vorcla. He hated the subterfuge, but his mother had a reputation for taking off at the drop of a hat. It was easier than trying to explain a bloody, severed head in the yard.
'A vampire killed my mother.'
Right; they would haul him away, stick him in a padded cell and throw away the key.
He dropped to the ground and landed catlike on his feet.
"Good evening, Dylan. I was wondering when you'd return."
Dylan whirled around, startled by the quiet voice with just a touch of Great Britain.
Three men sat on the deck in the darkness. The one in the center was stocky, with thinning brown hair going gray at the temples; casually dressed in an open-necked shirt and slacks, he appeared to be in his early fifties. He was flanked by a muscular blonde man in a dark suit who might have been in his late twenties, and a shirtless, blade-thin native American of indeterminate age with jet black hair that flowed to his shoulders. He wore a leather vest and jeans.
All three gazed steadily at him with glowing yellow eyes...
'Wolves!
With a deep throated growl, Dylan began to Change.
"Gods, Quimby - his
aura!" the blonde man exclaimed in a thick French accent.
"Easy, De Salle." The stocky man in the middle was the one with the British accent. "Everyone relax - take it easy. Dylan, it's all right..."
But his plea fell on deaf ears. Within seconds, Dylan towered above them, all bristling golden fur and thick muscles and gleaming talons. He loosed a feral roar of pent-up, animal fury. The blonde man and the Amerind transformed as well, and three huge, shaggy, snarling werewolves squared off on the deck, warily circling and menacing one another.
The stocky man sighed from his rocking chair.
"Are the three of you
quite finished with your alpha posturing?" His voice was quiet, but crackled with authority. "You two - stand down! Dylan, no one's going to hurt you, son. We're just here to talk - and to help."
Slowly the three 'Wolves reverted to their human forms, their torn clothing somewhat the worse for wear.
"I might ask you...gentlemen why you're trespassing on my property at two in the morning," Dylan grated.
"And I might ask you why you're roaming the woods in the rain and leaping from your roof at two in the morning as well, Dylan."
The stocky man's eyes were ice blue now.
"You have me at a distinct disadvantage," Dylan said. "You know my name, and I don't know yours."
"Quimby," the stocky man replied, thrusting out his hand. Dylan shook it cautiously. "I was a good friend of your father's. The excitable Frenchman here is Jacques De Salle, and my Navajo friend is William Lightfoot."
Quimby glanced around the yard and shivered as he rubbed his hands together.
"D'you mind if we go inside, m'boy?" he asked. "It's gotten bloody damp out here."
"We can sit in the front room," Dylan replied.
"Excellent."
Quimby reached down and picked up a black physician's bag and followed Dylan as he unlocked the door and led them into the formal parlor. It was a replica of a Victorian drawing room, built to his father Stefan's specifications. Quimby glanced around happily.
"Ah, yes - reminds me of the boarding house I lived in when I first went out on my own," he said as he plopped down in an overstuffed chair.
Dylan's eyes narrowed as he took a seat across from his visitor.
"Just how long did you know my father?"
"All his life." Quimby's eyes seemed to focus on a distant time and place. "I was born in England in 1794, four years before your father. We were mates from the time we were mere lads.
Quimby's smile was bitter.
"We even became 'Wolves together." He closed his eyes."We'd been out on the town, as was our wont. A night of heavy drinking, carousing and wenching. We cut across the moors to get home to Mrs. Bristol's boarding house when a werewolf attacked us. Somehow we drove it off, although it nearly tore us both to pieces."
"Jesus..." Dylan breathed.
"Yes...well, Jesus had nothing to do with it." He glanced over at DeSalle and Lightfoot, who sat glowering ominously at Dylan. "Why don't you two boys retire to the living room? Perhaps you could find something to watch on the telly."
"We're your bodyguards, Quimby!" Lightfoot protested. "The Lunar Council has mandated..."
"I'm an officer of the Lunar Council," Quimby said quietly. "I'm in no danger here; I can take care of myself. We're all werewolves, if you recall - even me."
Lightfoot straightened disdainfully.
"I am a
Skinwalker," he announced.
"A rose by any other name," Quimby retorted. "William, Jacques - go watch some TV."
Quimby's voice was deceptively quiet, but there was no mistaking the implicit command. The two got up reluctantly and entered the next room. Lightfoot cast a venomous parting glance in Dylan's direction before he closed the door.
"Goons," Quimby muttered under his breath. "The Wolfen equivalent of hired muscle. A necessary evil under some circumstances, I suppose."
He reached into a pocket of his trousers and pulled out Dylan's pistol.
"I found this lying on the deck when we arrived. That was careless of someone, wouldn't you say?"
He broke open the cylinder, and a handful of silver bullets clattered on an end table. His blue eyes bored into Dylan, who glanced away.
"This isn't the answer, son," he said quietly. "I'm here to help."
"Why should you want to help me?" Dylan asked.
"I promised your father the day you were born that I'd make sure you stayed out of trouble," Quimby replied. "Then I find you've been mucking about in Yorkshire, and that you've already made me break my vow to Stefan."
Dylan started.
"How did you know..."
"Word travels fast. When a 'Wolf with an aura as powerful as yours comes on the scene, the ripples are felt throughout the societies of both werewolves and vampires, like an earthquake." Quimby paused. "Since you're a werewolf/vampire hybrid, the impact was even more powerful."
"You mentioned a Lunar Council. What's that - a union for werewolves? Local 135 or something?" Dylan didn't smile.
Neither did Quimby.
"The Lunar Council is an organization whose main objective is to keep track of 'Wolves who choose to live among mortal humans as a member of their society. As a werewolf, you are now a
threat to that society, m'boy."
Dylan glanced up sharply, but said nothing.
"Your options are somewhat limited, son," Quimby continued. "Your best case scenario is to continue to live as you have always lived - within limits - save for the days of the full moon. Of course, there will be some...guidelines and regulations imposed by the Council to insure that you are fit to live among humans."
"In other words, Big Brother will be watching me," Dylan shot back, bristling. "Or should I say the Big Bad 'Wolf?"
Quimby's eyes hardened.
"Like it or not, Dylan, your life has fundamentally changed. For several days each month you will transform into a bloodthirsty predator driven by evil impulses you can't control. I'm trying to help you so your life will not be disrupted any more than necessary. Your other choices are living in a supervised werewolf colony or ghetto, or...termination."
Dylan leaned forward in his chair, his fists clenched.
"So I'd be stuck in a concentration camp or...killed? They would actually
kill me?"
"To keep you from killing innocents? Yes."
Dylan slumped back and wearily buried his head in his hands.
"Well, you're already too late, then."
Quimby pursed his lips in resignation.
"I was afraid of that. Why don't you tell me all about it? I really do want to help you, son."
Dylan reached out and quickly touched Quimby's mind. Behind the older man's steely exterior he sensed a sincere empathy for his own plight. He did want to help.
Quimby's eyes widened.
"Interesting. I almost didn't sense that. Your psi powers are staggering. Rather rude of you, however."
"Sorry," Dylan muttered sheepishly. "I had to be sure I could trust you."
"And?"
"Let me start at the beginning..."
"Good place to start - and keep your voice down." Quimby gestured meaningfully toward the closed door. "I can hear you just fine if you whisper."
Dylan held nothing back; he even told Quimby of his mother's murder at LaGory's hands. In a way, it felt good to unburden himself. Quimby's stoic expression didn't change when Dylan related Stefan's grisly fate, but he could sense the anguish in the older man's heart.
"I didn't want to kill them," Dylan murmured brokenly after he finished his tale. "The 'Wolf inside me is too powerful when the moon is full."
"I know, son." Quimby awkwardly squeezed the youth's shoulder in reassurance. "I'm glad I sent those two away. You'd have to stand trial in Council for those killings. There are mitigating circumstances, of course; you weren't expecting to Change into a werewolf, so I doubt they'd call for the death penalty. However, I'm sure they'd decree that you spend the rest of your life in a colony. I don't want that to happen. Therefore...you never told me about any of this."
He turned away.
"I owe your father. I knew you were coming of age, and I meant to see you about a year ago, to try to prepare you for...all of this. One thing led to another and I didn't make it. I feel partly responsible for what happened."
"I don't know what to say," Dylan said. "Thank you. So...what happens now?"
"Well, we have to register you with Council, and I need to give you a physical," Quimby said. "Among my other avocations, I happen to be a physician specializing in 'Wolf physiology."
He allowed himself a smile.
"You'd be surprised what you can learn in 200 years. All right, Dylan, take off what's left of your shirt and jeans and we'll get started. You can keep your skivvies..."
As Quimby put Dylan through his paces, he explained the philosophy and machinations of the Lunar Council in particular and 'Wolf society in general. Dylan was now what was called a "Humanized 'Wolf," a werewolf living among humans. He was bound by the laws of the human society in which he chose to live, and he was also constrained by a mind-boggling laundry list of rules imposed by the Lunar Council. Quimby had brought Dylan a Council handbook to help him adjust to the myriad changes in his life. The youth winced as another hypodermic pierced his skin. In a way he was glad to listen to the physician drone on about the Lunar Council. It took his mind off the torture Quimby was inflicting, the poking, prodding, stretching and twisting. Dylan gathered that the most important Council laws were, understandably, that killing humans and devouring their flesh was strictly prohibited, and 'turning' a human into a werewolf was forbidden.
Both crimes were punishable by death...
The physical examination wore on; Dylan grew more and more irritable. At one point his claws extended, but he quickly retracted them. Finally, it seemed, his ordeal was at an end.
"All right. Very good results overall. Height 5'11", weight 162. Blood pressure 120/60; pulse 65 bpm; body temperature 98.5; muscle tone excellent; prostate, normal; testicle size, normal."
Dylan shot him a glance.
"What the hell has
that got to do with anything?"
"I have one more test to do - one more sample to take."
"What?!" Dylan's eyes turned amber. "Quimby, what could
possibly be left? I've peed in a cup for you. I feel like a pincushion from all the blood samples you've taken. You've got my spit, you've even got a stool sample!"
"It's quite common for a Wolf/Vamp hybrid to be sterile," Quimby explained evenly. "I'm sorry. I need a semen sample to be sure."
Dylan's face flushed crimson, his dismay at learning he might be sterile overwhelmed by his embarrassment at what the physician was asking him to do.
"You
are joking?"
His voice was almost a squeak.
Quimby offered him a wide mouthed specimen bottle.
"I don't joke. In there. When you're ready...make a deposit."
Dylan stared.
"But...I just can't..I don't know...how to..."
The physician held up a hand with an ironic grin on his face.
"Don't tell me you've never.."
Dylan swore and snatched away the bottle, slamming the bathroom door behind him.
Quimby's face tightened into a frown. The boy was under incredible pressure. He had gone through hell the past month. His physical health was excellent, but the stress of everything that had happened to him... He wondered about Dylan's mental and emotional condition. He seemed to be holding up - but for how long?
Dylan was in the bathroom for quite a while. Finally the door creaked open. He sheepishly handed the specimen bottle to Quimby, unable to meet the older man's gaze.
"It's a biological function, son - nothing to be ashamed of."
"I know," Dylan mumbled. "I...after what happened over there..."
His voice trailed off, and Quimby nodded in sympathy.
"I'll get the results to you as soon as I can," the physician said gently as Dylan shrugged back into his ragged clothes. "I'll be stopping by for the next several days to continue your orientation. First order of business is to build a maximum security holding cell. You'll need to lock yourself in there at night during the cycle of the full moon."
"A holding cell?" Dylan echoed.
"More like a bank vault, actually. The walls are composed of concrete blocks that are three feet thick, with a solid steel door that's two feet thick. The lock is on a timer with battery backup, like a security alarm system.The Council has contractors who will construct it for you free of charge."
"Man...locked away for three days..." Dylan murmured.
"Necessary, unfortunately," Quimby said. "The manual provides you with a listing of places you can go to here and abroad if you're away from home during the full moon."
He began to pack his bag and tidy up.
"I know this is a lot to absorb, son, but it will be all right. I felt the same way you did. For six months I was running wild during the amok time, slaughtering innocent people. I was on the verge of taking my own life. Then a representative of the Lunar Council found me. He convinced me that I could lead an almost normal life if I would confine myself for those three or four days each month."
He paused.
"You're a young man, Dylan. You have your whole life before you. Don't throw it away; there's a a lot to live for."
"Oh, I have something to live for," Dylan said. "I want to see Nilos LaGory dead and gone, once and for all. That monster killed my parents and the girl I loved."
Quimby's eyes narrowed.
"Don't," he said. "That would be the biggest mistake of your life. It will destroy you, as it destroyed your father. LaGory killed your father's first wife and 'turned' her, made her his bride."
A haunted expression flickered in Quimby's eyes.
"Martica was a lovely girl, from Spain. She knew Stefan's secret and loved him anyway, and he adored her. One night, during the full moon, after LaGory claimed her, Stefan hunted down the vampire and surprised him in his lair. Had the upper hand. Then Martica threw herself in the way to distract him from LaGory. Stefan tore her to pieces before he realized what he was doing, and LaGory made good his escape while Stefan was reeling in horror at what he had done."
He shook his head.
"Stefan was never the same after that. He could never let go of it. He spent centuries battling LaGory. That vampire bastard is virtually impossible to kill; how do you kill something that's already dead? You can stake him and cut off his head, but if there's even a smidgen of his DNA in existence, he can be revived with a blood sacrifice. So take my advice; let it go - now."
"He killed my Melissa - like he killed Martica," Dylan said.
"And
nothing you can do will ever bring her back!" Quimby returned sharply. "If anything, you'll only get yourself killed. What will you gain by
that?"
When Dylan said nothing in reply, Quimby handed him a business card.
"If you're ever in England again, be sure to look me up; I have a clinic in London. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon."
He pushed open the door to the living room.
"Jacques, William - I'm finished. We can go now."
As the doctor turned to go, Dylan held out his hand.
"Quimby, I...thanks. I appreciate it, even if it doesn't seem like it. It's been a...rough month."
The older man smiled slightly as he shook Dylan's hand.
"An understatement, I should think. You've had a lot on your plate, son - far too much. You've had a lot of adjustments to make, and you've had to make them fast. It's not easy. I'll help you from here on out."
He hesitated.
"Something you should know. Your father loved you and your mother very much. He just had a funny way of showing it. I suppose it was easier to tell me than to tell you."
"Thanks," Dylan replied. "That's comforting to know."
The two bodyguards emerged from the living room and edged past Dylan, still wary of his latent powers. De Salle didn't spare him a glance, but Lightfoot locked gazes with him.
"Nice meeting you," the Navajo spat, sounding as if he were chewing on bullets. Challenge flared briefly in his eyes.
Then he moved on.
Quimby shook his head.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Dylan - or, more precisely, later today."
Dylan exhaled loudly after the door closed. He left the parlor and climbed the steps like a sleepwalker. When he reached his room, he donned a flannel shirt and a fresh pair of jeans, realizing there was no way he was going to sleep tonight. He was still reeling from the shock of what had happened. First the reappearance of LaGory and his mother's murder, then Quimby...
He left the house and strode briskly along the path by the lake. The sky had cleared, and the stars lit up the night like midday for his keen eyes. Before long he found himself at their favorite spot.
Melissa...
He walked out onto the huge sandstone boulder that jutted out over Vorcla's Lake and sat down. How often had they dived off this rock, fully clothed, and surfaced, laughing and sputtering, and then finding themselves in each other's arms?
That, of course, was as far as it had gone. He respected her, and her wishes.
And now she was gone.
Memories flooded Dylan's mind, happy ones, mostly. The day they first met in grade school, a couple of skinny eight year olds. Melissa was the new girl, and he made her feel at home. Even then, they talked of getting married.
Things went a little off course when Denise came on the scene, but he found his way back to Mel. It had been so perfect.
Then England...
He closed his eyes. The memories became a tidal wave, more than he could bear.
The images exploded in his mind - things that had been, and things that never would be.
Melissa...
His shoulders shook gently, and he finally found tears for her...
EPILOGUE
LONDON, ENGLAND
HYDE PARK DISTRICT
MAY, 1997
It was a beautiful night.
It seemed that it had rained for weeks. She realized that it hadn't of course, but the rain had seemed endless, relentless.
Gemma Harrison gazed out the drawing room window of the town house she had purchased in the tony Hyde Park district of London. The light of the full moon painted the gardens with a liquid silver luminescence, lending them an otherworldly aspect. The ivy seemed to glow in the dark, and the roses were shrouded in velvet black.
Her old neighbors would never have recognized her, elegantly coiffed and dressed in a Christian Dior ensemble. She was a far cry from the wild nature girl they knew. She glanced at herself in a mirror. Not bad. Only three weeks after she had given birth, and she almost had her old figure back. One of the benefits of youth.
Gemma wanted to raise her son in a more civilized environment than her woodland cottage, and the fortune her father had bequeathed her would allow her to do that. When the little one was old enough, she would take him there, to her place in the forest. Perhaps they would even live there part of the year. She had a staff maintaining it for her in the meantime, and she hoped to visit as often as she could.
One day her son would appreciate the natural world as much as she did.
As much as his father did...
She closed her eyes and reached into her jacket pocket. She had retrieved the crumpled piece of paper upon which Dylan had written his phone number in the States. He deserved to know about her son.
Their son - Michael Dylan Harrison.
She glanced at the paper, and then thrust it back into her pocket.
No. Not just yet. She wasn't prepared to tell him, wasn't sure what she would say. And he had hurt her; the pain was still fresh.
She wasn't ready to forgive him.
The door from the kitchen swung open, and Julia, her maid, bustled into the drawing room. She was plump and grandmotherly, with her iron gray hair drawn up in a tight bun. She was a jewel, really, and had been a godsend for Gemma.
"I'm finished, mum. Unless y'need me for anything else, I'd like to go."
Gemma glanced at the clock, startled. It was almost 10 pm!
"Oh, Julia, dear, of course you may go! Look what time it is - what were you doing? Don't forget to put in for overtime."
"Thank ye, mum. I'll see you in the morning," Julia said as she walked out the front door.
Gemma watched her stride briskly down the lane until she disappeared from sight. Then she climbed the steps to the upper level. She would get ready for bed and read for a while, but first she would check on the baby.
She slipped quietly into the nursery. Moonlight flooded the room and bathed the crib in silver.
Michael. He was so beautiful, like his father, with long, dark eyelashes and a cherubic little face. He already weighed twelve pounds, and was long and lanky. He barely fit in the blue sleeper he wore. His chubby feet stretched the footies to their limit.
She ruffled his golden curls and kissed his soft cheek, and he smiled in his sleep. That crooked, ironic smile was his father's, too. The resemblance was uncanny, and she felt a pang of remembrance in her heart.
"Good night, my little angel," she whispered. "Sweet dreams."
Gemma tiptoed quietly from the room and pulled the door shut behind her.
Michael stirred, rubbing his eyes. They flickered open and went wide when he focused on the ghostly orb of the full moon shining through his window. He rolled onto his belly and pulled himself into a standing position, cooing with delight as he reached for the shiny plaything that danced in the sky, staring at it in wonder.
And his eyes glowed amber in the dark...
THE END
will eat you!
Just the thought of having several little blond cubs running around with your hybrid werevamp blood is quite funny. You're the father of a new species to this two sided conflict. 
I'm definitely looking forward to Vorcla 3.
Re: Dylan Vorcla: First Moon (Part 20) - Conclusion
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