Wolf's Soul (2 page)

“Fuck you, grim. Especially you Atos. When we meet again, your blood will drip on the ground until your puss ugly face dried up like a prune.” Callum conjured the image of the Blood Robbers mourning their traitorous leader. “Hell yeah! I"ll make it happen.”

Anger and a promise to get even with Atos and his clan gave him another surge of energy. He dug his paws on the soft ground and pulled himself until he was at the edge of the wooded area. A few feet more and he would be outside Marisol"s front door.

He could try sending Doctor Saint James"s daughter a message using his mind channeling. He knew Marisol would be able to hear him if he tried. Once, 13

while she was working, she looked up and stared at him when he"d said
later
as if she heard him mentally. That time was different though. If he tried sending her a message and heard his voice clearly right now while alone, she might think she was losing her mind. Hearing voices when no one was around, to humans, would mean real bad. Scaring Marisol wouldn"t do them both any good. Howling was out of the question. Wolves had impeccable hearing. If Atos were trailing behind, he"d be able to hear him from miles away. Among the many talents of wolves, tracking was one of them. Any sign—sound, scent, anything—could be used to track a prey.

He must be careful. It was pure luck that nature was on his side tonight.

Rain had been washing all traces of his blood. In his condition he wouldn"t be able to cover up his scent.

Once more, he gathered his strength and stood up. Behind the cluster of rhododendrons and cedar trees, he listened for any suspicious sound. Other than the sounds of torrent rain that pelted the wet ground he heard none.

He watched for anything that moved. The distance from where he stood and to Marisol"s door was short, but enough to be seen. If humans spotted him, he"d most likely die in their hands more so than get his neck broken by another Shape-shifter"s powerful jaws.

14

Callum looked at the house. Sheets of rain blanketed the house. Water poured from the gutter like transparent curtains. Mark had mentioned that he needed to work on the barn"s gutters, remove the pine needles, and reattach the aluminum pipe"s elbows. Now Callum knew what he was talking about. With the doctor gone, who would fix the gutters and rain drains? Marisol would have to hire someone to do it. Or…or if he survived from his wound, he"d offer his help.

That would be if he survived. So, first thing first, He must make it to the barn.

Raising his nose, he sniffed the air. He didn"t sense evil souls close by. It was safe to go.

Ignoring the blinding pain from his shoulder, Callum limped toward the barn. It took him a couple steps before his legs gave out and he fell flat on his stomach. Angry at himself and with Atos, he clamped his fangs on a broken thick branch lying on the ground. He tasted blood and dirty rotten wood. So fucking what? He didn"t care. He kept his firm grip on the wood, channeling his pain and anger, imagining it was Atos"s neck crunching between his teeth.

Keeping his emotions in check, he closed his eyes, sucked in his breath then let it out so slowly. Chest tight, he pushed himself up trying to remain on all fours.

His breathing was short and shallow. Fuck!

Through his hazy vision, Callum saw the barn door left ajar. Marisol must have propped it open with a bowl full of kibbles. If not raw meat. Leaving her door 15

open like that, one of these days, she"d find real badass robbers inside her home.

And for what? To leave him dog food and uncooked meat.

Damn.
When will she stop leaving food for me? I prefer my meat well-done and not bloody.

He wished he could tell Marisol that. To her, he was just a stray wolf. And wolves eat raw meat. But she had no way of knowing that his kind weren"t just wolves, that they were Shape-shifters—different in many ways.

Callum finally made it to Marisol"s barn. Using his better shoulder, he nudged the door open but unable to stop himself from losing his balance. His whole body landed on the floor with a loud thud. The door banged against the wall with an impact so strong it rebounded and hit his back. Pain stole his breath, he couldn"t even howl. Without moving his head, he tried to see inside the barn through his blurry vision. He didn"t see Marisol. Where was that woman? She was always here. He tried to yelp so Marisol could hear him but his mouth was sticky.

He swallowed and tasted something metallic. He tasted blood.

Unable to move, he remained where he was wishing for Marisol to appear.

Uncontrollable shivers racked his body but he didn"t care. He knew he"d be okay.

He was already inside the barn. Marisol"s barn.

He"d be okay.

16

Rain pounded hard and loud on the glass windows like pellets on an empty can. Marisol watched the beads of water roll down like fat tears to pool at the bottom of the window. The pinging sound lulled her for a moment. She loved the rain especially at night when she cocooned herself underneath her quilt. Her father used to like it, too. He said rain was good. It washed away the stink of the day.

Rain brought back good and bad memories, too, Marisol thought. Yeah, she had good memories of frolicking outside in the rain with her father. Lots and lots of them. Sadly, she couldn"t add anymore. Marisol sighed. Her dad had been gone for a month now, but his absence never failed to pierce her heart.

She would give anything to hear his voice, his laughter, and his grumblings once more. Since his death, coffee never tasted good, breakfast was boring, nights were lonely. Life lost its luster the day she lost him in the hospital.

Marisol imagined her father"s face smiling at her. God, how she missed him.

There were times when she found herself looking outside, waiting for him to come home, expecting him to darken her door calling her name asking what was for dinner. Many times, she felt as if he was still in the house with her. Or could it be just a wishful thinking? An inner longing, a call from a daughter to her father to come back and hug her again, to hush her fears and whisper that everything would be alright? Dad"s death seemed like a bad dream. The pain caused by the hollowed spot in the very center of her heart, though, was no illusion. It was as real as the 17

fact that she now fell under the category of an orphan—alone with no one to call a relative.

Another stab of pain made her hold her breath. How long would it before the pain goes away? Or would it ever go away?

Her nose stung and began to drip. She sniffed so loud she bet her father would have said something like, “
Mari, when your nose drips, that means you need to blow
that goop out of it.”
But he wasn"t here to give her a hard time. And he would never come back again.

Not fair, Dad. I still need you.

Marisol wiped the lone tear off her cheek. Life, she realized, was comparable to her clay. She could mold it the way she wanted it to be, but sometimes no matter how hard she tried, the clay would fall apart. Like her father"s life.

She pleaded to doctors and prayed to god to help save her father. But his wounds were fatal. He died at the hospital even before the nurses could start the blood transfusion.

“Keep the sword close to you. Guard it with your life. Practice using it. Practice, Mari.

Practice. I love you.”

Those were her father"s last whispered words. He wanted her to practice wielding the sword he put in her hands when she turned five. Why? For protection? From the animals that attacked him that night?
He
was the one who 18

had the need for it not her. Why had he not put it to good use like whacking the bushes instead of hiding it? He could have protected himself from whatever bled him dry. He could have been with her still. They could be sharing dinner and stories tonight and she wouldn"t have to face days and night alone.

“Damn it, Dad! I want you back. I want you back.” She angrily wiped her tears with the back of her hands.

What was the big deal with the old sword? She knew it belonged to her late mother. So what? What was so damn important about it that her father had to use his last breath to remind her to guard it like some precious stone? If he said take care of it because it cost a fortune, she would understand. To practice using it so she would become an expert swordswoman, now that idea she couldn"t get. Her father knew what she wanted—to see her pots on display in a gallery, to become a successful artist.

Oh, Dad. Was there anything you failed to tell me about the sword?

The sword was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Without a doubt, it belonged to times long past. Like the historical period. Thirty-seven and three quarters long, double-edged, leather wrapped around the handle, the guard and pommel were made of cast metal with designs that looked like entwined vines. To top it all off, engravings in Gaelic decorated the blade that scared the bejesus out of her when she read it for the first time.

19

In her native tongue, it read:
Cut thy skin and forever it will stay open. To bleed, to
feed the earth.

With its length, dang, it would definitely bleed anyone dry. When she held it in her hands she could feel power emanating from it. Or maybe it was just her imagination because she liked to think she was Uma Thurman in the movie Kill Bill each time she practiced swinging it.

Sighing, she looked up heavenward. “Mom, I know you wanted me to be good with the sword. Why? No one uses swords anymore for protection.

Gangsters use AK 47, .45"s, and Rottweilers. Dad showed me how to shoot. Guns could give same or better protection, I think. Alright. Fine, I"ll keep practicing because that"s what you and Dad wanted me to do. Take care of Dad for me in heaven, okay?”

Marisol veered her mind back to the night she arrived at the hospital. Her father was already in the emergency room. The doctor told her an animal attacked him. But he couldn"t tell what kind. He said the puncture wounds on her dad"s neck and arms were from pointed conical teeth. Like a dogs canine, but they were too deep to belong to a normal dog even a cougar. When she started asking too many questions, the doctor said they would have to wait for the lab results for a definite answer. However, he believed that wolves attacked her dad. A theory that Davis, the town sheriff, shared. He whispered that there had been cases of animal 20

attacks in the area and that her father wasn"t the first victim. As if it would make her feel better, he added that more traps had been set up to catch the beasts to prevent more killings from happening.

Fine. A wolf attacked and killed her father. Still, that didn"t answer the question about the loss of blood or the small amount left in her father"s body. He"d lost so much but very little was on his clothes. It was as if someone siphoned him.

Whatever or whoever caused his death, Marisol found out—from nights of reading her father"s documents—that her mother suffered from the same fate, too.

Deep puncture wounds and a broken neck killed her. Could it be that the same animals responsible for the death of her mother came back in the area eighteen years later? Or maybe they never left at all? What kind of an animal would siphon a human"s blood? Sheriff Davis, a man with an answer to everything, couldn"t come up with an explanation. He just told her not to blabber her questions around. Last thing he wanted was fear spreading like a wildfire on his island.

Marisol understood his meaning. Marrowstone Island benefited from the influx of tourists every year. News about wild animals
siphoning
humans would affect the tourism business here.

If the sheriff and the doctor couldn"t explain what happened to her dad and the other victims, then something sinister, perhaps evil, was happening in this town. Maybe a crazy lunatic, an escapee who had a penchant for killing people 21

and draining their blood, did it. How else could you explain what happened?

None of it made any sense.

She often wondered about the poultice she helped her dad mixed. How many times had Dad sworn that it contained healing powers because of her.

Marisol shook her head. Whether her special contribution, as his dad called it, really had the power to heal, he had lost so much blood she doubted the poultice would have saved his life. Besides, the poultice was for animals not for humans.

She tried it once on her scraped knees when she fell off a tree. It didn"t work. Puss formed on the open flesh before it finally scabbed. And, she"d never heard Dad use it for anything else other than the wounded wild animals he happened to find in the woods and whatever pets the neighbors brought in to his clinic. Marisol started thinking hard about the poultice until her head began to throb. Gah! She worked too long today. The clay fumes filled her mind she couldn"t even think straight. Tomorrow she would call the sheriff. Maybe he had more information to add about her father"s death.