The Loup Garou Society, Julie Steimle [reading tree txt] 📗

A Wolf’s Secrets

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

 

 

“So, did you read the book?”

Howard Richard Deacon III sighed heavily and pulled up the copy of Blood and Chocolate and wearily handed it to his father. “Yes…”

His father stared at him from his side of the car as it rumbled along the Rue de Flandre toward Rue La Fayette at his seventeen-year-old. It was summer, and he had taken his son along on his Paris business trip, the first one in a long time. “Did you actually read it and not just skim it?”

‘Rick’ Deacon moaned. “Yes, Dad. I read it. I read the entire lousy book.”

Closing his eyes, Mr. Deacon II shook his head. “It was important.”

“I don’t see why.” Rick practically sulked, staring out the window. Then he heaved a breath and said, “Why am I coming with you to Paris this time? After all these years, you told me you didn’t want me to get involved with the French, or the Germans for that matter. What gives? Why now?”

“They’ve requested you.”

Rick stared at his father. The man’s grave tone said volumes. His father was an unusual man. Besides being a multi-billionaire, CEO of Deacon Enterprises with diverse forms of business around the world, physically his father was an intimidating personage. The man’s hair was a peculiar, dignified mix of grays which made him seem older from the back. But when a person saw his face, they were startled at how hale he was. Dignified and quiet, Mr. Deacon's amber eyes often unnerved unfamiliar business partners. But he did not intimidate Rick. Rick replied, “Oh, really? So when did you start taking orders from the Loup Garou?”

Sighing, Mr. Deacon shook his head, staring back at his son who was a totally different animal from him, from his reddish brown hair to his wild wolf-gray eyes. “Things are a lot more complicated than you realize.”

Rolling his eyes again, Rick replied, “Oh? Does this have something to do with making me read a fictional werewolf novel? I mean, come on Dad. You and I both know this kind of stuff is nonsense. Why did you insist that I finish it before I get here? I know the Loup Garou Society is not just some environmentalist organization. You could have just said it instead of making me read something stupid.”

Mr. Deacon shook his head again. “Son, I had you read that book because I wanted you to understand pack mentality.”

His eyes leveling on his father, Rick stared dryly. “You’re kidding me.”

His father just stared back. There was so much wolf in his gaze, eyes that said he did not joke.

Shaking his head, Rick leaned back in his seat. “This is stupid. The Colorado pack is not like those fictional wolves in the b—”

“Not all packs are the same.” His father frowned deeply at him. “You should remember this from those Canadians you met in New York. They were like that. You know they wanted you to assimilate into their pack. Packs are desperate for fresh blood. But you don’t know anything else about their culture.”

Rick’s gray eyes flickered between something human and something else as he replied, “So? So they are not all the same? I don’t think the French are intending to make me join their pack.”

Nodding, agreeing, Mr. Deacon chuckled weakly, “No. They don’t want that. In their eyes, you have two failings against you—you are American, and you are a third generation wolf. That would make you troublesome to their community. I’m thinking of something else they will want from you.”

Nonplussed, Rick stared at him. “Like what?”

Sighing, Mr. Deacon said, “What did the Canadians want from you again? Malik and Lukas?”

Immediately, Rick blushed. It had been a year and a half ago at the time when Rick was still a student at Gulinger Private Academy in New York City when a pair of Canadian werewolves had tried to kidnap him so they could bring Rick back to their pack to provide fresh genetic material for their gene pool—the old fashioned way. The idea had been so absurd. It sounded outright backwoods cultish. Rick had barely escaped. Thing was, Malik and Lukas, the two Canadian wolves, had gotten killed by the Supernatural Regulator’s Association in Times Square—which Rick had blamed himself for. The SRA had been hunting him, but the two wolves had ended up in the crossfire.

“The French will want the same,” his father said.

Rick stared.

He leaned near his father, grabbing his wrist. “I thought the French were a civilized pack. The fact that they are headquartered in Paris… a number of their group live in this city as proof of that. You can’t be serious.”

He could see color coming into his father’s face, which was odd. The usually dignified businessman, who also happened to be hiding his double life as a second generation werewolf, was blushing with… Could it be? Shame?

“Dad… What does this happen to do with the book you gave me to read?” Rick stared into his face, trying to get a read on him. His father was one for secrets, the one thing he didn’t like about the man.

Closing his eyes, Mr. Deacon said in a low voice, “You are seventeen years old. It is about time I told you the whole truth. And part of it is best understood by reading that book. The author captured the feeling in such packs almost perfectly.”

“It is a work of fiction, Dad,” Rick said. “You and I both know werewolves originate through witchcraft—”

“Or a very powerful curse,” his father cut in.

Rick raised his eyebrows. Chills went down his arms and legs where he had hairs.

Grimacing, his father explained, “We don’t know the origins of all were-kind. You have seen enough of this world to understand that there are multiple ways of getting cursed.”

Rick nodded slowly. He did know. He had met numerous people at Gulinger High who had various kinds of conditions either though curses or by birth, and sometimes both. It complicated their lives. But since the day he had found out that he was a werewolf, back when he was thirteen, he had always accepted the story that werewolves were of three kinds only: the wolf turned to man, like his grandfather; the born werewolf like him and his father, carrying the genes; and the person with partial lycanthropic toxemia, which isn’t actually a werewolf at all but someone infected with the germs in a werewolf bite, and therefore curable. His grandfather had been made through witch magic, and it had been an awful curse which he had passed on. But now his father was disassembling the wolf-creation paradigm he had told Rick.

“Some packs believe they are not cursed but blessed with being wolf,” his father said.

“But don’t they still have to change on the three nights of the full moon?” Rick protested. “Don’t they still have to make a kill each night? How can they see it as a blessing?”

Mr. Deacon gazed on his son sadly. “I know you hate being a wolf.”

Rick closed his eyes. Finding out he was a werewolf had ruined so much. It wasn’t just the painful transformation, or the impetus to kill and devour something each night of the full moon, or even being targeted on a monthly basis by ruthless, unscrupulous hunters. But that his mother had left his father—and him—over them being wolves. He didn’t even know where she was… if she was alive or not. She had run off after her parents had committed her into an asylum for claiming that her son had transformed into a wolf and chased after her. It was his biggest regret.

He hadn’t meant to scare her. At the time, Rick had no idea what he was. He had been terrified himself when he went through that traumatizing first change. He didn’t realize what had happened until after his father had come home from a ‘business trip’ and explained it to him. He found out later that his father always had been gone from home on the full moon for that very reason, he didn’t want to harm him or his mother during his changes. And because Rick had not transformed at his first full moon of life. His father had assumed the curse had passed over him—only to have it pounce on him during puberty. People who knew Rick’s wolf side often said he was more wolf than most wolves—even while human… which didn’t make him happy though they had meant it as a compliment.

Painfully, Rick asked, “What does this have to do with the French?”

Seeing that Rick was taking the conversation more seriously, Mr. Deacon said, “The Loup Garou… they believe that they are superior to ordinary humans, that their condition is a blessing from the goddess Diana.”

Rick snorted.

“Don’t discount old legends,” his father growled warningly.

“Yes. Yes…” Rick moaned, waving it away. “I’m sure that Diana was some kind of fairy or elf messing around or had punished some human who had annoyed her, and they are now pretending it was a blessing. I get it.”

“You don’t get it,” his father said, his growl deepening. “You and I both know that elf folk are real and still around—though diminished. But most wolves who have lived entirely in their packs are mainly unaware of the rest of the unseen world. They would take offense if you hinted their goddess was an elf—or even a witch. So don’t you mention such a thing to them. It is a deep-seated belief. You cannot offend it. You cannot root it out. You would be branded a heretic if made a mock of it—and trust me, they dole out medieval justice against ‘heretics’.”

Sighing, Rick felt like grabbing his head. Medieval justice…. The unseen world loved doling out the brutal ‘justice’ under the noses of civilized human society. It was another reason he hated being a werewolf. Besides, witchcraft was most likely the source of the Loup Garou pack. His father had told him enough about their habits to know that they were no less cursed than he and his father were.

“The thing is,” his father said, leading on to something different, “there is more I need to tell you about my past history with them.”

Rick peered dryly at him.

“It is also related to why they requested that I bring you this trip.”

Waiting, Rick shook his head, wondering what the point was to their conversation. They had been driving from the airport to the Loup Garou Society headquarters in Paris, and they were finally getting close to their destination. They might not be able to finish their conversation in time.

“I need to confess something to you,” his father said.

Rick stared. “If it is worse than finding out that I am a werewolf, I don’t know if I can take it.”

Chuckling painfully, his father shook his head. “Not worse. Just… shameful.”

Sitting up, Rick stared at his father. “What do you mean?”

Cringing, his teeth almost elongating, Mr. Deacon had to put forth effort to get the words out. “I… When I was a young man, just after my father passed away—”

“Was murdered by the SRA,” Rick cut in, his resentment towards the SRA solidly founded. The SRA had also killed his grandmother when his father was just a pup while protecting him, and Rick also had defined scars from their encounters.

Nodding, Mr. Deacon continued. “Yes. Anyway, I was a mess. I was only nineteen, and suddenly heir to the entire Deacon fortune. A CEO with no clue how to run the business. And the SRA were following me nearly everywhere, waiting to catch me off guard.”

Rick sat back, listening.

“I sought refuge among the French pack,” his father explained. “They were excellent at hiding wolves, and I knew I’d be safe with them. The SRA had no clue where I was because of them. And while I was in Paris,