Wolf Omega: Lykanos Chronicles 2

We traveled for days in our werewolf form, keeping our distance from others and moving through whatever shadows we could find.

“We must place as much distance between us and home as possible,” Maximo insisted.

He was certain Duccio or the Sforza’s would hunt us, and he needed only to quote Sempronio’s last command to convince me that our grueling flight was essential.

I’d never been in my werewolf form for longer than a few hours at a time. Our exodus soon brought me face to face with certain practicalities for which I was unprepared. We needed food, so we hunted small game in the forest. Our predator bodies were able to devour and digest the uncooked meat. We needed fresh water, and so we remained near rivers and lakes throughout our journey. I needed to relieve my bladder and bowels quickly. It was an experience so unusual that you will never read another word about it from me. Suffice it to say that my longing for my lycan body soon launched a campaign of debates with Maximo.

“How do you intend for us to do that?” Maximo finally countered with more than just a shake of his angry head. “We have nothing. No currency or valuables. Not even clothing to shield us from the elements. Do you intend to take them from bandits? Will we locate a ruffian wearing a dress in your size?”

“I will be fine in the simple tunic of a farmer’s wife. It’s easy enough to fetch one.”

“To steal one, you mean? Is that how you intend to solve our problems now? Go ahead, steal a dress. Steal a horse and a purse. Hell, steal a castle while you’re at it, and we can sit there to wait for Duccio.”

Maximo stopped moving and turned to me with growing anger in his eyes.

“We are running for our lives, do you not understand?” he growled.

“But running where? Where are we headed but toward the setting sun?”

“We’re not yet past Sforza’s border. From there, we walk through the Brunello domain, who are no friends to us either. Past them will be the pack of Pont-Saint-Martin. And past them... I pray to find someone who will not be on the lookout for foreigners, though that is foolishness. Everyone knows Sempronio’s name, and when word reaches them of the master’s death, they will never receive us kindly as refugees. Even the least of our enemies will hunt us for his secrets. Some will hear his name in the anguish of our passive thoughts. So we have no choice—we must be rogues.”

“To what end? Will we exhaust ourselves to live as werewolves forever?”

“I don’t know!” Maximo shouted in frustration. “I don’t know how.”

He turned from me and sat down heavily against a tree. In seconds, he reduced to his lycan form. With his knees pulled to him, Maximo held his head. He was suffering the same as me.

Seeing him filthy and naked in his sorrow, I stopped my retribution to sit beside him. When I lay my head silently against his shoulder, he wept without a sound.

“I don’t know how many others Duccio killed,” Maximo whispered once he could, “but I hope you remember all Father told you. His works are gone. I saw his study in flames before Duccio killed him. The entire library—all his creations—nothing could’ve survived it. We may be the last to know anything of his wisdom.”

The words paralyzed me.

My mind raced through everything Sempronio had ever said to me; of every drawing, map, schematic, or painting he’d shown me. I scoured my memory in vain for the master’s observations on this subject or the next. All of it was but a ghost impression, lingering intangibly in my memory.

I wanted nothing more now than an ink quill and writing parchment—some way to capture every fragment that was still available to me—before it all disappeared.

I placed my small hand under the crook of Maximo’s shoulder and pulled myself to him. I thought of the cruel loss, the ages of wisdom that were no more, and of the last true Omega I would ever know. Pressing my eyes into Maximo’s flesh, I shivered and wept along with him.

By the end of the week, we were high into the alps. At the dead of winter, the weather made the crossing treacherous. We would’ve died there if not for the heat of our werewolf forms. But the journey up and over those impossible slopes had one inarguable advantage: we rarely came in contact with anyone. For days, I sensed only lesser animals. The few humans we eventually passed by hid in caves or huddled in their small houses, where they waited quietly for spring to release them from the brutal cold.

We hadn’t come across a single lycan since passing through Pont Saint Martin. There we’d managed to evade detection even as we cut right through the small river valley inexplicably filled with dozens of lycan. Their minds stood out to me because of the patois that colored their voices. It was my first genuine encounter with a different flavor of my native language, and I couldn’t help but listen to it. Maximo led me away quickly once he realized how close we’d come to their den.

In the quiet village of Val d’Isère, which lay in a small hamlet surrounded by towering white peaks, I decided that I was ready to stop our flight.

“Let me try,” I implored.

“For what purpose?”

“If I can do this, it might mean the opportunity for us to rest, at least for a short while. Perhaps even until winter breaks. There are no lycan in this valley. I’m sure of it. There can’t be more than two hundred people in total.”

I pointed to a small house near the edge of the little village. It was unisolated, but I doubted even the closest neighbors would see me approach the front door once the sun had set. The solid-looking two-story structure sat under a fresh heap of snow with smoke rising from the chimney, promising the inviting warmth of a fire. After a week of fleeing through freezing mountains, keeping warm only because of Maximo’s unforgiving pace, I craved that promised fire more than anything.

“We cannot run forever,” I implored, laying my head slowly into his chest.

With reluctance, he embraced me as a sign of agreement.

We waited another hour until darkness fell and watched the movement in the village slow for the night. When I was confident, I stepped out from the tree line and crossed swiftly through the clearing until I stood only ten paces from the house.

I thought of everything I’d watched Duccio perform; what I’d seen when I followed him into the minds of humans. I remembered all Sempronio had told me about mens permuntandis. This was a violation, and I must do everything possible to keep the people inside from being harmed by it.

I listened to their minds, seeing image after image of their surroundings. I pulled on memories, quickly discovering all I could.

There were two people inside—a man and a woman—Jacques and Hélène Pummeroy. Both were older, and they’d not been apart in over thirty years. Their bedroom was on the ground floor, and only Hélène ever traveled upstairs anymore. There, she would remember both her children—where they slept together and played. Their daughter, Veronique Michèle, had moved to Avignon with her husband a decade ago. Their son, François Aoustin, had died in battle just last year. Both parents still mourned him painfully: Hélène among her memories upstairs, and Jacques in stoic silence, avoiding his memories altogether.

Both had just sat down to dinner, and I tasted the delicious hot broth they sipped. I knew their language reasonably well based on Sempronio’s literary assignments, just as I spoke all the decedents of his native Latin. When we’d begun our ascent into the alps, Maximo insisted that he at least spoke modern French, and I felt these people would be my best chance to succeed at this trick.

I began with Hélène, installing an image into her field of vision. Before her eyes, I placed rushing water, a small stream that moved gracefully from left to right. Its delicate white noise calmed and soothed her. When I was sure she could see nothing else, I moved on to her husband. In his mind, I planted a quiet forest filled with singing birds, where leaves of red and gold fell gently to the earth beneath.

When I knew I’d succeeded, I approached the front door and pushed on the handle to find it open. Calling to Maximo, I waited only moments for him to arrive and enter the house. I followed and closed the door behind me.

“They cannot see or hear us,” I assured him.

Maximo couldn’t hide his astonishment.

Feeling the heat in the room and allowing my werewolf form to fall away, the armor of my protector receded to expose my lycan body. At once, I went to the kitchen and poured water into a small basin. Taking a rag, I bathed my body quickly, wiping off the dirt and filth of my journey.

Maximo’s authentic form soon followed, and he allowed me to cleanse him thoroughly. Stealing into their ground floor bedroom, we found suitable clothes and dressed each other. Maximo groomed his hair with a comb, and I pulled mine into a neat bun.

Returning to the main room, I instructed him to sit at one of the dinner table’s remaining empty chairs. I pulled two bowls and filled them with the surviving broth that sat warming by the fireplace. When I’d served us and taken the last remaining chair, I exhaled my anxiety for the next step.

“I am their daughter, Veronique,” I said to Maximo. “I have been away for many years, living with my husband in Avignon. We have several children, but they’re at home with your parents. We have come for me to grieve over the loss of my brother, François, who died at sea in the Battle of Texel less than a year ago.”

I picked up my spoon and placed it to rest inside the bowl as if I’d just set it down while eating. I expected that I’d only have moments to make them perceive us as Veronique and her husband once I removed the calming scenes with which I’d blindfolded their minds.

“Wait,” Maximo stopped me when I exhaled and closed my eyes. “What is my name?”

Startled that I hadn’t thought to search for it, my stomach dropped, and I struggled to collect myself. I couldn’t find the name readily in Hélène’s mind, but I heard the surname, Comtois, from Jacques. He didn’t know more or couldn’t remember. Both my new parents saw my husband’s face quite clearly, but neither could reveal his surname. The very idea baffled me.

“Monsieur Comtois.”

Maximo turned his head slightly, clearly waiting for the rest.

“They call me Monsieur Comtois?” he asked incredulously.

I was as baffled as he was. With a sigh, I shrugged my shoulders.

“Your name will be... Maximilien,” I smiled.

He couldn’t help but smirk.

I enacted the changes within seconds, removing the calming scenes and allowing them to see the bowls of broth before them. They both picked up their spoons as if nothing happened and resumed their dinner.

Starting with Hélène, I touched her left hand that lay relaxed in her lap and rubbed it softly. When she realized the sensation, the woman looked to me, and I placed the image of her daughter’s face over my own, wearing it like a mask.

“Maman?” I whispered.

Hélène’s reaction was at first confusion, but then rapidly became elation. She burst out with cries of joy, pulling me to her and showering me with kisses. She clung to me, calling me by my pet name over and over—mon doux ange. I felt her tremble and struggle to breathe from her unexpected happiness.

Jacques stared at the scene in bewildered silence.

“Monsieur,” Maximo said, placing his hand lightly on the man’s wrist and beaming with a warm smile.

Jacques recoiled slightly, staring at the stranger in mild shock.

I raced through my new father’s mind and replaced the memory of his son-in-law with Maximo’s handsome blond face. I even colored the memory with the name, Maximilien.

The change in Jacques was palpable, and he inhaled deeply as unreserved delight spread across his formerly dour face.

“Mon fils,” he said, dropping his spoon to place his hand onto his son-in-law’s. “When did you arrive?”