Wolves Reign: Blood Moon » Places

         Lauren returned to the house who's old decrepit structure felt more gutted than before. She couldn't sleep even after all that day's activity and sat in the kitchen, smoking one cigarette after another. On the refrigerator several of Jackson's grade school art projects hung. One was a picture from his kindergarten days in crayon of him and Lauren-- Lauren in her wolf form that was-- with him on her back. She had had to explain to him that day why he couldn't bring that picture to school to show his friends. Before then she had played off them being werewolves as a playful secret, their ability to turn into wolves a magical power. That day she taught him the consequences of revealing that power, and how it wasn't magic, but something in their blood that made them different. A difference that would alarm other people and get them in trouble if found out.

From that day on the questions never stopped from her son:

What was it like to be a wolf?
When would he change?
Where were the other werewolves?
What happened to them?
Would they ever find a pack?

Had she been more forthcoming with information perhaps a day like yesterday wouldn't have come. Yet she couldn't bring herself to be more honest. The truth was too brutal and too much of what had happened to their kind weighed on her. It was all her fault. What grief it would cause him to know the full extent of everything that happened. And how confusing it would be for him to realize he wasn't even like other werewolves either. He would never transform unless he willed it, not even on the full moon. He was stronger, faster, and his senses keener than any young werewolf she had known. He was like his father in this way, but that was about where the similarities ended.

What would his father think bottling up his potential and protecting him so? Teaching him they were no better or worse than humans? That they should honor all life, do unto others as you would have them do unto you, and protect all those weaker than themselves?

She could think of one word he'd say: pathetic.

No matter how hard all the facts were though, from what happened in the revolution to who his father was, she could see now that Jackson deserved to know it all. She had done a disservice to him by telling him so little of the past just to avoid the pain. He didn't know where he came from or who he was and now he had run away to go figure it out himself.

She got up from the kitchen table, putting out her cigarette in the sink then went up to her room. A quick search under the bed procured a suitcase that she had to unlock with a key she hid in her dresser. Once open, it was revealed to be chock full of newspaper articles, journals, and papers.

She took out a very old leather bound journal, filled with brittle yellow pages tied with a bunch of papers with scribbled translations on it. This was the journal Adam had kept and that she had tried in vain for years to transcribe so that one day, she might give it to her son when she became brave enough to share the truth. Perhaps the journal would have some explanation of why Adam had done what he did. An answer she felt not only Jackson needed but herself. It was time. She wanted it done so when Jackson came back or was finally found, she could tell him the truth and the whole story about his father.

But there was a problem. The calligraphic handwriting was too illegible for her and the language too old that what she could read and attempt to translate didn't make any sense. She sighed heavily and flipped through the journal with one hand, and held her Hungarian dictionary in the other. She would be 300 years old by the time she finished this project.

She took out her phone from her pocket, swiping the lock screen which was a picture of her and Jackson tentatively to open it. She stared into the brightness of the screen and all its apps testily. It was not long ago that Jackson had convinced her to buy something other than a flip phone once her last one had broken. It seemed like such an extravagant piece of technology and downright confusing to someone as old as her.

Jackson had told her she could find anything using the little search bar at the bottom, which she tapped and then pecked at the keyboard that popped up. She would search for someone who had the expertise to translate such a text. Her first searches were unfruitful, and it took her changing the keywords and throwing the phone several times in frustration before finally finding something useful.

There at the top of the search was a result for the university in Seattle, department for the study of lycanthropy, and upon following the link a list of faculty popped up. One visiting professor was just what she was looking for. An expert in linguistics and historical texts regarding Lycan kind.

She hesitated as she pulled up the link to the email. She sat cross legged on the bed, staring at the blinking line to begin typing. There were risks in seeking the truth and revealing that she had such an old text. It could raise questions about her and her identity.

She took a deep breath and began to type. The email began like this:

"Dr. Fabian Novak,

I have come to be in possession of an old text that I wish to translate and that I think someone like yourself may find interest in reading…"