It’s You #2

Chapter 1

Three days. It’s only been three days since you’ve seen him.

Darcy sighed loudly from her usual spot on the window seat, taking another sip of her tea. Omnipresent tears burned her tired eyes like acid. At this rate, her face would be puffy for the rest of her life.

Overwhelmed by sadness and confusion, it was almost a relief to feel anger building inside of her since last night, because she’d rather be angry than sad.

And she was. She was so angry that she’d turned her back on him, leaving him to drown when he pulled her inside.

If she were honest, she’d admit she felt a little bad about that in spite of her anger and fear.

Because the thing was…she didn’t want to still care for him, but she did.

Regardless of her anger—her hurt and confusion and hopelessness and fear and revulsion—she still loved him.

Which was inconvenient since she could never be with him again.

Three days without him felt like an eternity. How in the world would she learn to live without him?

It was as though time had stopped since she returned from Jack’s house on Thursday morning. Just stopped, eking out in painful increments of dragging seconds spent away from him, trying to convince herself she was better off without him.

Nothing was beautiful or interesting or worth her time and attention.

Her book had been completely forgotten. She had skipped dinner at her mother’s house for the first time in ten years.

She hadn’t even checked her email to see if she was scheduled to teach next week.

She hadn’t left the house to do more than wander in the backyard garden for a few minutes yesterday.

Wearing whatever she found on her bedroom floor this morning, which happened to be worn-out denim cutoff shorts and an old sweatshirt frayed around the cuffs, she stared out the window at the dim light of the dying day, a book of Métis legends beside her, flipped over facedown to hide the charcoal sketch of a gruesome creature.

You’re used to not seeing him. You’re used to being apart from him. This isn’t any different from before, her brain reasoned.

Right, her heart fought back bitterly. But that was before. This is now. This is after touching him and knowing him and loving him. This is very, very different.

In her mind, her life was now strictly separated into two distinct time periods: BHW, or Before Honoria’s Wedding, when Jack lived in her mind merely as a lovely, poignant memory, and AHW, After Honoria’s Wedding, when Jack became the most complex, frustrating, captivating, mind-blowing slice of heaven Darcy’s life had ever known.

And then…

This isn’t any different? Think again.

She found out that she was in love with a Roux-ga-roux. A werewolf hybrid. A skinwalker. A dark, depraved creature of the night that hunted humans when the moon was full—or would, if he indulged his nature and allowed himself.

She shivered against the revulsion that made her stomach flip over and pressed her fingers to her lips, bending forward to put pressure on her stomach. The wave of nausea passed. She took a deep breath and a soothing sip of tea.

Flipping the book over, she looked at the picture again, feeling her pulse race as she read the short essay beside the picture for the hundredth time.

The Rougarou (alternately spelled as Roux-ga-roux, Rugaroo, or Rugaru) is a legendary creature found in the folklore of Laurentian French communities and linked to European notions of the mythical werewolf.

The stories of the creature known as a rougarou are as diverse as the spelling of its name, though they are all connected to francophone cultures through a common belief that finds its beginnings in the words Loup-garou (French pronunciation: [lu ɡa??u], /?lu? ɡ??ru?/).

Loup is French for wolf, and garou (from Frankish garulf, cognate with English werewolf) is defined as a man who transforms into an animal.

The creature has been associated with Native American/First Nations legends for hundreds of years, though there is some dispute as to its exact form and function.

Such folklore versions of the rougarou vary from being mild bigfoot (sasquatch) creatures to cannibalistic Native American wendigos.

Some dispute the connection between Native American folktales and the francophone rougarou.

As is the norm with legends transmitted by oral tradition, stories often contradict one another. The stories of the wendigo vary by tribe and region, but the most common thread in all legends is the appearance of violent cannibalism.

Cannibalism. She stared at the picture for a moment, then shuddered again and slammed the book shut. It didn’t help. She could still see it in her mind. Worse, she could see Jack in her mind, coming out of his garage on Thursday morning, his long, yellow claws retracting in the morning sunshine.

Don’t be frightened. I’m still me, his eyes had beseeched her.

Yeah, right. You, covered in dried blood with twelve-inch claws!

She swallowed another gulp of tea, glancing at the spine of the book. It taunted her, laughed at her.

Some scientist you turned out to be. Can’t even look at a picture without getting squeamish.

Darcy pursed her lips, furrowed her brows, and opened the book again, trying to look at the drawing objectively. She also tried to keep her stomach from revolting as she compared the drawing to what she remembered of her glimpse of Jack.

Overly large, golden, glowing eyes.

Well, she thought, slight exaggeration. Jack’s glowed, but they were of normal size.

Long, jagged claws hung by the side of the creature in the drawing.

Claws, check. But they weren’t jagged. More like swords or knives. Smooth, but sharp-looking, and slightly hooked at the end.

Fangs? Darcy hadn’t actually seen fangs, but she assumed they’d probably drop if Jack was fully shifted. So…fangs, maybe.

The drawing showed the creature covered in fur with pointy wolf’s ears. She trusted that he would grow some sort of body cover when he shifted, and she didn’t know about pointy ears, but they were certainly a possibility.

In the arms of the creature in the drawing was a woman, blood dripping out of a gash in her neck, making the fur of his chest slick and shiny.

Darcy took a deep breath, forcing herself to stare at the drawing.

There’s a reason it’s a drawing and not a photo, Darcy, and that’s because no one’s ever seen one.

Which meant that some of the facts could be wrong. Jack had indicated he didn’t hunt humans, even though his urges might lead him to if he weren’t locked up. So perhaps cannibalism was untrue of Jack, even if it was common in others of his kind.

She ran a finger lightly over the eyes, covering them, then uncovering them, looking for traces of humanity in the drawing. He was still in there, even when he was shifted, wasn’t he? He couldn’t lose all of his humanity, could he?

Her eyes welled with tears again, and she pushed them away, closing the book as she heard Willow’s car pull into the driveway.

She’d left early this morning to attend to a local patient giving birth at the hospital ninety minutes south in Berlin.

Once Willow got to the hospital, it wasn’t unusual for her to meet up with doctor friends for lunch, sit in on procedures, or purchase supplies for her own medical office.

Darcy had found a note in the kitchen when she finally got out of bed this morning. Four words: We need to talk.

While Darcy had spent a good deal of Thursday night crying on Willow’s shoulder, they hadn’t spoken much on Friday.

Willow checked on her before leaving for work and again at lunchtime, but Darcy sensed Willow didn’t want to validate Darcy’s claims by discussing them.

She was treating Darcy like she thought she was crazy.

Frankly, she had every right to think so.

Darcy couldn’t stop talking about skinwalking werewolves, retractable claws, and flesh-eating monsters. It sounded crazy to her too.

The kitchen door opened and closed, and she heard Willow taking off her coat. Darcy took a deep breath and braced herself, ready to listen to her friend tell her that she was going utterly and completely nuts.

“Darce?”

“In here.”

Willow walked into the dimly lit living room, tilting her head to the side as she regarded her friend with a sad smile.

“How you doing, kid?”

“Oh…” Darcy bit her lip to keep from crying, then shrugged, looking down.

She heard Willow take a deep breath and sigh.

“Have you left this spot all day?”

“I walked around the garden for a little bit.”

“How’d you sleep last night?”

“Not bad, actually.”

Truth be told, she’d started off the night tossing and turning, remembering the black wolf gasping and drowning in the freezing water, but she had ended up sleeping well.

She’d had a dream of the black wolf, of Jack in soul flight form, sleeping at her feet, and it had made her feel safe and loved.

She’d slept like a rock with him beside her.

Willow gestured to the book beside Darcy. “Interesting reading?”

“Just trying to figure things out.”

“On that note, I need to talk to you.”

Willow licked her lips, then pursed them together. She took a seat across from Darcy on the window seat and sighed.

“Willow, I know you think I’m crazy. I know you think—”

“You have no idea what I think, kid. Can I speak?”

Darcy shrugged and nodded.

“I talked to Jack yesterday.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I don’t think you’re crazy, but yes, I was worried for your mental state. I wanted him to stay away from you. You were talking about some wild stuff. Legends coming to life. Cannibalism. Monsters.”

Darcy nodded. When someone else said it, it definitely sounded like she was totally losing her marbles.

Willow took a deep breath, then held Darcy’s eyes. “Phillip Proctor.”

Darcy sat back. Of all the things she thought Willow might say next, mentioning Phillip’s name didn’t come close to making the list.

“Ph-Phillip?”