Lykaia: Book One in the Sophia Katsaros Series Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Morgues, Zombies and Toe Tags

  Messages

  Lessons Learned

  First Date

  Stavros

  Legacy

  Megalopoli

  Evidence

  Orchomenus

  Illyanna

  Research

  There is Always a First Time

  Revelations

  Photos

  Ano Karyes

  Occam's Razor

  Initiation

  Ash Altar

  Fact is Stranger Than Fiction

  Procession

  Less Than Truthful

  Unexpected Guest

  Accalia

  The Priest's Book

  Finite Mass

  Notebook # 8

  The Time Is Not Now

  Human Eyes

  A Trip To The Zoo

  Farewell

  Magic

  Of Curls and Cussing

  Dinner

  For Everything There is a Price

  Metamorphosis

  Introspection

  A Plan

  Traditions

  Birthday

  Homecoming

  More Puzzle Pieces

  Zeus Lycaios

  Resolve

  A Mark is Given

  Reverent Silence

  The Tell Tale Heart

  Judgment

  Blood Magic

  A Discovery

  Mountain House

  Consequences

  Of Old Gods and New

  Tears

  Efarmostis

  Katagrafeis

  Phigalia

  The Final Test

  Carteron

  Blood

  In the Presence of the King

  Goodbyes

  Wolf Magic

  Waiting

  Curiosity

  Run

  Fog

  The Second Law of Motion

  Homecoming

  What Now?

  About Sharon

  Copyright © March 2015 by Sharon Van Orman

  The Sophia Katsaros Series Book One:

  Lykaia

  Published by: Lir Press

  Edited by: Kate Henning

  Formatting by: Wyrding Ways Press

  Cover Design by: Chris Paradis

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means – by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without prior written permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual places, events, and people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  It had been so long he was not sure he would still know the way. But like most things that become habit, the body remembers them, long after the mind has consigned them to distant memory.

  Through the center of the valley was a stream that laughed its way over rocks and boulders worn smooth from years of such treatment. The hills that rose on either side, thanks to this stream, stayed lush and green long after the rest of the country had been baked to harsh aridity by the summer sun.

  He paused to drink the cool water, enjoying the clean, crisp taste. They were chanting; he could hear them, even from this great distance. The corner of his mouth curled up in an approximation of a smile. He stood, stretched and then began to run towards the voices. Increasing his speed, he travelled up the lichen-painted stone steps that wound up from the valley floor.

  He felt the music long before he heard it, a deep thrumming in his core. The drums kept a steady rhythm that his heart heard and threatened to answer. At the edge of the clearing he sat and listened, hidden in the shadows, as the priest began to speak.

  “Long ago a great king ruled these lands, and to him were born fifty sons. They were strong and proud, wise and cunning. They built an altar to Zeus and worshipped him faithfully. But the god neglected his people. They grew angry. They wanted a sign of his blessing. Proof of his divinity.

  “The king threw a dinner party in Zeus’ honor. As a test, a human child was sacrificed and baked into a pie. If Zeus was truly a god he would know, and resurrect the child, and if not, then the he would never return to Olympus.

  “Upon tasting the pie, Zeus immediately knew what it was. He became enraged. ‘Because you have behaved like an animal, so shall you become!’ Then Zeus spoke the curse that had those gathered at the party shaking in fear. Where once the mighty king stood, sat a great shaggy beast. Wolf.

  “However, because the king had been a faithful follower, Zeus granted him a small reprieve. If the king abstained from eating human flesh for nine years, he would be returned to his human form.

  “Then Zeus collected all the pies, but there was not enough left of the sacrificed boy to revive him. And so, the father of all the gods made a memorial to the boy in the heavens. A constellation that the king would see whenever he hunted at night, forever reminding him of his foolishness for attempting to trick a god.

  “As the cold light of the constellation filled the night sky, the once great king raised his muzzle and howled mournfully.

  “We gather on this mountain, under the dark moon, the providence of Nyx, to offer our worship to Zeus. As is our custom, human entrails have been baked into this pie. Whosoever eats of it will follow in King Lykaonas’ footsteps and become Wolf.”

  This made him laugh. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, exposing canines that were white and sharp. A rustling to his left revealed the dark form of his brother. His shiny black coat made him almost impossible to see. Almost, but not quite.

  They rubbed playfully against each other in greeting. Their play became more serious as the younger brother, still trying to topple the elder, bared his teeth. A yelp from the black and a curl of tail ended the game. Hierarchy must be observed, even on this night.

  His attention went back to the clearing and those gathered there. The priest had been bringing people up here every nine years for nearly sixty years. He was old now and smelled of death. The wolf did not like this smell. He much preferred the smell of blood that flowed strong and sure through the hearts of those that knelt in the dew-covered grass around the ancient altar.

  So entranced was he in life’s ebb and flow that he almost missed the words of the priest. He was calling to them. It was time. As one, they entered the clearing. Their coats shiny, their muscles strong and sure. And again, as one, they shed their lupine form and stood on two legs. Some of his brothers were unused to doing so and swayed, unsteady in human form.

  He walked forward and spoke. As the eldest, it was his right and his duty. “You have been told a pretty story. Some of it is true. Most isn’t. We gathered on this mountain long before the idea of Zeus was invented by man in an effort to explain away the things that frighten him.”

  “We are the terrors that hunt the night. And we have never been human.” There was screaming then. And blood. So much blood. After he and his brothers had gorged themselves, they sang. Their voices lifting up to the moon who hid her face from view. Contrary to what was believed, she did not rule them.

  The people that lived in the shadow of the mountain heard the singing and locked their doors. Their ancestors had long spoken of a ceremony that occurred on the mountain and the pile of ash that served as an altar. Modern science and technology eschewed such things as folklore. But the part of man that remembered when all that stood between him and the darkness wa
s a roaring fire, could not, would not forget.

  He trotted over to the priest that knelt in the center of the carnage. It was likely the old man would not survive to lead these rites nine years from now when the cycle repeated itself. Truly, it would be a mercy to kill him. But the priest had served a purpose, and because the wolf was fat and sated he gave the priest the gift he had longed for.

  When next they gathered, there would be fifty-one.

  “It’s a boy!” the message said. He kept checking his phone over and over as he drove, just to make sure that he had read it correctly. Each time he looked at the glowing screen those words jumped out at him. and each time he smiled. A big, ear-splitting, wisdom teeth-showing, grin.

  He and Lacy were a real family now. Sure, they had been a family before, the two of them, but now they were three. Finally, after trying for so long. All those months when the test showed up negative after they were convinced it would be positive.

  All those months of watching his beautiful wife inject herself with hormones just so she could give him a child. He told her he didn’t need kids to be happy. And at the time that was true. He didn’t, but now as he read those words the world fell away and all that mattered was Lacy, the girl he had loved since the 8th grade, and this little child.

  They had decided to name him William. It was a tradition his grandfather had started when they came to this country. He was the third to bear that name, and his son would be William James Stanton IV. “It’s a good name,” he said out loud, liking the sound of it. “My son,” he said, liking the sound of that even more.

  He read the message again as he slowed for the red light. He was married to a woman he loved, they had a child, and life, it seemed, was perfect.

  ***

  My back ached from bending over for so long. An occupational hazard no one had told me about in medical school, but one I was intimately acquainted with.

  “Arthur?” I asked when I heard the door open. It squeaked, and no amount of lubricant seemed to be able to conquer it. Arthur, my intern, was due on duty any minute now. I elbowed the faucet on and rinsed the blood from my hands, watching the crimson dilute to pale pink in the warm water.

  I heard a groan, and stopped mid-rinse. I waited, wondering if I had imagined it, and then, there it was again. A low, drawn-out groan that sent chills dancing down my spine and raised the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. With the water still running, I turned and came face-to-face with my intern.

  My intern, whose skin was deathly gray. A deep gash ran down the side of his face, exposing muscles and bone beneath.

  “A zombie, Arthur?” I asked investigating the rather impressive make-up.

  “What?” he asked, breaking into a huge grin that highlighted the matching dimples on his cheeks; dimples that made him the office favorite among the secretaries and med students alike.

  “You work in a morgue,” I answered, fully expecting this to be all the explanation I would need.

  “Come on. It’s perfect. Admit it, you were scared,” he said, straightening his wig.

  “I don’t have to admit anything. But for a moment I was…concerned.” And that was all I was willing to concede. “You know, Arthur, if you had really sustained a head wound of that degree, there would be a lot more blood.” I turned and walked over to the second body that lay upon the gurney

  I had just finished the autopsy on Michael Weston. Aged 56, and life-long drunk. After several attempts, Mr. Weston had finally succeeded in killing himself.

  Oh, I didn’t think he did it on purpose, but driving and drinking don’t mix. The first two times he wrapped his car around a pole or a tree, managing each time to walk away unscathed. This time he hit another car head on. Sadly, Mr. Weston did not go alone when he left this life.

  “Who do we have?” Arthur asked in all seriousness as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

  Walking towards the end of the adjacent gurney I read the toe tag, “Stanton, William. Aged 28.”

  Three hours later, Mr. Stanton and Mr. Weston had been put back in their respective lockers. The bodies would be released to family members, and reports would be filed. Mr. Weston had died of a coronary event that had been completely unrelated to his drinking. It was a congenital defect that no one knew about, a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off. He was dead before he collided with the unfortunate Mr. Stanton, who, as a result of the accident, died of massive trauma to the head. And, just as I had told Arthur, that type of injury involved a lot of blood. Death had been assured of one. He got lucky, and took two last night.

  Halloween was in full swing by the time I pushed open the door with the squeaking herald. Arthur would keep things under control. Of that I had no doubt.

  The children’s ward that was on the eighth floor always held a party for the long-term residents and their families. The large gathering room in the basement, near the morgue, proved to be an ideal space to celebrate a holiday centered around the dead.

  I side-stepped a horde of princesses, vampires and pop stars and tossed my bloody scrubs, bearing my name, Sophia Katsaros MD, ME, into the bin.

  “See you tomorrow, Dr. Kat,” Arthur said walking down the hall towards the kids and their party. His arrival was hailed by squeals and laughter at his exaggerated zombie groans. I smiled despite myself and waved goodbye to the night nurse.

  Outside, the air was cool and crisp. Cincinnati had seen its last warm day. From here on out, the weather would turn colder, and the water would turn solid. My breath puffed ahead of me like a locomotive as I plunged my bare hands deep into my pockets. I liked the change in seasons. Just when I thought I would melt from the heat, autumn would drop its colorful veil upon the world. And just when the denuded trees verged on oppressive, crystalline flakes would fall, blanketing everything in icy splendor. And just when I thought that I would freeze solid, crocuses would emerge in my garden, and I would see the first robin.

  I liked order and balance, cause and effect, finding explanations. The seasons had order. I appreciated that about them. I had no room in my life for the unknown, unexplained or unimaginable. To me those things had reasons. They just had not been found yet.

  A small fairy ran past me. Her mother, who was pushing a stroller with a toddler dressed as a strawberry, was right behind her, frazzled but smiling.

  I smiled back at her and held open the door. She nodded gratefully and ran to catch up with her daughter, who left a trail of glittering fairy dust behind her. I laughed. The janitorial crew was going to love trying to sweep that up.

  I lived just a few blocks from the hospital. That was intentional. I liked to walk. The time alone and fresh air helped me unwind after a long day. And after years of examining the victims of car accidents, like the ones tonight, I was reluctant to put my life in the hands of other drivers.

  Dusk had come and gone, chasing the day and heralding the night. The street lamps hummed to life, casting puddles of florescent light. I could hear door bells ringing and children laughingly demanding treats and threatening tricks while their parents strolled along the sidewalks.

  The grisly scene from the hospital, while not erased, was mitigated to a bearable level. And like I had so many times before, I put my newest ghosts safely away in that room in my mind where all the rest resided. Every person I had ever examined, regardless of how they died, lived there. The day they became just a toe tag was the day I would retire.

  My building was an old warehouse that had been turned into lofts. I bought it years ago, before I could truly afford it, but having fallen in love at first sight, I couldn’t let it go. Now, I was glad of the sacrifices I had made to have it. All those nights eating frozen pizza and Ramen noodles were worth it as I unlocked the door to my fourth floor, completely modern, floor to ceiling windowed, apartment.

  I sighed in relief as the scent of vanilla, my favorite, wafted from a diffuser, a soft refrain to the harsh disinfectant that clung to me. I flipped on the lamp, flooding the entry-way with light, dropped my key
s and phone onto the table, and hit play on my answering machine.

  “Hello, dear, It’s your mother.” I was thirty-three years old, and she still thought she needed to identify herself on my machine. As if I wouldn’t know who she was. No one else asked me if I was eating, and when I was going to give them grandchildren. The pool of possible persons was decidedly small.

  “Hello, Mother,” I grumbled to myself as I kicked off my shoes. I padded over towards the sofa, taking a moment to enjoy the sparkling vista of city lights out the huge window. My mother droned on. She would until the machine cut her off.

  Wandering over towards my kitchen with the granite countertops that I had sent the builders on endless searches to find, I picked up two bowls from the floor and filled one with water and the other with dry food.

  As if by magic, my little gray tabby cat appeared, winding her way around my ankles. “Hello, Ailuros,” I said bending down to scratch between her ears. She rubbed against me and purred.

  The answering machine beeped, ending my mother’s lecture about how I wasn’t getting any younger. I had been trying to do that for years. I paused a moment and waited as the next message began to play.

  “Hello, dear. It’s your mother.” I sighed and opened the massive stainless steel refrigerator. Cool air greeted me, along with the musty smell of leftovers. I bravely opened a small white cardboard box decorated with a red dragon and peered inside.

  “Yikes,” I said, quickly closing it. I dropped the box in the trash silently, despairing at the sad state of my pantry.

  The answering machine beeped, announced the time, and went quiet. I waited to see if my mother’s electronic voice would begin again. It didn’t. After sorting through a pile of take-out menus, I decided to order my favorite, broccoli beef and steamed rice, from The Jade Garden down the street. Just as my hand reached for the phone, it rang. I jumped back in surprise, only just missing my cat, who glared at me in outrage and ran off.

  “Sorry kitty,” I called meekly, grabbing the phone. “Dr. Kat, here…erm… I mean, hello?”

  “Is this Sophia Katsaros?” A heavily Greek-accented voice asked.