Lykaia: Book One in the Sophia Katsaros Series Page 3

  Massive cedars and hardy deciduous trees embraced the house, adding camouflage and protection from any that dared tread too close. He did not want to go, and dug his heels into the dirt. “Stavros!” his father said, the word a whispered warning. He did not need to elaborate. The boy knew that tone, knew the fight was over before it truly began, and so with feet made of lead he followed his father up the stone steps and through the solid oak doors that closed with a resounding thud behind him.

  The house had been dark and foreboding from the outside. The boy had expected the same on the inside, but that was not the case. Dark slate tiles in a variety of deep grays and greens swirled with brown were laid out in an interlocking design. Mellow pine paneling, gleaming and smelling of wood soap, covered the walls, reaching to his father’s shoulders. From there, white plaster stretched up towards the ceiling that was lost to shadows in the vault of beams that supported the structure and the floor overhead.

  Down the hall, he could see a great room with a huge fireplace, stacked with stone as the house was, blazing away with a roaring fire. To his left was a wooden staircase that reached up towards the second floor, questing like a lover. On his right was a set of double doors, cracked just enough to give him a glimpse of a library brimming with books.

  Stavros loved books, a fact for which his brothers and classmates teased him mercilessly. His fingers itched to push open the door, to breathe in the scent of the leather chairs that were clustered around the fireplace, to crack open a book, run his fingers down the words printed there, and escape. Escape to a world that held laughter and joy, not pain and fear. A world where the blue sky welcomed him, and the sun warmed him, not scorched him, as was its wont.

  Again, he was called in that same unyielding voice, and again, he followed. They walked towards the stairs, but they did not go up them. His father reached up, pushed the corner of a gleaming panel that opened with a click. A set of stairs led down into the darkness. The boy looked and gasped. He did not want to go and pleaded with his father not to make him. A cuff on the side of his head made his ears ring and his resistance melt. There had never been any doubt he would go. He should have saved himself the effort and spared himself the pain. But his spirit would not let him go quietly.

  His father went first, taking the lantern with him. The boy followed, one step at a time, holding tightly to the rail. His knuckles shone white from the effort.

  The main floor had been merry and warm. As he descended the temperature dropped. A scent tickled his nose. It smelt damp, musty, like a dog just let in from the rain. He stepped off the stairs, almost crashing into his father, who had stopped. The lantern swayed, the flame flickered, the oil within sloshed, and little eight-year-old Stavros screamed.

  The room, floor to ceiling, was the same unrelenting stone, all save the back wall. That was chiseled granite. Carved out of the mountain itself, it glistened with rivulets of water that trickled down its face, disappearing into the cracks of the floor, to be absorbed by the thirsty soil below.

  A fireplace at the end of the room, yards away, blazed in a hearth seven feet high. And before that hearth, backlit by the flames, sat a man. But that is not what wrung the scream from the boy. It was the wolf that regarded him with gleaming canines and fetid breath. The biggest wolf that Stavros had ever seen. And though his experience was limited to books, this wolf seemed larger than any wolf should be.

  His father glared at Stavros and walked around the wolf, leaving the boy to stand confused, numb with terror, and rooted to the spot with shock. The wolf rose, his fur so black that it seemed as though Nyx, goddess of midnight, had blessed him. His nails clicking on the stone floor, he nuzzled Stavros in the stomach, the neck, and groin, taking his scent, breathing it in, as if remembering him, naming him, claiming him.

  A scream bubbled up in Stavros, threatened to escape, but deep inside he knew he should not. His father would not look kindly on him for screaming again. And so he bit his lip. Bit it so hard it bled, the taste of iron coating his tongue. The wolf smelled it and licked Stavros across the mouth, taking the crimson drops with him. And then he turned, cocking his head like dogs do. Only this was no dog. He was a wolf.

  “Our family has tended this pack since the time of the Romans and before. We were here when they came, and we have been here since they left. It is our sacred duty,” his father said. The boy listened. It was what was expected of him. He always did as he was expected, as he was told. The choice had never been left to him.

  He swallowed and stole a glance at the man he had seen earlier. He sat, or more accurately, sprawled, over the massive chair. Stavros would have called it a throne, had anyone asked. No one did.

  The man had one leg draped over the arm of the chair. Brown leather pants covered him from ankle to waist. His chest was bare. On his shoulder and down his right arm was an intricate tattoo. The boy was fascinated by the swirls and designs and imagined, for an instant, that within the dark vines a wolf peered at him.

  “Stavros!” his father yelled, drawing back an arm. The boy flinched; the man growled, a low, menacing growl that reverberated in his chest. The black wolf trotted over and sat next to the boy, between him and his father. He sat on his haunches, his golden eyes level with the boy’s. His father paused, let his arm drop.

  “Discipline must be measured, not enjoyed, Yannis,” the man said from his throne. His father said nothing. The boy was amazed, and for the first time, he met the eyes of the man. The fire light cast him in stark relief, highlighting every inch of sculpted chest and muscled arm. This was a man that commanded attention. Demanded respect. A leader. Alpha.

  The man leaned forward, beckoning to the boy. Stavros went, taking cautious steps forward. The black wolf at his side went with him, nuzzling the hand of the man who buried his fingers into the inky fur. “Hello, brother,” he whispered. The wolf whined, tilting his head so that his ears might be scratched.

  “He will not hurt you,” the man said, indicating to Stavros to touch the wolf.

  His hand stretched towards the wolf, who, seeing his intent, leaned into him, brushing the boy’s slight body with his massive one. His tongue lolled out of his mouth in a wolfish grin. The boy, enchanted, smiled back and wrapped his arms around his neck, burying his face in the ebony fur. As the wolf had done, so too did the boy; he inhaled, capturing the scent, holding it to him, striving to remember it, though his nose was not meant for such things.

  “This is Orchomenus,” the man said. “He is the youngest of my brothers.” The wolf leaned against the boy. Having been named, he seemed happier, and nearly knocked the boy over.

  Stavros laughed. His father cleared his throat. It was all he needed to do. The boy let go of the wolf and stepped back, head bowed. Chastised by a sound, cowed like a beaten pup. Because he was not looking, he did not see the strike, but he heard it. And when he looked up, he saw his father on the ground, his nose streaming blood like a river. The man stood over him, his face like a thundercloud.

  “I am Alpha. This boy that you brought is now part of my pack. I will discipline him if need be. Not you. Not again. You would do well to remember my words. I do not enjoy repeating them.”

  Orchomenus brushed up against Stavros in a silken slide of fur. His tail wrapped around Stavros’ feet. The smile was gone. A snarl curled his lip. Silent, but no less menacing.

  “Shhhh…it’s ok, boy,” Stavros said, hugging the wolf again. He could see his father lying on the floor, unmoving, his hands raised as if to fend off another blow.

  The man and his father simply looked at each other. His father looked away first. The man smiled and walked towards the boy. “I am Meleanus. This is my pack. Here I am king. Your family has served me well. Will you do as they have done? Will you serve us, Stavros?”

  No one had ever asked him if he would do anything before. He had always been told. To an eight-year-old boy, the wolf king was a hero. He had done what the boy had always wanted to do, defeat his father. The cinder-colored wolf whined,
imploring the boy to answer. And so he did.

  “Yes, I will serve you.”

  Twelve hours, two connecting flights and one very long bus ride later, I was finally in Greece, in the province of Arcadia.

  As the bus ambled its way from the capital of Tripolis to Megalopoli, I had time to take in my surroundings, to reflect on what I was here to do, and to finally allow myself to acknowledge the fact that both my brothers were missing, and had been missing for nearly two months.

  I worked around law enforcement enough to know that the first 48 hours were crucial. If a person was not found then, the likelihood of them being found was reduced exponentially as the hours, days and weeks went on.

  I had spent the last few days convincing my mother that everything was alright. That they had just been distracted. Or that they went hiking in an area that did not get cell phone service. Somewhere along the way I had almost managed to convince myself. Almost.

  That small voice that championed reason also insisted that something was very wrong. I had refused to listen to it, if only so it would not show on my face when I talked to my mother. She would know in an instant and my doubt would encourage the growth of hers like water to a thirsty plant. I had to stay convinced.

  But now that I was here, I could let that go, to think, to consider that what I would find might not be good. The pain that gripped my heart was sudden and fierce. My breath left me in a rush, and my vision swam as tears pooled.

  Grateful I was not driving, I let my head fall forward against the seat in front of me. My tears fell silently, as all the fear and stress that I had been holding back, finally given free reign, burst forward like a swollen mountain stream after the spring thaw.

  I don’t know how long I sat that way, my forehead resting against the seat as we bounced and jostled our way over the long highway that had only seen pavement within the last couple of decades.

  Eventually, my fear subsided to a manageable level and that other voice, the one that enabled me to do my job without breaking down, demanded that I set these emotions aside. And because it seemed the only possible solution, that is what I did.

  I swiped my hand across my eyes, ignoring the look of concern from an elderly woman across from me, and beheld for the first time, Megalopoli. This is where my brothers shared an apartment. This is where they were last seen. And so, this is where I went.

  I heard it said that Americans think 100 years is a long time, and Europeans think 100 miles is a long way. I had covered both space and time in one leap and was left reeling from the transition. Thousands of miles across land and ocean had taken me back in time to a city that had existed over a thousand years before Christ. Ruins of Roman roads, graceful arches of a once mighty aqueduct and scattered blocks of marble that had once been a great theater littered the countryside.

  Megalopoli literally meant “great city”. It is believed that this is where Zeus defeated the Titans with his mighty lightening bolts. This is where the Spartans saw one of their few defeats. And there on the mountain that rose majestically in the background is where a once proud king was said to have angered the father of the gods and become the first ever lycanthrope.

  I knew my Greek history. My father had seen to that. After he passed I made an effort to learn more. Who knew when a small piece of information would prove useful? The lynchpin that would solve the puzzle, supply the answer to a conundrum. I liked answers. Questions bothered me.

  As we crested the hill, the city stretched out before me. The sun, once believed to be the fiery chariot of the god, Helios, was making its descent. Golden light filtered through the clouds, painting everything in gilt. The olive groves and fields just recently harvested covered the valley floor like a patchwork quilt. White houses with red clay-tiled roofs were dotted about.

  Once the god and his mythical chariot went behind the mountains, the transition from day to night ended abruptly. Dusk was short-lived, defeated by night that stripped the color from the land and bequeathed a spectrum of gray that only the sporadic appearance of headlights from oncoming cars relieved.

  I had finally come home to Greece. And despite the reason for my trip, I allowed myself a small smile.

  Medical school taught me a lot of important things, not the least of which was the ability to sleep anywhere and anytime. When you are an intern and then resident the shifts are brutal. And sometimes you go for more than 24 hours without sleep. So, when the opportunity to sleep presents itself, you learn to seize it.

  I checked into my hotel room around 10 p.m., walked in the door, tipped the bellman for bringing up my luggage, brushed my teeth and passed out on the king-sized bed.

  The following morning the sunrise peered around the heavy drapes and found me still sprawled on the bed. Over the years I had also learned to wake up instantly. When you were on ER rotation, sneaking a nap in the backroom, there was no adjustment time. You had to be on your feet and running. Gunshot wounds, heart attacks and pregnant women in labor did not wait for groggy med students to finish their coffee.

  Thankfully, I did have the luxury of taking time for coffee and breakfast. My room had a small terrace with a wrought-iron bistro set that overlooked the mountains. I savored my drink, black, no milk or sugar, inhaled the delicious aroma and surveyed the vista spread before me. It is said that Zeus was born in these mountains. I could certainly see why it was thought that. They were beautiful.

  Rolling hills flirted around the base of the peaks before making the climb upwards. A blanket of verdant growth, so lush and green a haze floated over it, almost as if a vapor layer had descended for a foggy kiss, spread out before the mountains.

  An hour later, I was dressed and on my way towards my brothers’ apartment. The bus ride had not endeared me to Greek drivers any more than I embraced Ohio drivers. And so I walked.

  Mr. Andreas, their landlord, remembered me, and my money, no doubt, from our phone call. He handed me the key. A cryptic “good luck” was all he said before disappearing down the hall.

  I had with me my evidence kit. If my brothers had left any clues, I would find them.

  Investigators always brushed doorknobs, even though they were notorious for smudged, partial, and overlain prints. I wasn’t dusting for prints; even still, I snapped on a pair of latex gloves before I touched the doorknob.

  Locard’s Exchange Principle explained that where there is contact between two items, there will be an exchange. I would pack up my brothers’ belongings later, but for this initial search, I wanted to keep any further transfer of evidence to a minimum.

  I put the key in the lock, heard the tumblers fall into place, and opened the door. I knew immediately that someone had been there. Nothing was out of place, at least not any more than my brothers had left it, but the sense that another presence had been there was strong.

  The windows were bare. Only metal blinds afforded the possibility of privacy. They had been pulled up, allowing light to stream in. Red terra cotta tiled floors spread out before me, unmolested by rug or carpet.

  To my left was a small kitchen that spilled into a modest living area. On my right were three doors. Two turned out to be the bedrooms, with the bathroom in between. Closing the door to the apartment behind me, I stood for a moment imagining my brothers there.

  Dimitri was 23, tall, about 6 feet. Taller than my father, but almost the spitting image of him. Dark curling hair, deep brown eyes, and lashes that any girl, including myself, would envy. He had just graduated college with a degree in archaeology, with an emphasis in Greek history.

  Ciro was 21 and a musician. And where Dimitri went, Ciro followed. My youngest brother, the artist. Girls loved him, and he loved them. He had the same dark curling hair and height his older brother had. But where Dimitri had brown eyes, Ciro’s were pale blue. A gift from my mother.

  I was 10 years old when Dimitri was born. My mother had almost given up hope of having more children, and then along came a son. A couple of years later Ciro arrived. I was fascinated with them.
I would rush home from school just so I could be with them.

  When I went to medical school, I did not see them as much, but we always kept in touch. When they went to Greece they said they’d be back in time for Thanksgiving. I knew they wouldn’t be in constant contact. So, when I hadn’t heard from them, I honestly didn’t think anything of it.

  Whoever had been here had searched the cabinets, making sure to shut everything and keep it all in its place, and still I could tell things had been moved. A fraction of an inch here, a door slightly ajar there. Someone had searched. For what I had no idea.

  Ciro’s room was first. Clothes littered the floor, but knowing my youngest brother, this was probably his doing, not the unknown visitor’s. A double bed flanked by matching nightstands, each with an earthen-ware lamp, was the only furniture in the room. I opened the closet, found his suitcase and the charging pad he used for his electronics. He must have taken his phone and iPod with him. Their cases and such were here. They weren’t. But his laptop was.

  “That’s strange,” I whispered to the empty room. I opened the laptop and powered it on. The password page immediately showed. I closed it, deciding to mess with it once I was back at my hotel. For the time being, I gathered Ciro’s empty suitcase and started putting things in it.

  I collected his passport, a few random pieces of jewelry that he would wear when he went out, and a t-shirt. But only because I could smell my brother on it, and it comforted me.

  Dimitri’s room was next. Just as before, I found his laptop and travel documents. No phone or mp3 player. I was hoping that they had their phones with them. If they did, there was a chance we could trace the location.

  I also took some notebooks that Dimitri had made meticulous notes in, as well as a camera that sat by his bedside.