Lykaia: Book One in the Sophia Katsaros Series Page 5

  I frowned. Obviously, my brother took these men to be more than just myths. The fact that each had an eponymous city did not make them real. Otherwise, Athena, having Athens named after her, would be real as well. But what caught my attention were notes that he made, tracing the men down through the ages. Actual historical events were noted, along with newspaper clips and photos, some showing the men dressed in the fashions of decades, if not centuries, after they should have died.

  There were no photos of the youngest brother, Orchomenus, but there were details about the city that bore his name. Pausanias, Theophillus and Homer all made mention of the kingdom of Orchomenus. And yet there was no mention of its founder. Instead Dimitri had written one word, “Omega.” A photo of a black wolf trotting through the countryside had been stapled to the page.

  I set that notebook aside and picked up the second one. “Lycanthropy” was the heading and under that the definition, “Lycanthropy is the study of the professed ability or power of a human being to undergo transformation into a werewolf, or to gain wolf-like characteristics. The term comes from Greek Lykànthropos. Lykos ("wolf") + ànthrōpos ("human").”

  I skimmed through his notes, which covered cases of lycanthropy from the time of the Inquisition to the modern day.

  After that were notes on “sirenomella,” or mermaid syndrome, which I remembered vaguely from medical school as a congenital condition where a person was born with the legs fused together.

  He also had notes about Cyclopes syndrome, where the fetus failed to divide the ocular orbit in two. Dimitri even had photos of embryos with Cyclopes syndrome that were kept in medical museums.

  I read on, fascinated by his notes. I could easily follow his line of thinking and so was not surprised when he arrived at porphyria. The term basically meant “purple pigment.” It was an enzyme imbalance that caused the urine to turn purple during an attack.

  My brother had highlighted known cases, concentrating on those that had symptoms of increased hair growth, light sensitivity and animalistic behaviors.

  “What on earth are you driving at, Dimitri?” I asked myself. The amount of research that he had done was impressive. His notes were concise and well-documented, with a list of references.

  I tossed that notebook aside and grabbed another. This one was all about wolves: their physicality, their social structure, and their known packs.

  Another book was about an excavation. This one caught my interest for several reasons. Dimitri had a degree in archeology. Anything he wrote about the topic would likely be well-researched and documented.

  But what really interested me was that the dig was on Mt. Lykaion. Wolf Mountain. I stood and walked over to the balcony. Flinging open the French doors, I looked at the mountain and narrowed my eyes in thought. All the signs pointed to it. I realized that I was going to have to make a trip there.

  I rested my head against the doorjamb. The sun had started its decline. The shadows had lengthened, and the breeze that flirted with my curls had a hint of the cooler night time temperatures. I had spent most of the day pouring over my brother’s notes. Illyanna should be here in just a couple of hours.

  I unwrapped the baklava that I had ordered to go and flipped open Dimitri’s computer. After licking the honey off my fingers, I powered the laptop on. Like Ciro’s, the password wasn’t hard to figure out.

  I checked his e-mails, finding the same messages from our mother. I skipped over them, as well as some from several random girls. My brothers were both tall and good looking. Girls liked them. I knew that, and yet no matter how old they or I grew, I never wanted to hear about their sex lives. I shuddered at the thought and moved on to his Facebook page. Just like Ciro’s the last day of log on was September 1st. It was the same with his Twitter page.

  I pulled up his browser, finding all the sites he had taken the notes from. As I had already read through his notes, I did not need to read the sites. Closing both machines I stood and stretched.

  Dimitri’s camera sat on the table. I grabbed it and flipped through the pictures. There were a few from when they first arrived. Photos of my brothers in front of various places. A few with an assortment of girls. Sending a silent prayer up to not find any naked pictures, I continued to scroll on.

  The next photo was of a wolf with golden eyes staring straight at the camera. It was so unexpected that I gasped when I saw it and let go of the camera. I grabbed the strap, catching it before it hit the floor.

  Taking a deep breath, I turned the camera around and looked at the picture again. Even in the photo, I could tell he was massive. With mottled gray and black fur, he was well-muscled. In peak condition. An apex predator secure with his position in life.

  I continued on, finding more pictures of various wolves. The same large gray wolf was in several of them, leading me to believe that this was his pack. The next photo was of a man. The photo captured him midstride as he walked down a drive towards a car. The keys that he twirled looked like a silver blur in his hand. The last photo was a close-up of him. It was obvious that he had not been aware he was being photographed, even though he was looking straight at the camera.

  My breath left me in a rush. There was something about him. I could feel the magnetism of him even through a few pixels. Like the wolf, he was muscled and in his prime. And like the wolf he was confident of his place in life.

  Something about the picture bothered me, and I frowned. I knew I was missing something, but I could not put my finger on what it was. A knock at the door startled me, and for the second time, I almost dropped the camera.

  With a hand over my heart, I went to the door. It was Illyanna

  “Hello,” she said shyly, handing me some food wrapped in tinfoil. “We always have leftovers. It just seems a shame to throw it out.”

  “Thank you,” I said, inhaling the aroma of gyro meat. “So, Illyanna, what did you want to tell me that you couldn’t tell me at the restaurant?”

  “Well, it’s not so much that I wanted to tell you something, as it is that I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Ok, then. What did you want to ask me?”

  She looked at me intently for a moment. I could tell that she was weighing her words carefully and wondering how I would react to them. Finally she came to a decision and asked me what she came to ask.

  “Tell me, Sophia, do you believe in werewolves?”

  “You must pay close attention,” his father said, bending down so that he was on a level with the boy. “This is important. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father,” the boy answered solemnly.

  His father looked at him intently and then motioned for him to follow. The boy lived at the mountain house, for that is what it seemed like, and hardly saw his father anymore. But eight years of his father’s stern parenting could not be undone in the span of a few months. And so he followed along obediently, out the back door, into the dark woods.

  They walked along a dirt trail that was more used to hooves and paws than feet. From there they ascended a set of stairs made from huge blocks of granite liberally painted with lichen.

  The mist had fallen with the night, shrouding the land in opalescent luster, muting sound and making the stones slippery. He fell once and skinned his knee. His father looked at him and then kept moving. There were no words of sympathy or a kiss on the wound. Just an appraising look and a turned back. Again the boy followed.

  The stairs were numerous, and the boy’s legs began to ache. He wanted to stop but did not dare to do so. Suddenly, from out of the mist came his companion. Orcho, the black wolf. He nudged Stavros in the back in encouragement.

  His father turned, saw the wolf, and turned back without comment. The boy’s legs trembled. The wolf whimpered, brushing against the boy. The boy wrapped his arms around the massive neck of the wolf, enjoying the silken feel of the fur and the nose-wrinkling smell of him.

  With the aide of the wolf they gained the top stair. His father stood there, waiting for him, a look of displeasu
re upon his face. The boy looked away in shame; the wolf growled, low and menacing.

  “I am in control this night, Omega. Keep your growls to yourself,” his father said, and with that turned and walked into the center of the clearing. His father raised his arms and then dropped them suddenly. It was a signal. The base of a large drum began to thrum, beating out a tempo that reverberated in the boy’s core.

  The boy looked around and saw eight others in deep cowled robes. They held before them ceramic jars, of what the boy could not discern. One by one they moved towards his father, who stood next to a raging fire enclosed by a wall of stone as high as the boy’s waist.

  Each one threw his jar into the flames, and each time, for a second or two, the flames would change their hue. No two caused the same reaction. Despite himself, the boy was enchanted by the magical flames.

  He saw a few more people huddled around the perimeter, watching.

  When the priests stood empty-handed, his father began to speak. He told the story of King Lykaonas. Stavros knew that story well. All boys his age knew it and whispered of it, searching the heavens for the constellation of the sacrificed boy, and wondering if the king roamed still.

  When his father finished speaking, the man came forward. Stavros knew his name to be Meleanus, but to the boy he would always be the Wolf King. No other name suited him.

  Meleanus did not say much, and Stavros had not been listening. The thrumming of the music, the chanting of the men and the pungent aroma coming from the dancing flames lulled him. He swayed on his feet, leaning up against his wolf.

  The wolf pushed back, taking a step away. The boy looked at him in confusion. Golden eyes regarded him. And then, like the retreating tide, the black fur rippled back, revealing the face and then body of a man.

  He stood looking intently at the boy, who could not comprehend what he was seeing. Other wolves had come out of the woods, and they shook off their lupine form as well, standing on two legs.

  ‘How can this be?’ the boy thought, as he turned to look at the man that wore the eyes of his black wolf. The man reached for him, turning him back towards the stairs. He did not speak, merely indicated that Stavros should go.

  “Orcho?” The boy asked. The man nodded and gestured urgently once more towards the stairs. When the boy did not move the man began to push him, forcing his feet to move.

  He pointed to the stairs and motioned with his fingers that Stavros should go. The boy nodded. Nothing he saw made sense, but Orcho would never hurt him. He trusted him. So he went. His legs began to tremble as he walked down the stairs.

  The first howl sent shivers down his back. He looked back but he could no longer see the clearing. He turned to go back up the stairs, but the man, his wolf, Orcho, was at the top. He shook his head and gestured again for the boy to go.

  When he heard the first scream, he almost fell on the slippery steps, and then there was more screaming. Long pain-ridden, terrified screams. The boy ran then and didn’t look back.

  “Do you?” I asked, staring at Illyanna.

  “I asked you first,” she said, and then laughed nervously. “You know what I mean.”

  I nodded and put the food she had brought on the table, indicating she should sit. “Maybe you should tell me why you are asking me that question.”

  “Your brothers believed in them,” she said.

  I frowned. “Both of them? Are you sure?”

  “When I first met Ciro he talked about it. But Dimitri really believed it. Like, really believed it. He had all this research and photos. He had been here on a dig and was really interested in what was found. He talked about it a lot. So, I ask you again. Do you believe in werewolves?”

  “No,” I said, and I meant it.

  She sighed. “Neither do I. But there are a lot of people who do.”

  “Like who?” I asked

  “I think my father does.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Well, after Ciro disappeared, I asked my father about the private rites on Wolf Mountain. He laughed and brushed me off. He said it was all a myth. But a few weeks later when I told him that my boyfriend had not been seen since about that time, his demeanor changed. He wouldn’t talk about it anymore. And today, after you came, he insisted that I not come to see you. And if you came back, I was to tell you that I had not heard from Ciro because we had broken up.”

  “So you are defying your father by coming here.”

  She leaned back in her chair then. The muscles in her jaw flexed as she regarded me. “I am not a child. I loved Ciro. Something has happened to him. I just know it.”

  I had the same feeling, but would not concede to knowing for sure until I had proof. Something that was surprisingly scarce. “I want to know what happened also.”

  “I think I know someone who might talk to you,” she whispered.

  “Who?”

  “His name is Nicolas Andreas.”

  Now it was my turn to lean back in my chair. “I know him. He owns the apartment building that my brothers lived in.”

  “He is a friend of my father’s. His family has lived here a long time. I am sure he will have answers.”

  “But will he tell me?” I asked

  “I think so,” she said nodding, though I could tell she was not entirely certain.

  I sighed. “Well, it can’t hurt to ask,” I said.

  “So, you will go then? You will talk to him?” She gripped my hand and looked intently at me as tears swam in her eyes. “Please.” She begged.

  I covered her hand with mine. “I will. How can I not?”

  She sighed and laid her forehead down on the table. “It’s been so awful….not knowing.” She looked up, her tears flowing freely. “I am pregnant,” she whispered, and then she sobbed like the world was ending.

  I had fought against crying since that first phone call, not always successfully I had to set my fears aside, or I was never going to be able to accomplish what I came here to do. “We will find them,” I whispered into her hair, letting her cry for both of us.

  “Did you bring it?” Ciro asked, as he flung open the door.

  “You know, I bet there is a twelve-step program that can help you,” I said, handing him the plate wrapped in tinfoil. He grinned. I ducked under his arm and entered the apartment that my brothers shared.

  “It’s not an addiction, just an appreciation,” Ciro said, pulling the wrap off the plate of baklava that I had brought along.

  “He says the same thing about girls,” Dimitri said, walking towards me. I hugged him and took the beer that he offered, raising an eyebrow at the label. A friend of theirs worked at the microbrewery down the street, so I never knew from one visit to the next what I’d be drinking, but so far it had all been good.

  I held the bottle to my lips and drank, enjoying the flavor of it on my tongue. This one was fruitier than the others. “Apple?” I asked.

  “Yep,” Dimitri said, clinking his bottle to mine. “I didn’t think I’d like it, but it’s pretty good.” I agreed and took another drink.

  Their apartment was sparsely decorated. They had my old sofa, a couple of chairs from Mom’s basement and some old end tables. As I turned the corner into the dining area, I noticed that they had upgraded from a folding card table. “Dimitri, this is patio furniture,” I said, looking at the wrought iron table and chairs.

  “I know, but I like it,” he said with a shrug. “Ciro, you gonna share any of that?” he asked, reaching for the plate of baklava. Ciro grinned and stepped away. “Get your own,” he laughed.

  “I’ll make you some more,” I said, laughing. “Or you could just call Mom. She’d be happy to make you some.”

  “Yeah, but it’s just easier to get it from you,” Dimitri said as he walked off into his bedroom. He came back a few minutes later carrying a stack of books.

  “What are those?” I asked, immediately curious.

  “Speaking of Mom, she asked if I could scan some pictures for Aunt Agnes.” He set
the books in the middle of the table. I recognized a dark green one from when I was a child and reached for it.

  “Aunt Agnes, the nun?” I said, flipping the book open. “What would she want with pictures?” I smiled at a picture of me grinning like a loon, displaying my lack of front teeth.

  “I didn’t ask,” Dimitri said, sitting next to me. “She wanted me to show her how to scan all of this, but I figured it would be faster if I just did it.”

  “Wow, Sophie,” Ciro said, sitting down on the other side of me. “That’s some out of control hair you had there.” My mom had tried to straighten it. It hadn’t ended well. Dimitri grabbed for the plate. Ciro slid it away. Dimitri reached behind me and smacked Ciro on the back of the head.

  “Hey,” he yelled, preparing to smack Dimitri back. I was used to their antics, but I was sitting the middle, and I didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire.

  “Watch it,” I said, flipping another page. Ciro laughed and crammed the last baklava in his mouth, licking the honey off his fingers with relish. Dimitri shook his head and went back to looking at the pictures with me.

  I closed the book and grabbed one of the more recent ones, flipping it open to a picture of the boys playing with dad. We all paused and sat there for a moment, lost in thought.

  “Did you tell her yet?” Ciro asked, leaning back in his chair, beer in hand.

  “Tell me what?” I asked, looking at Dimitri. I didn’t even try to figure out what they hadn’t told me. Experience had taught me, it could be anything. It was easier to just ask.

  “Ciro and I are going to Greece for a few months,” Dimitri said with a smile.

  “Really?” I asked. “That sounds great. How did you manage that?”

  “I got a study grant from school. They will pay for my travel and room. I figure I can work a bit when I get there, and the amount of money they gave me is more than I need to live on, so Ciro is coming with me.”