Chapter 90 The Journalist Turned Werewolf Novelwriter
The rain hammered against the attic window, each drop a tiny percussion on the glass, a rhythm Klishei knew well. It was the sound of inspiration, the familiar cadence of Spasio City settling into its evening slumber. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, words flowing, painting worlds of ancient magic and forgotten deities. A lone wolf, scarred and powerful, stalked through moonlit forests, guarding a goddess who held the fate of all creation in her delicate hands. Klishei called him Lycan, a creature born of her imagination, yet his eyes, sharp and gold, felt like echoes from a dream she couldn't quite grasp.
She leaned back, stretching the stiffness from her shoulders, a deep sigh escaping her lips. A smile touched them. “Just trying to untangle the threads of a particularly stubborn plot. My wolf hero is being difficult.” She paused, absently tracing patterns on her desk. “He thinks he knows better than his creator, that wild thing. Always so primal.” She glanced at the screen, her gaze lingering on the description of Lycan’s unwavering devotion.
Klishei chuckled, a warmth blooming in her chest. “It feels… important, somehow, to tell their stories. Even if they’re just stories.” She paused, a flicker of unease passing through her. The tales of ancient wolves, of powerful goddesses, of cosmic battles and heart-wrenching sacrifices, felt too real, too vivid, for mere fiction. Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, a fragment of an image, a whisper of a name, would surface, only to dissolve before she could grasp it. A man with eyes like storm clouds, a touch that burned, a betrayal that shattered. She shook her head, dismissing the phantom ache. Just a writer’s overactive imagination, a byproduct of creating such intense narratives.
She reflected on her latest success. Crimson Moon’s Embrace, had sold out its first print run in three days. “It’s just a story. People like a good romance, even a tragic one.”
"A tragedy you shaped with such raw emotion," she thought, considering the reviews. "The heroine’s heartbreak felt universal."
A sharp pang, familiar yet unidentifiable, twisted in Klishei’s gut. “Some pains run deeper than words can express,” she murmured, staring into the jasmine tea she’d made herself. It was still steaming, a fragrant comfort. She had poured so much of that nameless ache into her characters, hoping to understand its source.
Miles away, in the labyrinthine alleys of the city’s forgotten districts, Yeseus moved like a ghost. The rain plastered his dark hair to his skull, blurring the edges of his vision. He shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. The hunger gnawed at him, a constant, dull throb that had become his oldest companion. His clothes, once finely tailored, now hung in tattered strips, clinging to a frame that had grown gaunt, his once formidable muscles atrophied. The strength of the Alpha, the curse of eternal life, had been replaced by the fragility of a dying man. Every breath was a rasp, every step an effort.
He hugged the shadows, each corner a potential ambush. The remaining werewolf packs, scattered and broken, still held enough venom to hunt him. They knew his immortality was gone. They scented his weakness like carrion, a dying animal whose last breath was just a matter of time. He shuffled onward, his joints aching with every reluctant movement. Years had passed since his last encounter with Klishei, years he had spent in a slow, agonizing decline. His penance.
He reached the familiar street, a tremor passing through him. His eyes, no longer burning gold but a dull, haunted silver, found the attic window of her home. A soft, warm light spilled from it, a beacon in the oppressive gloom. He saw her silhouette, bent over her desk, fingers flying across the keyboard. He imagined her focused, her brow furrowed in concentration, her lips perhaps curved in a small, private smile. It was a picture of peace, of success. Everything he had wanted for her, even at the cost of his own existence.
A ragged cough tore through his chest, tasting of rust and decay. He pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the wet, gurgling sound. He was a creature of the night now, not by choice, but by necessity. A shadow, unworthy of her light. He was the monster, the villain of her forgotten past, and she, the unwitting hero of his self-imposed tragedy.
He watched for an hour, the rain soaking him to the bone, the cold seeping into his very marrow. He saw her silhouette, bent over her desk, fingers flying across the keyboard. It was good. She was safe.
A flicker of light caught his eye – headlights cutting through the downpour, then a car door slamming shut down the street. Clunk! Three figures emerged, cloaked in dark, rain-slicked leather. Their movements were too fluid, too predatory, for ordinary men. His senses, dulled by time and starvation, snapped to attention. A low growl rumbled deep in his chest, a sound he hadn't made in years. Werewolves. A small, desperate pack, driven by ancient hatred.
His breath hitched, a thin, pained gasp. They weren’t looking for him. Not directly. Their eyes, though hidden by the rain, seemed to fix on the warm glow of Klishei’s window.
One of them, a bulky male with a jagged scar bisecting his face, snarled low, the sound barely audible over the patter of rain. “That’s him. The Alpha’s scent is thick around this place. Still clinging to this human after all he did.”
Another, leaner and quicker, pointed directly at the attic. “And she is there. The one he abandoned for us. The one who broke him.”
“She broke him?” the third, a female, hissed, her voice a poisonous whisper. “He broke us. He killed our Alphas. He left us to rot. She just took what was left of his pathetic excuse for a soul.”
The scarred male took a menacing step forward, his heavy boot splashing in a puddle. Splosh! “Doesn’t matter. His spirit died with her. If we can’t kill the Alpha, we kill what he loved. It’ll send a message.”
Yeseus’s heart, a fragile thing he hadn't known he still possessed, seized in his chest. A cold dread, far worse than any hunger or pain he had endured, gripped him. He had accepted his slow, agonizing death. He had even welcomed it, a penance for his unbearable sins. But her? Klishei? No. Never. Never!
His body screamed in protest, every joint aching, every muscle protesting, but a primal fire, long dormant, ignited within him. He had nothing left to lose. He had only her to save. He pushed himself from the shadows, a desperate, guttural roar tearing from his throat, a sound more human than wolf, but filled with an ancient, terrifying fury.
“Stay away from her!” he rasped, his voice raw, barely a whisper against the drumming rain, yet it carried the weight of a thousand years of rage and sorrow. He lunged, a dying wolf, gaunt and broken, protecting his last, precious spark of light.