Snow Demon

By Florence Cardinal

Set within the winter wilderness of northern Alberta, Demon in the Snow tells the story of DANIEL LAVASSEUR, a reclusive artist who carries the mutated gene of loup garou in his blood. He believes he has the demon under control. Then the dying begins.

Then his best friend, Pat O’Hara, the man who helped in his artistic career, is found dead out on the ice of Ghost Lake. It is obvious he has been killed by a large animal, possibly a wolf. However there are no wolves in the area. They have fled from the intrusion of civilation.

The death of Pat O’Hara brings his niece, FRANCINE (FRANKIE) O’HARA to Ghost Lake. Daniel swears to help her find the animal that killed her uncle. However, he is afraid, because he carries the twisted gene, he may be changing into a werewolf and doing the killings himself. He vows to rid Ghost Lake of all who have the gene. His young nephew is a carrier, although it will tear Daniel apart to kill the boy. That will leave only himself, except for his twin brother Damien. But that is impossible unless Damien has returned from the dead.

Now, complicating the situation, Daniel and Frankie have fallen in love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Florence Cardinal
• Release date: Oct 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301435708

Florence Cardinal

Florence Cardinal is a freelance writer. Born during the thirties on the Canadian prairies, much of her earlier work consisted of nostalgia articles about life during the post-depression years. Her first work appeared in the Western Producer and Good Old Days. Her husband suffered from sleep apnea and passed away from complications of the disorder in 1998. During that time, Florence researched and wrote about sleep apnea and other sleep issues. She wrote about this topic for eight years for the web site About.com and now writes on the same topic for Health Central. She also wrote reviews for Romance Designs for a couple of year using the name Albertan. Ms. Cardinal has written about other topics as well, including other health problems, and paranormal romance novels. Snow Demon is my first pblished roance.

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Snow Demon

Florence Cardinal

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Florence Cardinal

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Chapter One

From a knoll he stared down at the ice. Daniel's friend, Pat O'Hara knelt there, feeding his line down the hole he'd just made with his ice auger. Pat had his back turned. He was old, weak, oblivious to the danger that lurked above him. The watcher grinned, showing stained and broken teeth.

Then he dropped to his knees, coughed and shuddered. No! He bent over double as pain ripped through his entrails and twisted his body. For a few moments he fought the change. Yet he knew it was inevitable. It always was. Nothing could stop it. All he could do was prepare.

He hastened to strip off his shirt. Buttons popped. He struggled to get out of his jeans and the zipper closure almost defeated him. Already the change was well underway. His claws caught in the metal teeth.

He snarled, jerked the offending claw free, and pulled the tab down. Kicking the ragged moccasins from his feet, he rolled the clothing into a compact ball and dropped it to the ground.

Pain wracked his body and he groaned in agony. Naked now, he shivered and, with his toes, now sprouting sharp claws, shoved the clothing into the thick undergrowth, then stood gasping and shaking.

The pain became worse. He writhed and hurled curses at the misbegotten man who had sired him, damned the gods that allowed him to inherit this vile gene. He panted. Saliva dripped from his gaping mouth. Dropping to all fours, he tore at the ground with his teeth and claws, throwing clods of frozen earth over his shoulders. He prayed to the gods to end his misery. The gods ignored his plea.

A bony tail pushed from the end of his spine and shaggy black fur sprang from his naked body. His face twisted until his jaw popped. He bit back a scream, and it became a whimper, and then a howl. The change was complete.

He sat a moment, haunches in the snow, then crept to the edge of the drop off. From the forest, he inhaled the scent of pine and spruce, rotting vegetation and rich black earth. He breathed in the aroma of the wilderness creatures, deer and wildcat, rabbit and skunk, all intensified through his wolf senses.

His prey waited, however, not in the forest, but below him, on the ice. Like a cat stalking a mouse, he inched, step by cautious step, down the hill and onto the frozen lake where he halted in the tall, dead weeds. The howl of the wolf must have alerted the old man. He dropped the auger, rose and spun around. Too late. The beast sprang and pounced on him. Minutes later, it was all over. Blood splattered the ice and Pat O'Hara would fish no more.

The wolf stretched, glorying now in the strength and agility of his lupine body. He licked the blood from his paws and chops, then lifted his muzzle to the sky and howled again. The sound echoed back to him, and somewhere a dog answered, hesitantly, sensing a difference, a danger, in the predator's voice.

Finally, rested from the ordeal of the change and the challenge, such as it had been, of the kill, he stood, stretched again, climbed the hill and trotted away into the bushes.

***

Daniel Lavasseur coughed, rolled over and sat up in his bed. He stared around the room, momentarily disoriented. Slowly the familiar objects - the natural oak dresser, his snowshoes on the wall - the rocking chair by the window, came into focus as the blood and snow from his dream faded away. Where had his mind taken him during the night?

He pushed the blankets down, preparing to get up, and almost screamed. Blood covered his hands from wrist to fingertips. His dream exploded in his brain his with the power of a thunderbolt.

He envisioned Pat O'Hara lying helpless on the ice, a wolf standing over him. Sharp teeth, wolf's teeth, tearing into the old man's neck. Needle sharp claws slashing soft skin. The dream was real. Pat's blood now stained his hands. He must have changed in the night and killed his friend, brutally shredding his flesh.

But where were the aching muscles and burning skin that always accompanied the change? He groaned aloud, not from physical pain, but from mental agony. Lobo sat up and stared at his master. The big white dog yawned and his tail thudded against the carpet. Daniel threw himself from the bed and ran into the bathroom. He had to wash away his friend's blood. Then he would call the police and turn himself in.

The bathroom was dark and he snapped on the light switch, not looking, not wanting to see the dark blood against the white paneling. At the sink, he lifted his head and stared at his reflection in the mirror, loathing himself for what he had become. His eyes looked haunted and empty. Deep lines scored his cheeks.

Fumbling for the taps, he turned on the water and looked down to locate the bar of soap. He gasped. No blood stained his hands. It had only been a dream after all. But it had seemed so real, real enough for the hallucination to carry into his awakening.

He gave his hands a quick wash anyway. Today his left hand ached. He barely noticed the crooked fingers anymore, or thought of the morning he had bested Damien in a foot race. They'd been fifteen, and a smiling Damien had offered his hand for a congratulatory handshake. With a grip fueled by the anger of the loup garou, he'd crushed Daniel's hand.

Leaving the bathroom, he went into the kitchen. Shaking three aspirins into his hand, he turned on the coffee. His head throbbed and his stomach churned. He'd only suffered one hangover in his life, but the way he felt this morning was far worse.

***

Late that afternoon, Daniel dropped to his knees on the ice. He smelled evil in the air, felt it on his skin. The vile taste of it filled his mouth.

The frozen surface of the lake glistened in the sunlight and the glare brought tears to his eyes. No. He shed these tears for Pat O'Hara - hunting and fishing buddy, friend, mentor. Dead. Cruelly murdered by the evil that stalked Ghost Lake. The evil that haunted his dreams.

Everyone was gone now. The Mounties, friends and neighbors, the ambulance bearing the body of his friend. Sergeant Jennings had mentioned an autopsy. To Daniel's way of thinking, no autopsy was needed. It was obvious what, or who, had killed Pat.

He shuddered. Evidence suggested his friend had been mauled by a large animal. The tracks on the ice were those of a wolf or a big dog.

Speculation among the bystanders moved toward a husky/wolf cross, and one man cast a speculative eye on Daniel's dog, Lobo. But everyone knew the friendly, white Samoyed/wolf cross. He was a gentle creature, his largest prey the occasional rabbit.

No. It had to be some other large dog, perhaps a starving stray. Unless, as one of the Mounties suggested, the wolves had returned to Ghost Lake. The animals had moved to the northern wilderness several years ago to avoid the continuing encroachment of civilization.

They were all wrong about the cause of Pat O'Hara's death. The killer was no dog or wolf, at least not the breed of wolf nature intended.

Was he the killer?

The evidence was unclear. Pat's death occurred during the night while Daniel slept. Daniel had seen, had experienced the entire thing in his dream. But was it truly a dream he'd had? Or had he walked in his sleep and committed this brutal crime?

He tried to recall the wolf on the ice. Rough fur, bushy tail - but the paws. Did the animal have a white left forepaw? The snow had been too deep, and the front paws had been hidden. White or black? He couldn’t remember.

Last night's dream felt just like the nightmares he'd once shared with his twin brother, Damien. During the dreams, it seemed like they had only one mind. He'd read that this was sometimes true of twins.

But Damien couldn't be to blame for this latest mayhem.

Unless he'd returned from the dead.

Daniel shivered. Already the snow had obliterated some of the paw prints and most of the blood. Mist curled like smoke from the frozen surface of Ghost Lake. Each wisp mingled with snowflakes and frost crystals to create an opaque curtain that obscured much of the shoreline.

Willows and aspen, stripped of leaves, stood like spectral skeletons along the shore. Deep crevices and dark caves pockmarked the cliffs that loomed over the frozen surface and a deathlike silence surrounded the lake.

Sergeant Jennings had asked Daniel about Pat's next-of-kin. Daniel knew of only one person, Pat's niece, Francine O'Hara. She worked for an Edmonton newspaper - the Bugle, and Pat had been proud of her. She had promised to come for a visit sometime this coming summer.

Pat kept her home phone number and her cell phone number tacked to the wall. The police would find her and inform her of the death and ask how she wanted to dispose of the remains.

God! That sounded so cold. The remains. That was no way to describe the warm, sensitive man with the easy laugh; the man who had helped him set foot on his career.

Daniel stared down at the remaining tracks. No wolf had killed his friend, at least, not one of nature's wolves. He pushed to his feet and stared out across the lake. This mindless slaughter had gone on far too long. It had to be stopped and he was the only one who understood, the only one who could stop it.

Daniel closed his eyes and swallowed his grief. He'd miss Pat. They'd spent many happy hours together hunting and fishing, or when the weather turned cold, playing crib or sharing coffee after an afternoon of cutting wood for the fireplaces. He started toward the shoreline. In the distance, the howl of a wolf shattered the stillness.

***

Frankie O'Hara strolled around the prestigious art gallery located in the Old Strathcona area of Edmonton. The heels of her boots sank into deep indigo carpeting. Above her head, soft track lighting hung from the high gabled ceiling, bathing the room in a mellow glow. Native drumming drifted from hidden speakers to complement the art on display. The music lingered around the edges of her mind as she tried to take it all in.

She'd been a reporter for the Edmonton Bugle for almost five years. This was her first assignment as art critic, and she wanted to do it justice. With the wealth of art adorning these walls, she'd have no shortage of material.

Shadow Wolf, the artist, lived somewhere in the Ghost Lake area, perhaps not far from Uncle Pat’s cabin. Maybe, if she went to visit him this summer, she'd get to meet the artist. His paintings fascinated her. Done in oils, using gem-like colors, each one told a tale of Native American fantasy and legend. But, as well as legend and fantasy, the paintings spoke of heat and passion. She shivered. What would he be like, this enigmatic artist?

Despite the attraction of the other paintings - like the huge white buffalo that snorted fire and the pack of wolves with red eyes running over a field of skulls - she returned again and again to the south wall where a single spotlight illuminated one large painting. She stood in front of it, trying to decipher the symbolism depicted in vivid splashes of color.

Indian warriors on horseback battled white soldiers to the death beneath a cloud-laden sky. Above them towered a mountain wearing a shroud of fog where shadowy wolves pointed dark muzzles to the sky. The mountain bore the face of an old woman who wept, her tears forming a river that flowed into the valley. The artist had entitled the painting Despair. She raised her camera and took several shots of the picture. This painting would be the focal point of her article.

She read his bio in the brochure again. Shadow Wolf is Métis - half French and half Cree Indian. Rumor has it that this artist is a recluse who does his painting in a small cabin hidden deep in the forest. There he communicates with the spirits, his only companion a white wolf.

Frankie looked around the gallery. A shiver prickled her spine. The twisted faces, some human, some animal, vividly colored demons and ghostly spirits, all leered back at her from multiple angles. And wolves. Everywhere. Some crouched at the forefront, seemingly ready to leap out at the crowd. Others lingered in the background, pale shadows haunting the landscape.

She loved artwork, especially scenes from nature or fantasy. But, never before had paintings affected her so deeply. They took her breath away. The anguish captured on canvas almost made her weep. A master artist? Definitely. Probably a genius.

Strange as the subject matter was, it called to her on some deeper level. The grotesque images awakened wild and ancient instincts buried deep within her. The paintings reflected the mind of a mystic.

As she left the gallery, voices around her expounded on Shadow Wolf's genius and the otherworldly beauty of the paintings. In her head, however, Frankie imagined other voices that chanted of spirits and haunted valleys. She could still hear the rhythmic throb of the drums and, in the distance, wolves howling.

Outside, a few snowflakes sparkled in the glow of the marquee lights and Frankie's breath misted in the chilly air. Poplar trees raised their naked limbs to the sky. The grass along the boulevard, frost-brittle, crackled beneath her boots. The scent of wood smoke drifted on the breeze.

A ripple of joy made her heart beat faster. She spun in a circle, trying to catch a snowflake on her tongue. Her hair broke free of the clips and, captured momentarily by a playful breeze, sent wild red-gold tendrils to tickle her nose and make her laugh. An older couple stopped to eye her with curiosity.

Isn't winter fantastic? Frankie smiled and brushed a few stray flakes from her jacket. Snow coated the hem of her blue jeans and clung to her boots and jacket.

The couple shook their heads and moved on, muttering about being glad spring was just around the corner. They'd had enough of shoveling the driveway and high heating bills.

Frankie looked up at the sky. A few stray clouds floated above, blotting out the moon. She hurried down the street. Although the air still carried the nip of winter, these few clouds probably heralded the final storm of the season.

She turned the corner onto the quiet residential street where she had parked her car. Here, away from traffic and the bustling crowd leaving the gallery, the world seemed filled with an ethereal silence, as though the earth held its breath.

She drove to the newspaper office. A few members of the staff, busy at their computers, smiled at her when she walked in. She sat down at her desk and typed up the article while the material was still fresh in her mind. Dropping the article and her roll of film off on the editor's desk, she waved goodbye and left the office, knowing her story would run in the morning edition of the paper.

The piercing ring of her cell phone made her jump. She dug it out of her jacket pocket and held it to her ear, expecting to hear the voice of one of her friends, or even someone calling to alert her to a story.

She wasn't prepared for the deep, masculine voice that rumbled in her ear.

Francine O'Hara?

This is Francine O'Hara. She had a moment of foreboding, and shivered.

This is Corporal Jennings of the Ghost Lake R.C.M.P. detachment.

What's wrong? Has Uncle Pat been hurt?

I'm afraid I have some bad news. There's been an accident and your uncle died as a result of his injuries. A neighbor told us how to contact you.

Francine stopped and leaned against a snow-covered hedge.

What happened? she asked. He was always so careful.

His body was found out on the lake, lying on the ice. It looks like he was attacked by some animal, possibly a big cat, but more likely a wolf. We're still investigating.

Frankie bit back a sob. Thank you, officer. I'll be there as soon as I can.

There's a storm warning out. Maybe you should wait——.

Frankie shut off the phone and hurried toward her car, scarcely registering the corporal's words. It was at least an eight-hour drive to Ghost Lake. If she left now, she should be there by morning.

A gust of icy wind nipped at her fingers. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her fleece-lined jacket and hurried along the sidewalk. The icy air froze the tears on her cheeks.

She wasn't going to let the weather stop her. Her little Ford Focus handled well on snow and ice. Frankie unlocked the door, climbed in, and started the car. Besides, it was the end of March. Almost spring. How bad could the weather get?

While she waited for the car and the heater to warm up, she gave way to her grief in gulping sobs. She thought back to the last time she'd spoken with her uncle.

Sure and Begorrah, I'd sure like to see you again, lass, he'd said in an exaggerated Irish brogue. If you come, and you’re a good little colleen, I might let you try on me emerald ring.

She'd laughed because he remembered. He'd let her try on the ring during her visit twelve years ago and she'd been ecstatic. She'd apologized for letting such a long time lapse between visits and promised to do her best to make it in the summer. Now she'd never see him alive again.

She pulled away from the curb and let the memories come. Uncle Pat had shown her how to catch fish and fry them over an open fire. Walking home from the lake, they'd laughed as they stuffed their mouths full of saskatoons until the juice from the plump, sweet berries stained their lips and teeth purple.

She swallowed her tears and concentrated on driving the snow-covered streets. After a short stop at her apartment to pack a suitcase and let her neighbor