Accalia

By Kimberly Olsen

In antiquity she was born, and on the modern streets she walks. Who is she? What is she? Half woman, half wolf, she represents everything we want to be and would fear ever to be.

She is a wanderer and has lived in many places, but now we encounter her in her current abode of Buenos Aires, Argentina. She uses the name Diana and works as a sous-chef, in order to assimilate herself into normal life. She has many talents, and is gifted with keen insight. In her human form, she has an odd way of being able to help people, but her curse still afflicts her. She must kill to survive. Brutal murders are being discovered around the city, and a man investigating them will cross paths with her in a chance meeting. They encounter each other again, at a Tango dance hall, and neither would ever be the same after that.

She has to be wary about her relationships with humans, but will she let herself go this time? Will she be able to explore human emotion on a deeper level, perhaps putting at risk the life of the very man who manages to open her heart? Will he find out that the woman he has fallen for is the very monster he is trying to catch?

This is a chilling novel, but it also deals with the human psyche, duality, exploring other sides of ourselves, tapping into our senses, a womans power, vulnerability, love, detachment, mortality, societys hypocrisy, and of course- how appearances can be deceiving. Not only can appearances be deceiving, but often people dont even know themselves

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479730483

Kimberly Olsen

Kimberly Olsen is originally from the United States, but currently lives outside of Cape Town, in South Africa. She has a BA, taught English in Europe for several years, is also a wine consultant, and currently helps run her family's winery in the beautiful winelands of Paarl, South Africa. She recently published a fiction book, and created this one for her three young daughters Romina, Oriana and Athina.

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Copyright © 2012 by Kimberly Olsen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

FOREWORD

 1

 2

 3

 4

 5

 6

 7

 8

 9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

FOREWORD

Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves. (Matthew 7:15)

There are many a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and many a sheep in wolf’s clothing. The challenge in life is to be able to distinguish who is which. That is not easy, as we are all a slave to our perceptions and what we want to believe. Things are not as they seem, yet they can be exactly as they seem. One can look at society as a dichotomy of sheep and wolves, or dark and light, or bad and good, or however- but the contrasts must be there. They feed off each other. Duality and hypocrisy are part of us, even if we deny it. We adapt and morph as life goes on, even changing the core of our inner being if circumstances push us. One can fear, or one can behold the wolf, as the wolf represents the union of opposites and contradiction.

Thank-you to the people who helped make this book a reality, to the inspirations that came out of the blue, and most of all thanks to my family.

And then a she-wolf showed herself; she seemed to carry every craving in her leanness; she had already brought despair to many.

—Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto 15

 1

Her pointy heels clicked on the pavement, almost in synchrony with the lingering drops of rainfall. She was scurrying to get home, but in a daze; she wasn’t quite sure where she was. Her mouth was parched, so she stopped for a moment and tilted her head upward to let the falling beads of water moisten her lips and tongue. Her gray cotton dress was drenched with water and clinging to her body, though she couldn’t recall how she had become soaked. As she scanned her head around to try to get some idea which direction to walk in, she felt a throbbing pain in her head, a throbbing that caused her ears to ring. Sweat pellets mixed with raindrops on her forehead, and she felt her knees buckle. She saw trees in the distance, but they began to spin around and turn black. As black spots filled her eyes, she felt someone’s arms from behind, suddenly sustaining the dead weight of her body. She tried to open her eyes, but they just rolled back into her head. A couple of minutes later, she managed to slowly open them and then realized she was sitting on a park bench. Her heart raced as more confusion set in.

How did I get here? she asked the stranger who was sitting next to her and looking intensely at her.

"Meez, se encuentra bien? Are you okay?" asked the man half in English, half in Spanish.

She nodded her head affirmatively as she focused in on the gentleman’s face. He appeared to be in his late thirties and had a prominent nose, round light-brown eyes, light-olive skin, and light-brown wavy hair. He was sitting down but had long legs and tan leather shoes on. His dark eyebrows had been crunched together out of worry but slowly relaxed back to their normal position.

Are you sure? he checked.

Yes. It’s just low blood sugar. I’ll be fine in a few minutes, she replied as she felt her strength coming back.

Oh. Can I help you get a taxi?

She looked around for a moment, and it became clear that she was in the city’s biggest park, the Bosques de Palermo.

No, thanks. I’ll be fine. She smiled and took a deep breath.

"Bye, then, and take care. Cuidate."

He stood up, and she noticed his elegant raincoat. Must be a lawyer, or in finance, she thought. No, he had a more mysterious air about him. Perhaps a detective? The gentleman waved awkwardly and dug for something in his coat pocket. He handed her a couple of hard candies, smiled, and walked toward a nearby street.

"Gracias!" she shouted after him as she began to stand up from the bench. He raised his arm without looking back and moved his fingers as if waving backward. Actually kind of good-looking, popped through her mind. Then she realized that she must have looked a wreck—her hair soaked, mascara running, and shoes squishy with water. On the other hand, her porcelain skin, magnetic emerald-green eyes, raven hair, and tall lean body rarely went unnoticed.

Luckily, the rain had become only a light drizzle at this point, and she made her way toward a main avenue to look for a taxi.

Meanwhile, the gentleman from the park shook off his trench coat as he entered the building where he found himself five or six days a week. When he wasn’t working there, he’d often be working at home, pouring over files and books. He tapped his foot as he waited for the old-fashioned elevator to take him up to the third floor of this belle-epoque building. It creakily arrived, and he gently opened the narrow accordion-like door. As he stepped into the small space, he caught his reflection in the mirrored back wall. I look a little more rested, he thought as he pushed back some wisps of damp hair. He noticed a few new gray hairs mixed in with the brown ones but figured it made him look more distinguished. He had recently turned forty, but could pass for a few years younger. As he rolled his head around checking for more, he suddenly froze. He saw an odd reflection, though not his, a pair of green eyes, those eyes, the eyes of that woman in the park. He looked dead-on at them, and he could swear they were looking right through him. He turned abruptly from the mirror, shook his head, and quickly glanced back at the mirror. Nothing was there. Maybe I am not so well-rested after all, he corrected himself as a chill went through him.

The rickety elevator clanked to a stop. He stepped out and closed the accordion-like door quickly behind him. He opened both locks of the heavy wooden door that led to his office and proceeded into his world of mysteries and understanding people’s minds. His secretary was already at her desk, typing away a report in the computer. Just as they said buenos dias, the phone rang. She promptly answered, in her usual flat-toned voice, as she stared at the computer screen.

It’s for you. Urgent, she alerted him as she waved the telephone receiver in the air.

I’ll take it at my desk, he responded and began to walk briskly down the narrow hall to his office.

He threw his trench coat over his desk chair and pressed down on the flashing red button next to the telephone receiver.

"Hola?" he answered, almost short of breath.

Micchetti, we have a bad one this time, announced the familiar voice on the other end.

What happened?

It’s ugly, but I’d prefer you come down here. When can you be here?

I’ll leave in two minutes. Ciao.

He grabbed his leather briefcase from underneath the antique mahogany desk, folded his laptop, and slid it in. He thought he’d have some time in the morning to catch up on paperwork, but no luck. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a wrapped-up piece of caramel. Sweets often eased his anxiety, plus gave him a quick rush of energy. As he chewed down on the candy, he grabbed his coat once again and bolted out of his office. He waved to his secretary on the way out and informed her that he’d probably be out for most of the morning.

"Suerte, good luck," she shouted after him while typing data into her computer.

Micchetti stepped out of the black taxi and said goodbye to the driver after they had chatted on the way about the recent political upheavals. He owned a car but usually left it in the parking garage of his building as traffic in Buenos Aires was usually heavy and parking expensive. Besides, he enjoyed the usual small talk with the taxi drivers as they always had an opinion about something, whether it be about the government, some new law, some law that should be imposed, sports, crime, inflation, or simply where to get the best steak in town. It also gave him a chance to look around and observe the people, the streets, and the landmarks. As the taxi driver put his old Fiat in gear, he craned his neck to the side to see what was going on. He could only see police cars, yellow tape, and a parked ambulance. He couldn’t tell what had happened but could only imagine another violent crime due to the recent increase of it. He shook his head in disdain and chugged off into the bowels of daily city traffic.

Micchetti lifted the yellow police tape and walked toward a few policemen huddled over something on the ground. He had been hearing comments like Dios santo (dear god), Por dios (oh my god), and other variations of surprise using the word dios.

He tapped one of the policemen on the back. A familiar face turned toward him and just raised and lowered his eyebrows and sighed deeply. The officer stepped back and held his arm out, indicating to Micchetti to move in and have a look.

What have we got? asked Micchetti with an ominous feeling.

Never seen anything like it. Just look, answered the officer in a low voice.

He moved in, next to another officer who had a handkerchief over his mouth and was examining the scene.

Mother of god, what happened here? mumbled Micchetti as his eyes strained in horror to take in what lay in front of him.

There were lots of blood and a trail of it leading from the nearby sidewalk. The drizzle of the rain seemed to create even more crimson drops. Under a tree lay a man whose life had been taken away in a most grisly manner.

 2

She sat curled up on her sofa, nursing a hot cup of tea with lots of sugar. She had taken a warm shower, but the chilliness of the day had penetrated her body down to her bones. She still felt a slight tremble inside, and her heart palpitated a bit, but that was what usually happened. She wrapped a throw blanket around herself and turned on the television. She flipped through the stations, passing up several soap operas and cabaret-type shows, all too common in Argentina. One caught her attention for a moment, the host being a well-known, charismatic, and good-looking guy. She couldn’t help wondering why people watched these shows so much. As a pair of midgets began to dance sexily, she couldn’t decide if they were being given an opportunity or just being mocked. A free-for-all or a freak show? What entertains us nowadays? She realized that people were so jaded that television had to go a step further all the time, but instead of the content becoming deeper, it usually just got emptier. She zoned out as she thought about this. Distraction was important in her life, almost a necessity.

She focused once again on the television show as the audience applauded. Her finger pressed down on the remote control once again. She came across some news channels but didn’t care to hear talk about the economy once again. The Cronica channel was a bit like a televised gossip magazine but could actually be entertaining. The dramatic, time-warped introduction music came on, and she saw the reporters were at a crime scene somewhere downtown. A tree caught her eye and seemed almost familiar. She got butterflies in her stomach and turned off the TV set at once.

She went over to the glass doors that led to the small balcony of the apartment and gazed outside. She lived on the tenth floor, so she had somewhat of a view of the city—not a dramatic one, but enough to feel immersed in her surroundings. The building in front of hers was what she mostly could see; but off to the side, she could see the roofs and windows of the other building and a gray cupola of an old French-styled building, a belle-epoque style that the city was famous for. She noticed an elderly lady on her balcony, who was watering her many plants. She could see her floral print housedress through the outline of the child-safe mesh nets so common on the balconies of Buenos Aires. Her eyes moved to another balcony that didn’t have the mesh nets from ceiling to rail but rather a glass enclosure. She noticed a woman sitting on a wicker chair, nervously puffing on a cigarette or a pucho in local slang. The woman stood up to slide the glass open and let some of the smoke out. She poked her head out and looked from side to side. Her face looked thin, drawn in, perhaps middle-aged; and she had dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was tied back, letting the anguish on her face shine through. A rosary dangled around her neck, and with one hand, she held the cigarette. With the other, she rubbed the beads.

Wonder what’s on this lady’s mind. It isn’t a bad day, it’s a bad life, she mumbled to herself, then caught the eye of the distressed-looking woman. She held her gaze for a few seconds, but the woman became visibly uncomfortable and abruptly shut the glass. She turned around and went back into her apartment, also shutting the door that led to the balcony.

She often made people uncomfortable with her gaze. She had penetrating eyes, the kind that made you think she was looking right through you and like she knew all about you. We all seem to be hiding something, whether it be a secret, a painful memory, an emotion, or a fear. She wasn’t hiding any of those, but rather - what she was.

She avoided mirrors, except to put on makeup. Even then, she tried not to look directly at herself. She yearned to be different but knew that was impossible. What she was would not make sense to the rest of the world. She understood it, though didn’t completely accept it. She often wondered what normal was anyway. Seemed like everybody needed to belong to something—a job, a school, a person, an organization, a club, a team, a cause, an addiction, a duty, and so on! Not her, for she was basically a loner. She had a job to occupy herself and to make some money but had no need to belong. That was for the mortals.

She decided to get changed and head out to the restaurant where she currently worked. She enjoyed preparing food and pairing wines with them. She had a nurturing side of her that she needed to placate, and that was channeled through preparing food for others. She loved to prepare in abundance. Her nature tended to be somewhat overkill.

Once she arrived at the restaurant, only about six blocks from her apartment, she began the routine preparation and chatted a bit with coworkers. She was new, her Spanish was not perfect, but she tried to be pleasant and belong just for the sake of preserving her job. They hired her due to her exceptional skills. Her hands were extremely dexterous. She cut and chopped in record time. The restaurant never had someone so efficient. It was a trendy, busy restaurant in the city, and plates needed to go out quickly and had to be perfect.

One of the other assistant chefs said hello.

"Come te va? How are you, Diana? Are you ready for the Friday night crowd?" asked Paola in her usual upbeat manner as she kissed her quickly on the cheek. Argentines kiss a lot, and when saying hello or goodbye, it’s almost an instant reflex. It didn’t bother her, though she preferred to give the kisses rather than receive them.

She hesitated before answering as she still wasn’t used to hearing herself addressed as Diana. She had chosen that name since it was simple and easy to pronounce in most cultures. She also liked the mythological allusions that were attached to the name. Diana the hunter or goddess of the moon, for example.

"Si! I’m always ready!" Diana replied confidently and with a demure smile.

You always have so much energy! And you never look tired. What is your secret? Paola chimed back, playfully suspicious.

High-protein diet, I suppose.

"Really? That might explain your good figure, but your glowing skin?"

Uh, genetics.

Paola scrunched her eyebrows at her in cynic disbelief and then turned to walk to the meat fridge. She always seemed to need to verify everything; nothing could just be. This irritated Diana at times, but overall, Paola was good to work with. She was responsible, did her share, and was usually in a good mood. She couldn’t say the same about the other women who worked there. They seemed catty and competitive and never would take the blame for anything. One waitress was recently let go, but only because she was caught red-handed stealing petty cash. Just admitting a mistake was like lowering themselves to some hellish depths of inferiority. Diana was proud, yet she could imagine admitting a mistake, if she ever made one.

Paola arranged various cuts of beef on the prep table. The red and white–marbled flesh caught Diana’s eye and made her mouth water slightly. Paola patted the mounds as if they were old friends and waved to Diana.

"Che, Diana! You want to cut these into portions? You’ve got the steady hands!"

Of course.

Diana flashed a quick smile, walked over to the prep table, and picked the appropriate knife. Another Argentine idiosyncrasy—nicknames. Che was used all the time, almost like saying man or dude, and either with or without the person’s name; otherwise, it could be used in a very familiar, affectionate way.

Diana chuckled. Jefe, meaning boss, was often used to address older men, but women were often just called señora or señorita. No one got offended by being called fat or skinny or old as they were usually used with affection. Different from the English sir or madame or miss, Argentines seemed to need to make the unfamiliar familiar in some way.

She began to slice and separate the portions of beef according to the various dishes they would be used for. She could not understand why Argentines cooked their meat so thoroughly. Her only error was on her first day, when plates of meat got sent back for being too undercooked by local standards. The concept of meat being cooked rare was different than in other parts of the world. They overcooked their fish too, but she wasn’t a fish lover. As she was cutting off excess fat on some of the pieces, she sliced a sliver of raw meat for herself and popped it in her mouth. Paola was briskly chopping onions and noticed what Diana had done.

Are you eating a piece of raw meat? Paola asked in a tone that was a mixture of surprise and disgust.

Guess you caught me. It’s just this craving I get. Told you about the high-protein diet, Diana replied with a sheepish grin.

Don’t you worry it could make you sick?

"Oh, no. Not me. I’ve got an iron