The Gathering: Lycan War Saga, #2

By Michael Timmns

The World is Awake!

 

Like the pulling back of the tide before the tsunami, a war like no other is about to crash upon humanity! Will Sylvanis be able to hold back the tide of Kestrel's Weres? Or will she and her own formidable shifter allies be swept away?

 

Kestrel has gathered all her Weres and now moves to form alliances. E.A.R.T.H or Earth, Anger, Retaliate to Heal, an eco-terrorist group, presents Kestrel with numbers and shared purpose.

 

Sylvanis, desperate to catch up with Kestrel, who seems to be two steps ahead, is doing everything she can to gather allies to help her fight. Unfortunately, one of her most powerful allies, Clint, has gone rogue, or worse- wild.

 

While each side prepares for the coming war, other enemies are making themselves known. The United States government fears their power and is making moves to eliminate them, and a mysterious stranger, with a powerful weapon, has one goal… to kill all lycans.

 

Will they be able to gather their forces in time? Or will the dangers of this age destroy them before they even get started?

 

Return to the world of powerful Were-creatures that will once again have you on the edge of your seat with heart pounding action and gripping storytelling like only Michael Timmins can provide. Book Two of the Lycan War Saga will leave you begging for the next book!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Timmins
• Release date: Apr 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223915430

Book preview

Special Thanks

When I started this journey of writing books, I knew that I would have the support of my loved ones and family. That was never a doubt. What I hadn’t counted on was the support of a friend who time and time again has offered his support both financially and mentally. I know I have often told you thanks for being there every time I come out with a new book and need a beta reader or if I run a Kickstarter. But perhaps seeing your name here, in this book, for all time you will truly understand how much I have appreciated you all these years.

Thank you, William Moll, for everything you have done.

Books by Michael Timmins

The Lycan War Saga

The Awakening

The Gathering

The Final War

Shards of the Coven

Prelude to the Shards

Star Fall

The Last Witchguard

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The office held little light. The sparse furniture was mere silhouettes in the gloom. A faint light, flickering, played across them before going dark again. A faint click of a mouse button, a sharp tap breaking the silence, and the light danced again. It played in full across the face of the man sitting behind the solid oak desk.

The desk itself lay as bare as the rest of the room. Few items rested upon it—a wire mesh basket with two shelves, one labeled in, the other, out, the latter filled with papers, while the other sat empty. A desk calendar, a tool most people seldom used anymore, relying more on digital reminders of meetings and appointments, lay flat on the desk’s surface. Writing covered almost every single square, a multitude of reminders of meetings and conference calls.

Resting near the front of the desk was a brass nameplate with a name etched on its surface. Its face was dark, the name impossible to make out in the low light of the office. If one entered this office during the day, or when all the lights were on, they would have seen the name Colonel Carl Simpson, Director of Homeland Security.

Colonel Carl Simpson sat behind the desk, staring at the only other item there, his laptop. The light from its screen bathed him in its pale light, disjointed by images flashing across it. Crow's feet bunched at the corner of his eyes as he watched dispassionately at the video; the second of two, he had been watching repeatedly for what seemed to be several hours. How long it had been, Carl did not know. Despite there being a timestamp at the bottom of his screen, he had not yet taken a moment to check it. His focus, all of his focus, remained upon the impossible images he watched, like some kind of horror loop.

As dispassionate as he had been at the start of this twisted movie marathon, worry and dread were creeping in. His earlier disbelief at the legitimacy of these videos gradually turned to incredulity. Worry lines, a trademark of his, became more pronounced. The edges of his soft, fleshy lips turned down as he rested them against his steepled hands, tapping them lightly.

He was a stern man, tall and solidly built; it was often remarked he held a commanding presence, which suited Carl fine. If people looked at you like you were a leader, it made it easier to lead them. Remarkably, he still had a full head of sandy brown hair with barely a single gray one to mar its façade. Soft gray-green eyes darted around as he watched the scene play out on his computer screen.

The shaky video was one of many which recorded the events in Chicago. Despite its shakiness, likely because of the jostling crowd and the fear of the person who filmed it, it still provided the best angle and clarity of the fight. A fight, which apparently occurred between some sort of humanoid tiger, a humanoid wolf, and a humanoid boar.

When DHS agent Yark brought this to his attention, he reacted... poorly, it would seem. The idea one of his best field agents would bring this obviously, he believed at the time, doctored video some special effects wiz put up on social media, as a legitimate concern for the Homeland Security Director, angered him.

That someone under his authority would bring this National Enquirer bullshit to his desk infuriated him so much, he fired Yark, right then and there. Yark, who had been one of his brightest and most promising agents he had seen in quite some time, had the unfortunate luck of presenting a completely unbelievable video, long before anyone else could have understood the implications of it, especially Carl.

When another video landed on his desk, this video provided to him secretly, he realized his error. The video arrived so secretly, in fact, he still didn’t have knowledge of which agency delivered it to him, or how or why they had known he had received this other video. It led to all sorts of questions. Questions he didn’t feel prepared to get the answers to.

This other video showed a disturbing scene. It was security camera footage from an office building. He had yet to discover where it was located. The lobby was all columns and tile. Large glass windows dominated one wall, shedding sunlight deep within, making everything bright and full of color.

The video picked up at 3:26 pm. As the video progressed, people were milling about or sitting on the various benches lining the wall of glass or encircling one or two of the columns. Then chaos. A man ran across the lobby, only to be overtaken by some humanoid rat, judging by its long pinkish tail and rat-like facial features.

The rat caught the man and held him. Security guards approached, weapons drawn and aimed at the creature. The creature looked for a moment as if it would let go of the man, but in one swift motion, slashed its claws across the man’s throat, turned and tossed the man’s body at the guards. Caught between helping the dying man and shooting the creature, they hesitated. While they remained uncertain, the rat bolted through the door and escaped.

There had been a hunt for the creature, but it eluded capture. Later, they discovered a murdered family near to where the creature escaped. A murder he only knew about because of the report provided with the video. All attempts by him to find out where this happened, and who this family was, came up empty. He had been stonewalled and been told he would receive only the information he needed.

Considering he was one of the highest-ranking people in Washington D.C., it surprised and rankled him to be kept in the dark about things threatening the country. This was indeed a threat to the country. What kind of threat, and how extreme, Carl did not yet know.

The fight in Chicago ended on his screen. The humanoid boar tore through a formation of police officers, killing three. Two died from injuries. The other died from a heart attack later in the hospital. The wolf and the tiger disappeared into the crowd carrying away a young female—a doctor. She later disappeared after everyone on her floor at the hospital she was being treated at was killed. Slaughtered, really.

Rumors flew from the event like a thousand birds. The tiger and the wolf were at the hospital, according to the rumors. The boar as well. There had been more than one boar. The tiger and the wolf fought each other. They fought the boars. What happened remained unclear. What was clear, 23 people died in that hospital. Twenty-three people lost their lives because, as far as he could tell, they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the ones responsible for this were evil, evil people. Though Carl wasn’t sure ‘people’ was the right word.

The director clicked on the other file and watched the scene in the office building lobby again. Opening a drawer in his desk, he retrieved a single folder. A folder designated as Patient 12. The folder he received came with the thumb drive containing this video.

The folder and the thumb drive were all he received, in a manila envelope, on his desk, when he arrived at his office one morning. There was no indication who dropped it off. No indication of how it arrived on top of the desk of one of the most secure offices in government. No explanation. Just an envelope containing a video recording and a case folder.

While the video was disturbing to watch, the information within the folder was equally unpleasant. Why, whatever agency had been behind this, wanted to keep it classified, he understood completely. If word got out that one of the United States government’s agencies was behind, essentially ‘buying’ a pre-teen girl, experimenting upon her in cruel and horrific ways, it would be the end of this administration. This would shake the government to its core, and it would erode what little confidence the American people had in the government protecting their civil liberties.

What they did to that little girl was beyond redemption. Regardless of her apparent ability to heal from almost any harm, the report indicated the patient still felt every ounce of pain caused by those experiments. It had been worse than torture, and it disgusted Carl.

The report was detailed. It cited dates and times of each new and barbaric thing done to this poor girl. It detailed how they ‘acquired' her as well. What happened to the girl prior to this which would have caused her to attempt suicide, he could only imagine. It must have been some sort of abuse, given they had found her foster mother and her boyfriend killed days after the girl escaped.

The report made it quite clear the transformation the girl had undergone into the rat-like humanoid had never happened before or during any of the experiments. It happened for the first time on that day. The scientist, Daniel Mathis, the one in charge of the study, the one who had his throat sliced open by the girl, disappeared. He survived the attack. Then, mysteriously, had a heart attack. He survived the heart attack and made a rapid recovery from his earlier injuries.

Shortly after being cleared to return to work, Daniel requested some personal time off, citing his near-death experience as the reason. The man disappeared, went completely off-grid. His bank account — emptied. His phone turned off, and he had not used a single credit card since he left. Carl hadn’t needed the report to conclude what had happened.

The report mentioned several times the supposed reason for what they were doing. The hope had been they could transfer the rapid healing this girl possessed to someone else. While Carl lauded the idea, the means and methods to which they were trying to accomplish this were nothing short of immoral. The extremes to which this girl suffered led the Director to only one belief. Daniel Mathias enjoyed it. He was a cruel and depraved man, and despite his claims that it had all been done for posterity, the claim rang hollow.

To transfer this ability, Mathias tried blood infusions with a multitude of terminal patients, ones with nothing to lose and no one to notice they were gone. Mathias was nothing if not thorough. The patient’s vitals were recorded, their prognosis described in detail. An in-house doctor evaluated every single one and their diagnosis confirmed. The level of detail in the first dozen patients sat in stark contrast to the later ones. In those, no prognosis was given, no description of what illness they suffered from. This led Carl to believe these later patients had been healthy, perhaps even unaware what they were signing up for, if they signed up at all.

The security footage ended, and the screen froze on the image of the man, Daniel Mathias, lying upon the tiles of the lobby, clutching his throat, surrounded by security guards and onlookers. Blood soaked his suit and covered his throat and hands. A dark inky-red halo pooled around his head. A fitting image, the Director mused.

Leaning back into his office chair, the Director sighed audibly. The file recorded the fate of each one of those blood transfusion recipients. Each one died. Each one died because of a heart attack. A heart attack, like the one Daniel Mathias suffered after his attack by the girl. A heart attack which preceded a miraculous recovery from devastating injuries. A recovery, not unlike the ability the girl had.

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together here. It would, however, take a genius to figure out what the whole damn thing meant. What was sure, this wasn't some fabrication of some crappy tabloid. It wasn't some doctored video. These things, whatever they were, existed.

They were humanoid looking animals. Humanoid, because they had been, or still were, human. This girl, Shae, was proof. The fact they all but disappeared from the public radar, which would be almost impossible, given their size and appearance, could only mean one thing. Not only did they become these monsters, but they could change back into humans at will. Worse, they, or at least one of them, could transfer this ability to others.

Sighing again, he pressed his palms against his eyes to stall an oncoming headache. He would have to hire Agent Yark back. Hire him back and apologize. The man had been doing his job. Not only his job, but he foresaw the implications of what these creatures might mean. The threat they might possess. I should commend him.

Looking at his desk calendar, he made a mental note to call his secretary early in the morning and have her reschedule all his meetings tomorrow. The White House needed to be briefed on this. They needed to be aware of this new threat. A manhunt would need to be put together... if ‘manhunt’ was the right term. This girl needed to be found. Not only her, but the others needed to be found and dealt with before they could infect others.

Infect, the Director muttered out loud. He hadn’t considered the term before now, but the more he thought about it, the more the term seemed accurate. It would appear the CDC might need to be involved in this as well. He would leave the decision up to his superiors, though. They might wish to keep a tight lid on this for as long as possible. Keeping this quiet, he believed, was something they would have little to no control over for long.

––––––––

The bus came to a rolling stop on the main street of Catemaco, a small lake-side town on the banks of a lake which shared its name in Mexico. Brakes squealed, their sharp whine a painful cry cut off by the whoosh of the accompanying employment of the air-brakes.

The driver eased the mechanism closest to him, opening the door to let passengers vacate the bus. The driver, however, was the first one outside. Even with the dozens of windows open on the bus, the air still felt heavy and laden with humidity. Passengers idly attempted to cool themselves by fanning hats, folded newspapers, or shirts they took off early in the ride.

Brown skin glistened with sweat on every person on the bus, and Hector was no different. The heat hit him harder than most, he imagined, as it had been a long time since he found himself on the shores of Catemaco. For the past six years, he had been living in Boston and attending Harvard. Boston is not known for its arid climate.

Glancing out the window of the bus, Hector took in the sights and sounds of the town. Pristine white buildings with red-tiled roofs lined the road. Shops and homes mingled close like friendly neighbors, and the streets were bustling in the afternoon sun. Even with the lake a few streets over, a strong odor of fish floated on the wind, which wafted into the bus and assailed Hector’s nose.

Hector turned to examine the people on the bus. Sweaty passengers, stinking from the long trip here on an overcrowded bus, gathered their things and filed out. Hector waited to get off as he hated those first moments when everyone felt the need to clog the only way out in a rush to get off, only to slow the entire process down.

With a slight shake of his head at their foolishness, Hector returned to watching outside. He caught sight of the bus driver unceremoniously retrieving the passengers’ belongings from the under compartment of the bus. He took little care as he grabbed them, and with hardly a second look, tossed the bags to the curb. Either he didn’t see or didn’t care about the dirty looks some passengers gave him. Hector knew better and kept his only luggage, a worn, olive-green duffle bag, under his seat.

It was almost six years since he boarded a bus in this same spot. At eighteen years old, he had never travelled farther than the other side of town, and here he had been, getting on a bus, with his final destination, another country. He had been scared. More scared than he ever been, though he hid it from his mother and his grandfather. He returned only once, a year later, when his mother died.

It had been his grandfather who arranged the whole thing. His grandfather, who after his father died, helped raise him, and taught him things no one else did. Who trained him and prepared him for what he called, ‘his holy duty.’ Not that Hector understood any of it, or believed it holy, but it had been his grandfather and he had always been taught to listen and respect his elders.

He worked hard. Harder than any other child his age, or twice his age, in town did. The only playing he had been allowed to take part in were games that would strengthen him.

And strengthened him it did. He was a solidly built man, broad of shoulder, tall and fit. Muscles bulged along his arms and legs, and his chest muscles were firm and defined. His trapezius was visible as they rose to meet his neck. His broad flat face glistened with sweat, which dripped from his wide flat nose, a trait of his heritage.

Peeling his tank top from his sweaty chest, he billowed it to cool himself, with little actual effect. Reaching a hand up, he pushed a sweaty strand of hair off his forehead, allowing it to cling to the others which shared its current state. His dark brown hair, which typically held a slight curl, hung limp in the humid clime.

Hector’s thoughts returned to his grandfather, as it was his grandfather’s phone call which had him return home. The man had been cryptic, as he always seemed to be. A slight smirk grew upon Hector’s face as he thought of his grandfather. He had been a hard teacher, but Hector loved him fiercely.

The man had not only taught him what he would need to know to do well in school, but he gave him lessons which helped him do well in life. There were few circumstances life could throw at Hector, which he couldn’t get himself out of or conquer.

All of that had been because of his grandfather. So, when his grandfather called him and told him he needed to return home, as something important had happened, Hector got on a flight the next day and flew home to Mexico.

Hector, of course, pestered his grandfather for more information, but the only thing his grandfather asked him was if he had continued his studies. Hector knew he hadn’t meant for school.

His grandfather taught him how to be a warrior. To fight. To protect. He trained religiously, turning himself into a living weapon. He had mastered countless fighting styles and was deadly in hand-to-hand, as well as with a variety of weapons.

Many times, Hector thought to ask why his grandfather taught him these things, but when training was in session, his grandfather took on the role of master and he, a student. And students didn’t ask questions like those. They did what they were told, and that was all.

The last of the passengers were making their way off the bus, and Hector stood to follow. Grabbing his duffle from underneath his seat, he stood and quickly made his way off the empty bus and onto the sidewalk. Tossing his duffle over his shoulder, Hector started down the street, lost in thought.

Why his grandfather wanted to know if he kept up his studies had him curious. He had kept up as best as he could. There were few places where he paid to train and a few places which could teach him some new techniques, but American trainers differed from his grandfather, so it hadn’t been the same.

Walking the streets of Catemaco brought back memories. The streets were busier than when he had left. There were more vehicles on the road, as well as pedestrians. This out of the way town was a bit of a tourist stop on account of the brujas—the witches. The lake, it was said, held mystical properties and had once been the home of the Olmec, the early meso-Americans who lived in this region, and even those who came before the Olmec.

Every spring, the council of witches would meet near the town, and it became quite the spectacle. Hector went once, when he turned eleven, much to the dissatisfaction of his grandfather.

Charlatans! his grandfather had been fond of calling the council. Hector had to admit, after witnessing the congregation of the council, it looked more like a show than a meeting of actual witches.

Hector made his way toward the town center and the Basilica del Carmen. He would find a taxi willing to make the trip out to his grandfather’s home there. His grandfather lived some distance from the actual town. He lived closer to the base of the volcanic hills of Mono Blanco, which visibly dominated the west.

His grandfather couldn’t stand to live in town with all the so-called brujas. He, or so he claimed, was a direct descendant of not only the Olmec, but those who came before, whose names had been lost to history. He claimed to have real mystical powers, unlike ‘those fakes’ who lived in town.

Growing up, the idea his grandfather had been an actual sorcerer fascinated Hector. As he got older, he realized magic didn’t exist, only superstition and powers of suggestions. He never told his grandfather what he grew to believe. He figured it better to allow the old man his fancies. His grandfather had been so adamant Hector didn’t want to make him feel like a doddering old fool who believed himself a mage.

The Basilica remained as beautiful as he remembered it. Twin white towers topped with crosses rose high on either side of the church. The massive arched doorway stood open in the midday sun, welcoming one and all into the shrine devoted to the virgin, Carmen.

Across the street from the Basilica were a row of taxis waiting for fares, and Hector crossed over to the crowd of drivers talking together. Their laughter filled the streets as one of the taxi drivers finished regaling them with a humorous story from his last fare.

As Hector approached, several drivers, who noticed him first, broke from the others to offer their services. Like sharks with the scent of blood in their noses, they quickly moved in for the kill.

Hector didn’t wish to be inundated with offers from drivers who most likely wouldn’t want his fare, so instead, he called out to all of them as he approached.

I’m looking for a ride to Senor Garza’s place out by Mono Blanco.

Immediately, most of the drivers quieted down and moved back to join the group. He didn’t blame them; it was a long drive out to the place, and it was easier to pick up lots of short fares where you could pick up another at your destination. This would be a long drive, with little chance of a return fare.

One man broke from the crowd and moved to his taxi. He was an older man, older than most of the drivers, with graying hair and a legion of wrinkles. As old as he seemed, he was still spry with a quickness to his step. Motioning with his hand to Hector, he quickly opened the back door of his cab for Hector to get in.

Hector smiled at the old man and nodded his thanks. The old man returned his smile with a wide, almost toothless grin. If embarrassed by his lack of teeth, Hector couldn’t tell, for his smile was open and put his gums on display.

Ducking into the cab, the old man shut the door behind him. Hector couldn’t help but notice some of the other drivers shaking their head at the old man as he rounded the cab to the driver’s side and got in. Without so much as a glance towards the other drivers, or Hector even, the old man started the taxi and eased out onto the road.

The white painted buildings of Catemaco sped by and soon they were on the road which led out of the town and onto the foothills to the west. The landscape appeared to undulate, like waves on a green sea, but Hector knew it was an optical illusion, for he was the one moving.

Outside of town were plantations of coffee, the chest-sized bushes striated the hills in every direction. Hector stared out the window as the fields passed. Surprisingly, the taxi driver remained quiet, something Hector wasn’t used to, as the drivers in Boston were talkative. Too talkative for Hector’s taste.

Gradually, the plantations gave way to empty hills, some dotted with livestock and others dotted with trees and bushes. It had been years since Hector had been home and yet the scenery remained unchanged. Time moved at its own pace here, unbeknownst to the rest of the world.

When they arrived at the entrance to his grandfather’s home, the long driveway disappeared up and over a small hill. The house, as Hector remembered it, lay a short distance beyond it. Mono Blanco and the surrounding mountains rose as a backdrop to his grandfather’s home; the dark green of the trees which blanketed it looked like a jade thunder cloud looming over them.

Hector indicated to the driver to drop him there, and he would walk the rest of the way. The old man looked back at him and smiled his toothy grin and motioned to the meter which registered the cost of the ride. Looking over the back seat, Hector took his wallet out and thanked the man, and offered a sizable tip on top of the fare. Again, the old man offered him a generous smile as he took the money, and Hector realized for the first time the old man had never said a word. He must be mute.

As the cab drove off, Hector hitched his duffle over his shoulder and began the long walk down the drive to his grandfather’s house. The dirt road lay rutted and pitted from inattention and the scrubby looking grass covering the yard on either side of the drive encroached onto it.

He knew his grandfather was getting old, but he had always been a strong, fit man who took care of the maintenance of his home. From the looks of the drive, it would appear his grandfather’s health had declined much since he left for the United States.

Hector’s pace slowed as he went, unexpectedly dreading seeing his grandfather again. Not that he didn’t wish to see his grandfather. He loved him, and missed him terribly, but his grandfather had always been a rock. A source of strength which, by its magnitude, imparted its strength to those around him. To see him in failing health would be devastating for Hector.

For the first time, Hector wondered if this was why his grandfather had called him home. Perhaps his health had grown so bad he wished to see Hector before it gave out altogether. The idea his grandfather might soon pass drowned him in uncertainty and sorrow. With a heavy heart, he travelled the rest of the way to his grandfather’s house.

The house was a sprawling villa, sparkling white, with the red-tiled roof so many of the homes and buildings of the area sported. Flowers decorated the front of the home, their myriad colors in stark contrast to the white walls. Sounds of birds filled the air as they hopped around the home’s garden, pecking at the ground, snatching unlucky ants and other insects.

The house looked like he remembered it. For some reason, he expected it to look different. Perhaps, because of the lack of upkeep on the road, he imagined the house to have also fallen into disrepair, but it wasn’t the case. The house looked in perfect condition, like it always had.

Hector’s heart lightened at the sight of his grandfather’s house, and his steps quickened. As he approached, the front door opened, and his grandfather stepped out.

––––––––

In the six years of Hector’s absence, his grandfather appeared to have actually grown younger. He stood more erect; his eyes blazed with an inner fire Hector could recall being there in his youth. Even the deepness of the man’s wrinkles looked to have grown shallower, as if his skin had grown younger, suppler.

The new youthfulness of his grandfather didn’t spread to his hair though as it had turned grayer, shifting slightly toward white. Hector imagined in a few years it would be totally white. His grandfather was a bold-looking man. He had been a handsome youth, or so his grandmother told him, before she died. With strong facial features—a square jaw, hawkish nose and full lips — he wore pride like others wore clothes.

In all the time Hector knew him, he’d never actually gotten to know him. Hector knew next to nothing of whom his grandfather had been, what he did growing up, where he went to school. It had all been a mystery. He knew his grandfather believed himself some sort of sorcerer, but that was all talk. Somewhere along the way, his grandfather learned to fight like a warrior and gained influence or prestige and finances to have sent Hector to Harvard — no small feat.

Seeing his grandfather now, standing there looking twenty years younger and exuding such a powerful presence, it reminded Hector of the many times his grandfather claimed to know magic. Seeing him now, Hector could almost believe it.

Hector approached his grandfather hesitantly, as the man showed little emotion on his face. Hector came to a stop a short distance from his grandfather, and looked at him expectantly, feet shuffling slightly, creating little puffs of dust which formed, drifted slightly and died.

Suddenly, his grandfather smiled. His smile was so full of love and light, Hector could feel wetness at the corners of his eyes.

Mi niño! His grandfather had called him that ever since Hector’s father died when he had been three and his grandfather had all but raised him.

His grandfather opened his arms wide to receive him, and Hector quickly closed the distance to embrace his grandfather. They hugged for a while.

His grandfather pushed him back slightly.

Let’s have a look at you. Holding Hector out at arm’s length, his grandfather took him in with his eyes, studying him.

You have stayed fit. That is good. That is good. His grandfather nodded, his eyes straying off to the side, distracted.

What is it, Grandfather? He studied his grandfather. Something concerned the old man.

Turning, his grandfather eyed him appreciatively, and he nodded one final time.

Let us go in. Are you tired from your trip? We can talk after you rest?

Hector shook his head. He was tired but eager to understand what caused his grandfather to summon him home. No. I am fine. I would rather know what has you so anxious. Hector thought of the walk in. Is this why the driveway looks uncared for? Have you been so distracted by whatever it is, you have let maintenance go?

His grandfather, who turned back into the house, paused and turned back around, looking out over the driveway which stretched away from his home as if seeing it for the first time.

I suppose it has, mi niño, I suppose it has. He clicked his tongue. I didn’t even realize I hadn’t been taking care of it. He looked back at Hector. No matter. There are more important things to worry about.

Hector raised his eyebrows at that statement, and his grandfather smiled a knowing smile. Hector could only shake his head. His grandfather had never been a showman, but he built tension like one.

His grandfather led him into his private study. It was a room in which Hector had scarcely been allowed to enter when younger. The few times he had been in this room, it had been a wonder. Books lined the walls. Tomes ancient, their rich, dark leather bindings spoke to their age. Seldom were books wrapped in such a manner these days, or in many generations.

An old globe stood perched upon a decorative stand made to hold it. The sweeping crescent arm which pinned the south and the north pole allowed the globe to spin freely. The orb was dated as it showed countries which had long since vanished or renamed, nor did it show any of the newer countries which came into existence in the years since its creation.

A large wooden chest sat in a corner. For years, Hector imagined treasure hidden in the chest, and he had tried to see what was inside, but his grandfather always left it locked, and never answered him when he asked. Leading a young Hector to believe there was treasure in there.

His grandfather crossed the room and went to sit behind an old oak desk. The brutish furniture had beastly legs, thick and sturdy, as if their job was to hold up the weight of the world and not simply a desktop. Its top was thick by any desk standards and decorated with scrollwork; the flowing design swirled along the edge. Given the age of the desk, it would have been hand carved, and Hector didn’t envy the crafter who worked on such a painstaking design.

His grandfather offered the seat across from him at the desk, and Hector moved to join him. When seated comfortably, his grandfather studied him over steepled fingers.

The old man’s eyes drilled into him, boring deep within to discover any secrets Hector might be hiding. It was an absurd observation, as he had nothing to hide from his grandfather, as he was sure his grandfather knew. It did, however, still make him squirm a little in his seat.

Something has happened, mi niño, his grandfather began. Something I thought would never happen, but which I had prepared for my entire life. He pointed at Hector.

Had prepared you for your entire life as well.

Hector stared at him. What the hell was he talking about?

His grandfather gave him a thin-lipped smile. I know you have often wondered why I trained you the way I did. Why I taught you to fight and to be strong.

He paused, and Hector took it for something he needed to affirm, and so nodded.

To explain that, I will need to explain a little about our family’s history and the history of the people we are descended from.

Hector couldn’t help but smile. He heard enough of their family history all throughout his childhood. His grandfather loved to explain their heritage and had, at length, on multiple occasions.

As you know, his grandfather began, we descend directly from the Olmecs and those who came before them. Hector nodded. There are very few of us left in the world. Most have died out over the years or have been bred out. His grandfather frowned, his lips barely forming a curl downward as sadness crept into his eyes.

One of the main reasons we have survived when others have died out has been because we were entrusted with magic.

Hector stopped himself from rolling his eyes. The magic again. Did his grandfather truly expect him to believe this?

I know you are skeptical, his grandfather said, as if reading his thoughts, but please, keep an open mind as I explain, and I assure you, by the end, you will understand.

Hector’s lips turned down slightly as he studied his grandfather. He remained doubtful and the idea he would believe in magic afterward, highly unlikely, but he nodded anyway for his grandfather to continue.

His grandfather eyed him for a moment, as if judging whether Hector would indeed keep an open mind. Satisfied, he continued.

Our ancestors worshipped many gods. One of these gods, the rain deity, whose name has been lost, even to those of us who still follow the old ways, was often depicted as a Werejaguar. A half-man, half-jaguar.

Despite his skepticism, the story entranced Hector. His grandfather never spoke about this part of their history.

The truth of our rain god is he is a Werejaguar. They have passed his story from generation to generation along our family line, and I will tell it to you now.

Ages ago, our rain god came to us and offered protection, protection at the cost of our worship. It was an easy trade in the eyes of our people’s leaders, and we worshipped him. Hector’s grandfather leaned forward and rested his arms on top of the desk.

Other gods became jealous of our worship and they sent their servants to kill us. The servants they sent were lycanthropes. Were-creatures of deadly animals. As they rained down murder and death in our lands, we beseeched our rain god for his protection.

There was a twinkle in his grandfather’s eyes as he told Hector this story and he could tell his grandfather was caught up in telling it as much as he was in listening to it.

He answered our prayers. Appearing as a Werejaguar, he hunted the other lycanthropes and killed them without mercy. It wasn’t long before the other gods retreated, taking their Weres with them.

His grandfather sat back in his chair, spreading his hands out wide as he explained.

Before he left his people, we asked him how we could protect ourselves if those lycanthropes returned. It pleased our god that we desired to protect our own, and in response, he granted us a boon.

Hector waited.

With a smile which creased his cheeks and grew crows-feet at the corner of his eyes, his grandfather pulled at a wire necklace which encircled his neck. It was a necklace he hadn’t seen his grandfather wear before. As his grandfather tugged up the necklace, an old key, like those you see in movies with the exaggerated teeth and intricate head made of wrought iron or the like, became visible. The key swung back and forth as his grandfather held it out for Hector to examine.

A key? Hector said flatly, unable to hide his disappointment. An old key was the supposed boon of a god? Seemed pretty lame to Hector.

Shaking his head, his grandfather removed the necklace from around his neck and took hold of the key. Scooting his chair back, he bent down, and Hector assumed he was using the key in one drawer of the desk. The drawers, Hector knew, were locked for as long as Hector had lived, undoubtedly longer.

After a moment of fussing around and an audible click, his grandfather opened a drawer on the right side of the desk and retrieved something from within. What he brought forth left Hector in awe, as it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Resting in his grandfather’s hands was a long, wide-bladed knife. Easily over a foot and a half long, the blade was carved from a dark piece of jade, its edge was a jagged piece, almost teeth-like. The knife held no cross guard, but was embedded in a round shaft of tarnished bronze. Raised, intricate images ringed the hilt. Circular stories told in the only written language of the age.

It was clear to Hector the knife was ancient, but when he considered the story, his grandfather told him, if true, the knife was older than most relics in the known world. To be in such amazing condition after all these centuries left Hector stunned. When his grandfather held the knife out for him to take, he could do nothing but stare blankly at him.

This is your birthright, Hector. This is your obligation and your duty. His grandfather’s voice took on a solemn note. Gone was the earlier exuberance. Gone was the twinkle in his grandfather’s eyes, replaced now by a hint of sadness. I’m afraid your studies will have to wait, for you now have more important matters to attend to.

Again, his grandfather held the blade out to him, and this time Hector felt obligated to take it, though he didn’t understand what his grandfather was getting at.

The moment the knife passed to his hands, a feeling like he had never felt before flowed through his body. Heat passed from the blade to him, a heat barely contained, on the verge of breaking free and devouring him where he sat. It roared through his every nerve, his every fiber of being. As quickly as it had taken him, it fled.

Hector gasped, and his eyes widened as he looked at the blade. The doubts he held before holding this blade evaporated in an instant. He felt as if a god had touched him — and perhaps that was what it was. Looking back up at his grandfather, the old man nodded in acknowledgment of what he felt.

I... I don’t understand what this means, Hector told his grandfather.

His grandfather said nothing in response. Instead, he pulled out something else from within the drawer, surprising Hector for the second time this day. A laptop. As long as he knew his grandfather, he shunned computers. So, to see him now with not only a computer, but a laptop, was a bit of a shock. His surprise must have been written on his face because his grandfather chuckled.

I didn’t use computers because I couldn’t. I didn’t use them because I didn’t want to get sucked into them like everyone else of this age. Setting the laptop on the desk, he waited a moment for it to boot up, and Hector watched as he searched for something on the screen and clicked on it.

Spinning the laptop around, he turned it to face Hector. On the screen was an open window with a video playing on it. The scene playing out before him left him cold. A boar-like man savagely attacked another man and a woman he was with. Just when it looked as if the boarman would kill them, a tiger-like woman entered the fight and saved them, briefly, before being all but killed herself. As the boarman was about to kill all of them, the man turned into a wolf-like man. A were-wolf, Hector realized. Which would make the others a were-tiger and a were-boar. Lycanthropes. Like the ones in his grandfather’s tale.

Wide-eyed, he looked up from the screen at his grandfather.

They’re... back?

His grandfather shook his head.

"These are