Silver Maiden
Silver Maiden
A Muttopia Novel
By
Elizabeth Blake
All rights reserved, ©2016.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Elizabeth Blake.
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not designed as a replacement for fact.
Special thanks to my boy scout.
The Exalted Series
God Strain
Storm-Tossed Devils
Fate’s Gamble
Muttopia Series
Scratch Lines
The Dog House
Bait and Bleed
Dead Mutt Walking
Silver Maiden
Judas Wolf
“Too much sanity may be madness. And maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be.”
Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 1
Kaidlyn
I don't remember how I got here, how long I'd been strapped in the chair, or what the question was.
There must be a question, a reason they turned up the voltage.
If only I could remember.
At least they had stopped crushing my legs over and over.
If they bothered to ask anything, I couldn’t reply. I’d bitten through my tongue long ago. They didn’t care about me. They wanted my disease.
They shoved me in a spike-lined sarcophagus and fed me electricity. The current ravaged my wolf and dragged evil from my bones. The beast tore free of my human flesh only to be stabbed by hundreds of silver spikes while electricity torqued my system. Silver pierced every inch of my body. The immovable machine met the unstoppable wildness over and over again.
Scouring. Scorching. Stabbing.
Agonized magic swelled within me, bringing a glimmer of hope. Maybe I could shed, break free, and run away. Perhaps the disease was strong enough to rescue me!
It was a lie. There was no escape.
The device swaddled my flesh in a cocoon of nails.
The sadist in the white coat flipped the switch again.
Lightning ripped through me.
Brain buzzed like a radio between stations. Body seized. Jaw clenched so tightly the bone bruised.
My throat was raw from screaming, but I didn't care about being quiet and brave. I was past pride. Past hope. I couldn’t save myself, and no one was going to rescue me. Not a knight in shining armor, not my guns, not even the wolf. I was as good as dead, but the bastards wouldn’t let me die.
Every time they turned on the power, the mutt tried to creep from my bones and rescue me. She swelled inside my flesh, but the silver stabbed through me and put her down. Trauma ravaged her, over and over. The disease struggled inside me, thin, wan, and bitter as bile.
I forgot my name, and why people had them.
Eventually, the universe decided I wasn't worth the trouble. All magic receded. The wolf relinquished its hold on my soul. Silver poisoned, she retreated to the furthest recesses of my body and hid so completely it was as if she had never existed. I screamed and gnashed my teeth as power abandoned me.
The doctor spun the knob, increasing the current, but it was no good.
I had nothing left.
Fire lanced my bones. Flesh sharpened. Each nerve became a knife. I bore down, frantic for the end when none was in sight.
My teeth began breaking against each other.
Chapter 2
Vanessa
When I woke, the bed was empty and my boyfriend’s scent lingered on the pillow. Usually, he'd be making breakfast, messily scrambling eggs and burning toast. His helplessness in the kitchen made his efforts even more adorable.
Today, the apartment was quiet and barren.
I stretched my arms over my head, unhappy about waking up alone and having to make my own coffee. The man had spoiled me. I swung my legs over the bed and eased into a pair of comfortable slippers. My satin night shirt had pink bunnies on it. Andy preferred the simple, demure garment over complex lace and straps. The man could field-strip his weapon at blinding speed, but garter straps confounded him.
Andreas Sarakas, who I called Andy, worked for the Federal Bureau of Human Safety. The offshoot of Homeland Security endeavored to repress a rampant, infectious disease that decimated the globe: lycanthropy. His breath-taking courage on the frontlines of a preternatural war gave me heart palpitations.
I made the bed, fluffed the pillows, straightened the sheets, folded precision corners, and set things in order. Every productive day began with this simple task. Assuming control of one’s environment creates a sense of purpose and security. Good habits are empowering.
I strolled to the kitchen for a bottle of water and saw a note on the refrigerator. Gone out. I frowned at the ambiguous tone and tried not to over-analyze it. Unfortunately, constant analysis was an occupational hazard for most therapists.
Andy spearheaded a search for his missing friend and fellow agent, Kaidlyn Durant. 'Friend' may be misrepresenting the entirety of their relationship. Something unrequited lingered between them. He would never betray me, but a woman notices how her boyfriend looks at other women. Kaidlyn had been killed months ago by a legion of werewolves. Unfortunately, her body wasn’t recovered, and Andy refused to believe accounts of her death.
Was she dead or alive?
The question weighed on his heart night and day. It was a horrible predicament. If she was alive, where was she? Why hadn’t she come forward? What could be worse than letting everyone believe she was dead? If she’d met her demise as the world believed, how could I help Andy come to terms with the fact? I watched him grow more and more obsessed. For all my experience with psychological care, I was unable to help ease his suffering.
I’d tried to convince him it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have done anything differently to guarantee Kaidlyn would have survived the attack. Heck, he’d barely escaped with his life. Monster wolves had savaged his leg. He spent two months hospitalized in quarantine and grueling physical therapy. Gorgonblood accelerated his recovery, but he retained a mild limp and some scarring.
Even bedridden, he’d searched ceaselessly for his lost partner. The apartment filled with research: dossiers, maps, financial records, and wall-to-wall noise.
Andy usually chose jazz when he was under duress, and when Kaidlyn first went missing, he played it ceaselessly. Now, he listened to an abrasive version of rock’n’roll so repulsive it should b
e outlawed. He built a barrier between himself and the world, constructed in part with heavy metal: Kaidlyn’s music.
It’s like acid on my heart.
I turned the television to a predominantly yoga channel. My underdeveloped balance didn't allow for the more sophisticated moves, but I gave a good effort. I enjoyed instructor’s soothing voice and the leisurely stretching. The resulting muscle tone helped my legs look better and offered a daily boost of energy.
While pressing into downward cat, I pondered the note. Gone out felt brisk and uninformative. Normally, he wouldn’t leave without giving me a morning kiss and making plans for dinner. In fact, I couldn’t recall him leaving the bed without a smooch. Not once. My lips and heart ached.
Denial of Kaidlyn’s certain demise clogged his psycho-emotional recovery. He couldn’t grieve until he accepted her death, but no one could convince him of the truth. He began to disassociate from his colleagues and believe the world was against him.
Soon, he’d accept the truth he feared, and he’d need my love and support more than ever. I sighed. I’d do anything to spare him the pain. Unfortunately, delaying the inevitable would only prolong his suffering and inhibit healing.
After yoga, I took my damp, sore body to the bathroom. In true man-style, Andy kept a television screen beside the bathroom mirror. I tuned into a news station while taking a leisurely shower and double-conditioning my hair to combat monsoon season.
The news began discussing dissidents who’d be charged with treason for releasing felonious misinformation and orchestrating discontent. The conspiracy theorists claimed Andy’s bureau had performed mass shootings in the basement. They faked heinous atrocities and broadcasted lies on every available forum. The bureau denied all allegations, and the terrorists responded with outbursts of raw footage. I have to admit it looked convincing. By the time Press Control pulled the slanderous videos, the damage had been done. Half the city believed those lies.
I certainly didn't.
The FBHS would never participate in those atrocities. Firing squads terrorized third world countries, not the United States. We had laws to prevent such blatant brutality.
I left the shower, toweled off, and stepped into comfortable slippers. I blow-dried my hair and straightened it into crisp obedience.
Maybe Andy was absent because he received information about his manhunt for a dead woman. Perhaps the bureau finally decided to have a funeral for Kaidlyn. After all, they’d already commissioned a commemorative plaque to honor her service.
I applied an even layer of foundation.
Poor Kaidlyn. She’d led a hard, ugly life, but things had begun to look up. She’d adopted a young survivor, Davey, who was currently enrolled in art school in France. News of her death struck him hard, but his boyfriend insisted he pursue his dreams. The boyfriend was an older foreign man. I certainly didn't approve of their relationship, but Andy assured me they treat each other well.
I checked the mirror to make sure my lipstick was firmly established. My visage was smooth and even. There wasn't a clump or crease to be found. Perfect. I offered myself a good-morning-world smile and ignored the fact that it came up a couple lumens short. A final mist of hair spray polished every last strand. I coordinated the hair spray's scent with a light dab of floral perfume. Floral scents could easily become cloying, so I applied it conservatively.
I finished dressing, ate a piece of toast with slices of avocado on top, and fed the goldfish Andy had given me. Its plump, shiny gut and bulbous eyes were both charming and vapid.
Upon leaving the apartment, I noticed our neighbor coming home, fumbling with her keys, staggering drunk. When she learned I was a doctor, she'd come begging for illegal prescriptions. I refused, of course, and recommended a counselor. Now she avoided me entirely.
Pills can’t fix all of life’s woes. Some doctors, like myself, roll up our sleeves and wage war in the trenches of the mind. I devoted my life to helping people who needed assistance, but it chafes me to admit I can’t save everyone.
Especially those who don’t want help.
Despite our best intentions, habits have a way of perpetuating themselves.
I slid into my modest black sedan, simple and professional. I signaled and pulled into heavy traffic, settling sunglasses on my face. Warm oleanders spiced the air. Crisp blue sky shone overhead. The business district was well-maintained. Landscapers crafted foliage to balance urban plant life with efficient water usage.
Some days it was like the apocalypse never happened.
I was twelve when the world tried to end, and my father locked us in the panic room. We played poker and ate canned ravioli until my mother started to break down, and Father had to open the doors or watch her kill herself.
Much had happened by then.
Revelations of vampires and werewolves prevailed over every media outlet. The detritus of a mass exodus littered the city. Dead cars and people clogged the freeways. The airport was paralyzed by fuel shortages. Corpse removal and sanitation were urgent concerns. It wasn’t safe to have anything. Father invited his entire security detail and their families to live with us through the worst of the rioting. People killed each other in simple desperation. Many nights, I woke to the distant sound of someone screaming.
After the panic ebbed, our government regained control and recovered traces of normalcy. We cleaned up the city. We adjusted. Things were okay now. I could have my mocha soy latte at the bistro before going to work in a crisp clinic. The precise seam in my sheer hose rose straight up the back of my legs. Civilization endured.
I parked in my reserved space, exited the car, and strode toward the tall, reflective building.
“Good morning, Dr. Blythe.” Georgia tried to hold the door despite juggling her tray of four coffees and breakfast bagels. She worked for Dr. Cortez, a clinical psychologist who rented an office in the same building. I'd trade my assistant for her any day of the week.
“Good morning, Georgia.” I opened the door so she could balance her food delivery. I smiled and mimicked enthusiasm despite being uncharacteristically melancholy. Even, dare I say, grumpy.
Boyfriend problems.
My assistant snapped her gum as I entered my office lobby. Tina didn't even bother to hide the smut novel she was reading. Her oversized elbows rested on stacks of ignored paperwork. The filing cabinets hadn't been unlocked yet, and the coffee pot was dry. I vowed to call her union rep, not that it would do me any good.
I clenched the strap of my purse and managed a cheerful greeting. “Any messages?”
She chomped her gum, jiggled huge earrings, and scrunched her brow like she had to think really hard.
“Mr. Coleman rescheduled his daughter's appointment. CPS wants an update on Theresa Frank. And what else?” Her eyes stuck in the upper left corner of her face. I waited, feigning patience until she opened her candy-coated maw. “A doctor named Ezekiel called. I guess your mom is in the hospital.”
I flinched and my heart raced. “Perhaps you should have led with that.”
She shrugged.
“File something,” I said.
Cross, I went to my office, closed the door, and tried to catch my breath. Anxiety cinched my lungs. I checked my cellphone. It had been on silent, and I'd missed two calls. I smoothed my skirt and took a deep breath. I dialed Dr. Ezekiel Clark and waited for his secretary to get him on the phone.
I greeted him breathlessly. His voice came across as reserved and resolved. I pictured him with his graying hair and leathery face, like he'd spent decades under the sun absent sunscreen. He didn't have cancer. My mother, however, lathered herself daily with sunscreen. I couldn't bring myself to enjoy the irony. I also hadn't been listening. My fingers gripped the phone so hard my forearm cramped.
“I'm sorry, can you repeat that?”
“The cancer has metastasized. We've started your mother on a series of treatments. The cocktail should slow the growth, but the tumors are inoperable.”
“We'll pay anything
.” I knew how it worked.
“Truly and honestly inoperable, Miss Blythe. The cancer is aggressive. There’s nothing more we can do.”
He expected her to die soon. She’d been doing so well, I’d almost forgotten her diagnosis.
“She's lucid and resting. Would you'd like to visit?”
“Thank you, I will.”
I left my secretary to cancel my morning appointment. She rolled her eyes at the inconvenience. I drove straight toward the cleanest city sector with neat, pristine fences.
Good neighborhoods grow inside good fences. Most citizens avoided areas with haphazard, dilapidated barriers because the enclosed population was usually poor and violent. On my side of the city, we removed eyesores. Any signs of graffiti, dissidence, violence, poverty, or dirt was immediately purged or beautified. Normalcy had standards.
I arrived at the most sanitary, immaculate hospital in the state and took comfort in the picturesque ivory tower. Cleanliness indicated competence and inspired trust. Even knowing my mother's condition was dire, the crisp landscape and tidy staff suggested everything was under control.
A nurse brought me to the room where my mother slept.
Part of me was grateful she didn’t wake.
I smoothed my skirt and sat in the chair, watching her. The skin she'd maintained with moisture and supplementation had turned ashen and translucent. A greenish tint bruised her eyes and emphasized the cosmetic tattoo of eyeliner across her lash line. Her blond hair had long since grayed, but she dyed it platinum frequently so no one ever saw her roots.
I sat alone and waited. There was no one I needed to call.
My father was long gone. He couldn’t handle her in the best of times and certainly couldn't manage her downward spiral. He’d wanted to be the hero type, but my mother’s mind wasn’t a dragon to be slain. He couldn't do anything for her, so he left.
Her anxiety and passive aggressive behavior clouded my childhood. Piano lessons had intensified with boot-camp intensity. Ballet practice inspired so much aggression it was as if the fate of the known world rested on my plié. And if my clothes gathered soot or a stain, it was as if the apocalypse had started all over again.