That Demon, Sound

2738 Words
♔Tristen (P.O.V) Brrriiiinnng. Brrrriiiinnng. A loud ringing sound echoes through my room, pounding against my sleep-filled skull. Brrriiiinnng. The nettling sound repeats. “That’s it!” I snap as I scoot over to the left side of my bed, still on my stomach. Close enough to the bedside table, I peek my head through the covers to get a cloudy look at the howling clock. ‘06:00,’ the black rectangular box screams in white letters. “Too early, you foul beast!” I growl in anger, extending my arm out of the blankets; I slap it angrily. Thud! Shzk! The clock hits the carpet floor face down, as a shattering noise pierces my ears. I don’t need to look to know the plastic screen broke. With the loud sleep-eating dragon silent, happiness flows through my tired body. “Back to sleep,” I mutter, smiling as I tug the blanket back over my head. As a werewolf, the Moon Goddess chooses mates for almost everyone, and we’re supposed to meet them around our eighteenth birthday. For me, that was four years ago on this exact date: November 11th, my birthday. I waited- eager to meet my mate and introduce them to my mother and father. I mentally cringe at the thought of my mother. She died three years ago in a rogue attack, rogues are werewolves without a pack, and they usually aren’t very aggressive. However, while my family was out on a picnic, my mother asked us to get something, and by the time we returned, we found her wolf’s white body. Thankfully, Lycans or those with Lycan blood don’t change back into their human form once dead since our werewolf side is more potent than a typical werewolf. Ever since then, my father has been closed off and wasn’t fond of the idea of me leaving the country to search for my mate. He always said the same thing, ‘it isn’t worth it. Focus on being the prince.’ “I’m Tristen Clark, the big bad Prince of werewolves,” I mock my thoughts out loud. As the prince of werewolves, it’s my duty to learn about everything the king does. He’s sort of like an alpha to all the packs, and he’s the strongest of them all. He protects those under him when he needs to and offers support to those in need. As the ruler of all of our race, he’s the voice that’s heard among the other supernaturals. So I know most of everything I need to, but even that isn’t good enough for my father for me to leave the country. So, I’ve searched every province here in Canada, starting from Ontario, my home. Unfortunately, I haven’t found her in any of the packs here, but that doesn’t mean she’s not out there. After all, I don’t have the mark of a mateless wolf. I check my body every day for that heart wrenching howling wolf. It’s a very blank black silhouette of a wolf sitting with its head turned upward in a howling motion. The mark can appear if their mate completes a marking with someone else. Both the deserter and its chosen have to be marked, not just one. That is if they survive it. The rejected mate will feel it, and if they aren’t strong enough, they could die. A completed rejection, the rejection vows uttered by both parties as humans. Then there’s the option that their mate is dead. As long as they hadn’t met their mate, the survivor would live and only bare a mark of the mateless. Some could be born with it, and they too survive. The stories of werewolves vary from story to s********e say the full moon triggers our transformation, and that’s the only time we turn. Usually, those same stories label us as harry humanoid beasts. Some say we find our mate magically right at 18. Other accounts say we are some type of immortal and resist diseases. The truth is, out of all of those stories, none of it is true. We have our first shift into our wolf form when we’re sixteen. It doesn’t matter whether it is a full moon or The truth is, out of all of those stories, none of it is true. We have our first shift into our wolf form when we’re sixteen. It doesn’t matter whether it is a full moon or not. Sure, we are supposed to find our mate when we turn eighteen, but sometimes we don’t. We most certainly aren’t immortal; we simply age slower than a human rate. We are immune to diseases, sure. However, once our mate dies, we become vulnerable and can get the same deadly diseases humans do. No one mentions that our power is drastically reduced when we lose our mate after finding them. Eventually, one of two things can happen. The first is during one of our wolf shifts; we won’t be able to turn back into our human form without help. That’s when our wolf takes over our human form. The second is the opposite, our wolf vanishes, and we lose the ability to shift into our wolf form without help. If it happens to a low ranking werewolf, they can fit in with the outside world. Low ranking wolves are about the same size as a dire wolf with the mentality of a man but the instincts of a wolf. So to humans, they appear as a regular large wolf. For us, the higher ranks, and even more so Lycans. We will have to be killed or hidden here in Ontario. Higher ranked wolves like alphas or betas have large wolves; some can be as large as 107 centimeters. Lycans, a descendant of the original werewolves with no human blood in their veins, can have even larger wolves standing up to 130 centimeters. Traditionally, Alphas or rulers of standard werewolf packs step down when their oldest male heirs find their mate. Female children usually are mated outside their pack and join the males. It works the same for betas. They step down once their son finds their mate, or if the new alpha has already found his— a sign of the new generation taking over the pack. Now, if a pack has only a female heir as an alpha, if her mate is in another pack and the heir, their packs can merge as one. Otherwise, the beta of the female’s pack takes over as alpha. However, normally this won’t be a factor since nine times out of ten high ranking children are males. Crunch, creeaaaak, crunch. My ear twitches as I hear soft footsteps coming down the carpeted hallway floor that leads to my room. I groan as I bury my head under my white pillow. Sometimes, I hate being a werewolf— a Lycan. I’m the stronger of our species; my hearing, sight, and smell are all enhanced. Sure, a normal werewolf has heightened senses, but a Lycan ordinarily doesn’t have any human relatives down their bloodline. So their abilities aren’t dampened, which makes it hell when we first turn. I remember mine all too well. ~~ Six years ago Shrieeeek- shriiieeek. I wake up hearing an ear-piercing unhuman scream. The smell of every tree, the stench of fellow werewolves, every small minuscule smell assaults my nose. The overwhelming smells make my nose burn as a liquid runs down it, quickly followed by the scent of blood.  The chatter of all the people in the house, every bird’s song and movement outside. All the small, unimportant sounds of nature and day to day life claw at my eardrums. They throb and scream the pain, almost like a sharp, piercing knife. Opening my eyes, I immediately shut them again, my sight blinding white as if it was an overexposed photo. My eyes begin to have sharp pain shoot through them, so I push on them with my small hands, trying to get the pain to stop. Bam- ba-bam! A loud thud rings through the air as my door is flung open and ricochets off the wall, mixing with the scream. A strong honey rose scent shoots through my nose, surpassing all the other smells begging to be known. I recognize the smell instantly, Sophia, my mother. Her small hands pull me close on her lap and pulls my head close to her chest; her chest vibrates, and I can tell she’s yelling. I don’t know what it's about since all the loud noises sound the same. I feel her hand brush under my eyes, shooing away a wet liquid, tears I wasn’t aware I had. She does the same with my nose, the faint smell of blood fading away. Slowly she begins to rock me, and the loudest scream begins to settle. My throat aches in dryness and pain; I had been the screaming sound. A pair of more muscular arms scoot themselves under my body, separating me from my mother. Briskly, a man holds me tightly against his firm chest. His familiar smell of evergreen overwhelms my senses, my father. A pair of small dainty hands, assumedly my mother’s, effortlessly wrap a cloth around my head, over my eyes, and around my ears. Woosh! Wooooosh! I quickly become aware my father is sprinting with me in his arms when the sound of the wind from our moving speed begins thrashing at my ears. “Ahhh!” I let out a scream as I felt a warm liquid begin to fall from my ears. The smell of blood hits my nose yet again, dulling as we move against the wind. Bzzzt. Bzzzzzt. As we begin to slow down, my father’s chest vibrates, signaling he is yelling. For what I’m not sure, and I could care less. All I know is, it hurts. I feel as my father carefully places me onto a soft chair, almost like a beanbag. My body quickly settles in it, giving me instant comfort. Tap. Tap. Tap. I can hear my father’s footsteps move away from me and disappear as a soft thud echoes against my ears as he shuts a door. Slowly, I notice I don’t hear anything, and I don’t smell anything other than a slight chalky smell and a powerful plastic smell. Curiously, I open my eyes to be met with a blue cloth and immediately remember I have something covering my eyes. Taking it off, I access my surroundings. My eyesight is normal, but the room is also very dimly lit with a single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. It’s a square room with drywall surfaces all around me, which explains the chalky smell. A thick layer of Mass Loaded Vinyl covers the walls, ceilings, and flooring, explaining the plastic scent. There’s a wide rectangle window beside the door that leads out of this room. Outside that window is a man with his back turned away from me. He has a tall, bulky build, blond curly hair that falls to his shoulders, that's permanently straightened so it just slightly curls around the tips. The man wears a plain brown pullover sweater and black sweat pants. As he turns around, I notice it’s my father. His eyes meet mine, and he smiles sadly, holding up a notepad he points to it and then an area beside me. Laid right beside me on the concrete floor is a plain blue notepad with a generic black ink pen on top of it. ‘Where am I?’ I quickly note down on the paper and hold it up. The sound of the pen marking its ink on the notepad rings in my ears, yet it’s livable, not near as bad as the sounds were earlier. My father’s mouth opens, and soon after, Jakub, our Duke or second in command, comes rushing beside him. Jakub is around my father’s age and has medium length brown hair that flows freely against his shoulders. He wears a bright blue button-up shirt and dark blue jeans. Quickly, he hands over an item and begins to write. ’You’re in the soundproof room, remember what we told you last year?’ He holds his notepad against the glass. Of course, I remember what he told me. He explained I’d shift today, on my sixteenth birthday, and meet my wolf. However, before that, I would develop my senses. That since I was a Lycan and the king’s son, all of my senses would be vulnerable. So that when that day came, he would have to put me in this room so I wouldn’t suffer. ’Oh, ’ I write. I flip it so my father can see it as I nod my head. My father’s face lights up as he quickly jots down something on the paper and hands it to Jakub. My father has Jakub hold the sign up as he scrambles to make a heart with his hands. ’I love you, son.’ I smile at his corniness as I write, ’I love you too.’ End of flash black ~~ Tap. Tap. Tap. Squeaaaak. I’m brought back to reality when someone knocks on my door, slowly opening it. “Prince Tristen, King Taega wants to have a meeting with you,” a soft feminine voice speaks up. I mentally wince as I hear the word prince before my name; I'm not too fond of it. Even if it is my proper title, I can’t help but feel the title of ’Prince’ and ‘King’ instead of a normal packs ’Alpha’ is slightly overbearing. Sure, we rule over the regular packs worldwide, but it shouldn’t have a fancy title. Should it? I don’t know, maybe it does. I think the differences in power and traditions might play a factor in why it is what it is. Traditions are something I don’t want to think about. “Gaah,” I groan, pushing all thoughts out of my head. I roll over and sit upright on my bed to meet the person addressing me. The small petite woman has straight, long blonde hair and bright silver eyes, and she wears a casual red dress. A dress she always wears during business hours, along with those annoyingly loud black high heels. Thankfully, the carpet drowns them out. It’s Nichole, Jakub’s mate and my packs Duchess. The equivalent to a regular pack’s female beta. “Nichole, I’ve told you multiple times do not call me Prince,” I grunt, irritation lacing my voice. I fall back onto my bed and motion for her to leave. “Tell father I’ll be there in half an hour.” Nichole lets out a deep sigh, “It’s only proper to address those higher than you with their titles, Tristen. Soon you’ll be king, and you need to learn to accept that not everyone outside our pack can call you by your name; it’s disrespectful.” ”She has a point,” Remus, my wolf, says in my head. As a werewolf, it’s normal to talk to your wolf counterpart. They’re sort of just there. It was a part of our curse by the Moon Goddess to never be alone in our mind. Over the centuries, we’ve just learned to accept it. “You’re right, Nichole.” Still lying in bed, I give her a thumbs up in the air. A huff fills the room, her irritation clear. “I’ll tell your father that you’ll be there in a moment. So get dressed.” “Got it,” I state. Tap, tap, shzk, I hear her footsteps leave and the closing of my door. Rolling out of bed on the right side, I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I moved bedrooms a while ago with my best friend Felix, Nichole’s, and Jakub’s son after my mother died. So my current room is smaller than my older room, which is sort of a blessing. To my bed's right is the bathroom door: a quick hop and a skip from my bed. The mirror on the wall above the sinks seems to make fun of me. My silver eyes are now a sleepy dull gray. My wavy, light brown hair that stops right before my shoulders is sticking up everywhere. Without brushing it, I briskly throw it into a small bun on the crown of my head. My full beard needs a trim, but I’ve kept my father waiting too long. So I hurry up, throwing on baggy navy jeans, a loose white muscle shirt, and a pair of solid gray socks. Dread filling my body, I sprint off to meet my father- shoeless.
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