YOU AGAIN?

Chapter 5

Daemon

That was how Seymour and I became friends. In wolf form, he was only eight months older than me. What truly bonded us was the fact that we had both survived our first full moon.

Seymour always told the story of his first transformation with the same irreverent humour, although I had never been able to see anything funny about it. No matter how much wit you tried to inject into the tale of a man hanging from chains somewhere on the outskirts of town, screaming himself hoarse and begging someone to put him out of his misery just to make the nightmare stop, it was not the sort of thing you ever forgot.

There was a subtle sadness that I could discern beneath Seymour's seemingly cheerful demeanour. He came of age at the orphanage, which promptly closed its doors to him upon reaching eighteen. He worked tirelessly, juggling his studies.

At first glance, it was hard to believe that Seymour held a master’s degree in business administration. He had been only a step away from becoming marketing director when, a month before his appointment, he met a very attractive woman.

One hot, sleepless night together was followed by a rather unpleasant morning and all the inevitable consequences of being bitten by a werewolf. Then, that night, following a script already painfully familiar to me, a certain Mr Lennart arrived with a tall blond man in tow.

Ignoring every argument and objection Seymour could throw at them, they escorted him, quite literally by the arms, to the residence. Four days later, my future friend was in the same basement I had already become intimately acquainted with, screaming and swearing at everyone unfortunate enough to be within earshot. After hearing some of the more inventive things Seymour had to say about him, Ragnar refused to speak to him for an entire week.

The pure-blooded werewolf who had bitten Seymour explained her rash decision as a sudden attraction and an uncontrollable surge of passion. She served a three-month sentence in the isolation cell but was released early after Seymour declined to press charges.

Seymour summed up his decision with a single sentence:

“Ah, screw the marketing department and the promotion. I’m kind of getting into this.” He swept a broad hand towards the forest surrounding the residence. “Besides, being a werewolf is pretty damn cool. You’ll like it.”

“Solid argument. Can’t fault the logic,” I muttered over breakfast the next morning, after everything I had just been through during my own transformation.

Seymour and the girl who had turned him dated for a while, but somehow things never quite worked out between them. It turned out that she was quite changeable in her selection of a companion, which wounded my friend's pride a bit, even though they eventually split amicably without disputes or unpleasant scenes.

To be fair, Seymour suffered for all of two days before finding consolation in the arms of a well-endowed barmaid, drowning his wounded male pride in alcohol. Judging by the number of women he successfully seduced afterwards, his ego didn't seem to have suffered any lasting damage.

Apart from being among the handful of survivors in the Twilight Wolves clan — a distinction very few could claim — Seymour and I had something else in common: we had both grown up alone. My parents were alive, but they had left me in my aunt’s care, which meant I had essentially raised myself. She died ten years ago, when I was twenty. That was the last time I saw my father and mother — at her funeral.

They were much better at being world-travelling art historians than they had ever been at fulfilling their parental duties. We kept in touch through phone calls and video chats, usually once every few months. I have no idea what our relationship might have become if I had agreed to leave with them back then. They loved me and supported me in their own way, but they were so completely absorbed in themselves and their art that they were far better at being parents from a distance.

I suppose sometimes having someone far away doesn’t mean they love you any less. It simply means everyone has their own idea of what love is supposed to look like. For my parents, it came in the form of occasional phone calls, money transfers, and photographs from whichever country they had managed to visit.

A couple of months later, thanks to Seymour’s support and a generous supply of friendly thumps to the back of the head administered by Ragnar, I had complete control over my beast. With no offspring of his own, the elder had grown attached to us and even persuaded Thorren — our respected alpha — to give us a chance to prove ourselves at the main office of the construction company owned by the Twilight clan. That was how Seymour and I became employees as well.

Once it became clear we were actually good at our jobs, the close supervision was lifted. We even got used to Ragnar’s occasional preventive head-thumps whenever he dropped by the office to make sure the two newly turned lycans hadn’t decided to put on another bloody circus.

A year later, Seymour finally became director of the marketing department, and my years of experience in overseeing projects secured me the role of head of project management.

Life seemed to be going rather well. I had become a lycan two and a half years earlier. Honestly, I had no regrets, even though those first few months in my new form had been anything but easy. I had to keep my animal impulses under constant control, as they were forever trying to take over. But gradually, as I settled into my new life and discovered all the possibilities it offered, I stopped holding a grudge against Daniel.

Following my friend’s example, I chose not to press charges against him either. Daniel got off with four months in the isolation cell under strict conditions, with no chance to stretch his legs during the full moon, which, in itself, was no small punishment for any werewolf. Even after serving his sentence, Daniel would still lower his eyes guiltily whenever he saw me.

The sense of strength and freedom that came with the wolf within me was impossible to compare with anything else. Sometimes I felt as though I could do anything. But yesterday, that certainty had been shaken.

If the night of my transformation had brought physical pain, now I felt something far worse: emptiness. And, to my horror, it was gradually spreading, smothering the wolf inside me.

Worst of all, my beast refused to obey me. It felt as though I was going through puberty all over again, only this time before finally becoming a reasonably functional lycan capable of controlling his own instincts and, at least occasionally, making decisions for himself.

And here we were again. The beast stirred, trying to seize control. It demanded that I get up and run immediately, and I obeyed.

I sprang to my feet and headed to the courtyard, but a powerful yank from behind slammed my back against a tree, keeping me from leaving the alley shadows.

“Easy!” Seymour stared into my eyes, gripping my forearms tightly. “Get a grip on yourself before I knock you out!”

Diana appeared from behind the archway, talking on her phone as she walked towards the building.

She still lives here!

I greedily drew in her intoxicating scent, feeling my body betray me as every muscle tensed. My overgrown claws dug into the tree trunk. Seymour planted his feet more firmly, grabbed me by the shoulders, and squeezed them every time I tried to move.

Diana stopped by the door to enter the security code. I knew that she would disappear into the darkness of the entrance hall within seconds. I was barely holding on. The moment the door slammed shut behind her, I groaned and lunged after the source of my obsession.

Seymour hauled me back with considerable force, dragging me back to my senses.

“Well, that’s very interesting but makes absolutely no sense,” my friend concluded, looking from me to the building.

When lights came on in the familiar windows, he loosened his grip a little, letting me step out into the dimly lit courtyard.

I paced beneath the windows of the house where Diana had once lived. Something pulled me towards her with such force that it felt as though an invisible thread stretched taut between us, ready to snap. I had no idea what was happening to me, but I knew one thing: the longer I stayed here, the harder it became to resist.

Seymour sensibly stationed himself by the door, having realised that I still remembered the entry code.

The little experiment had gone exactly as expected. The cause of my strange behaviour was identified beyond any doubt: Diana.

A shadow flickered behind the curtain. She was in the kitchen.

A memory flashed through my mind of the time I had kissed her, lifting her onto the kitchen counter. I remembered her laughter, the warmth of her skin, and how effortlessly she had made me forget the rest of the world.

Seymour finally dragged me away from my agonising vigil.

“Let’s go.” He stepped in front of me, watching me start shaking again.

“Where?” I couldn't tear my eyes away from the window.

“To the vet, for f**k’s sake. Even I can tell this has something to do with your wolf.”

I let my friend drag me away. The moment we got into the car, Seymour hit the accelerator, apparently worried I might change my mind and sprint straight back.

I sank against the seat and closed my eyes. The familiar city drifted slowly past outside the window, while somewhere beyond it, behind one of those illuminated windows, Diana remained.