The Lycan Society (The Flux Age Book 1) Page 2

  Vladimir Prakow had a different theory.

  He believed that civilization collapsed because of the Flux.

  Intrigued, Yasmin read on, exploring this notion of ‘Flux’. A chill went down her spine. Surely this book should belonged among the storybooks. It was fantastical, unimaginable.

  From what Yasmin could glean, the Flux was a large scale disturbance in the Earth’s magnetic fields, causing all kinds of problems for humans.

  Just as Yasmin was settling herself for a long read a bell resounded.She stifled a surge of anger when she realized it was closing time. She’d been reading for four hours!

  Turning the pages frantically, Yasmin tried to absorb as much as she could before she was asked to leave. According to the author, the Flux was the reversal of all the forces that usually kept nature in balance. This reversal, triggered by an unexplained cosmic event, saw the rise of a variety of mutations among humans. The normal laws of biology and physiology no longer applied.

  Horrible creatures were sighted in the forests and mountains. Nightmarish things not seen since the time of ancient Greek and Roman myths. Fanged creatures stalked the lands, some of them assuming human form. Naturebound - humans with the ability to transform into their spirit animals - were common. Vampyra - a race of pale blood drinkers - rose to accumulate power and wealth. Reports of mummies, ghouls, succubi, Aquila (eagle folk) and Nautili [ocean people] abounded, too many to ignore.

  The face of humanity had changed - there were now no limits to what was possible. The lands of the earth became a battlefield. No faction gained complete control, and not all of the new subspecies were fiendish and evil.

  There were the noble Djinni of the fertile crescent. The wise Grey Samurai of the Far East. Perhaps most important of all, there were the lycans, a Naturebound subspecies from central Europe. They took control of the monasteries and made it their life’s work to preserve human culture and learning. They alone seemed to understand that the Flux was temporary, and that when the magnetic forces of the world righted themselves, humans would need resources to start again.

  Wide-eyed, Yasmin flipped through the book to find out what happened next. Much of the tome was a compendium of all the monsters and creatures that roamed the earth at this time, accompanied by richly textured drawings.

  Hearing footsteps behind her, Yasmin flicked to the back of the book in desperation. The author’s final word chilled her to the core. It was a warning. Vladimir Prakow believed that the Roman calendar was not based around the birth of Christ but the occurrence of Flux events. A Flux event occurred every thousand years, at the turn of each millennium.

  At 0 BC, 1000 AD, and … 2000 AD.

  The latest Flux had already begun.

  “Some books are dangerous, you know,” said a dry, crumbly voice behind Yasmin. She almost jumped a foot into the air.

  The man was tall and gaunt, with pale, papery skin.

  “Do you work here?” Yasmin breathed.

  The man gave a brief nod before loading his trolley with Yasmin’s book.

  “Vladimir Prakow was killed for his passion,” said the strange man. “Seems religion is a better explanation for the miracles of the past.”

  Before Yasmin could question him further, the librarian had gone. Gathering her coat around her in the suddenly cold air, Yasmin hustled through the deserted library and into the frigid New York night.

  Hugo was in the kitchen, back turned, stirring a pot of pasta with a strange, slow rhythm. He was usually bouncing around, full of energy and bravado. This version of Hugo scared her. She was shocked at how much information she could process from just one glance.

  “I figured I’d be eating alone,” her boyfriend of six years said quietly.

  Yasmin’s heart lurched. She remembered she was one day out of hospital, and that Hugo had been by her side every day for months. Social niceties demanded that she spend the afternoon with him, perhaps sipping a glass of wine on the couch while she watched him impress her in the kitchen.

  But she had changed. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had happened, but all she could think about was going back to the Public Library in the morning.

  “What do you want me to say, Hugo?” she asked more defensively than she intended.

  Hugo stopped stirring and looked at her intently. She knew he could see it in her eyes. The complete, almost defiant, lack of interest in what he was doing and what life with him represented.

  “Where’s my Yas gone?” he asked with a sad smile.

  Expecting a question didn’t always make it easier to answer it. At that moment Hugo looked vulnerable. She resisted the temptation to step into his arms, something she might have done not long ago.

  What had happened to her? Where had all her warmth gone? Admittedly, there hadn’t been much there to begin with. Yasmin was too tough, too self-dependent, to get all mushy at times like this. But the fact was she’d known Hugo since she was twelve, loved him since she was fourteen. Whatever happened next wasn’t going to be easy.

  In the end Hugo took the words right out of her mouth.

  “I could say it was the near death experience,” he began. “But that would be too neat. It started before that, didn’t it?”

  Yasmin didn’t deny it. They’d just grown apart. She told herself that was life, but it still hurt.

  “You can stay here as long as you want,” he said quietly. He seemed about to cry.

  “Thank you,” said Yasmin. Suddenly everything sounded so polite, so formal. Not knowing what else to say, Yasmin decided to leave the room.

  Hugo’s small, wounded voice followed her.

  “Who is it?”

  Yasmin felt a stab of anger at the question. “Excuse me?”

  “Who is it?” he repeated. “One of the doctors?”

  “Not who,” she said tiredly, not caring how cryptic she sounded. “What.”

  She could picture Hugo’s frown. “Whatever,” he eventually said.

  Yasmin shrugged and went about her business. Hugo had gotten off lightly. She had almost said ‘a dire wolf’.

  But he already thought she was crazy. Why make things worse?

  2 - Florence

  New York, USA

  FLORENCE UNDERWOOD FELT a light, delicate touch at the tips of her flame-colored hair.

  Was she out in the forest on a mission? Was it a spider? A scorpion?

  Details of the room emerged slowly. She’d had way too much to drink last night. The apartment - a converted warehouse - was worryingly unfamiliar. The ‘spider’ on her hair was a hand. The owner of the hand was that cute barman from Crate 768, a bar she frequented. She groaned inwardly, her groggy mind running a quick report. Incidental sex. They hadn’t been on a date. She’d been out with friends and one thing led to another.

  And now she had to press the eject button as delicately as possible.

  “Mornin’, Zac,” she drawled in her trademark husky voice. “I’d really like to have breakfast with you, but you’re kinda boring.”

  The barman’s face went pale. Florence had meant it as an ironic joke, but as usual, her humor had fallen completely flat.

  “Awkward,” she muttered, rolling off the bed. She could feel his eyes on her as she padded over to her clothes. At least he got to have one last look at her. She had to admit, all the extra work she’d been doing lately was paying off. Much better than any gym. And so much fun …

  Florence’s head flicked up at a sudden sound. Just the kettle in the hideously trendy stainless steel kitchen. She frowned. Just how much did barmen make these days anyway? At least her senses were sharpening despite her hangover. She’d be feeling normal within a couple of hours. Advanced physical regeneration - one of the many perks of being, well, different.

  Florence slapped her jeans on, scratching herself and burping lazily. She caught Zac smiling at her from the bed.

  “What the fuck, dude?” she asked with a hint of irritation.

  “Nothing,” he beamed. “You aren’
t like other girls I’ve met.”

  Florence shook her head, refusing to take the bait. In the end, she couldn’t resist.

  “How so?”

  “Well,” began the barman. “You’re a complete slob, for starters.”

  Florence blinked. “Are you getting me back for the ‘boring’ thing? Which was a joke, I might add.”

  Zac’s eyes glittered. The bastard was enjoying this. “You like people calling you dude, dude. You prowl around like a dude. You eat like a dude.” He paused. “You like to -”

  “Say any more and I’ll claw your fucking eyes out,” Florence said, pushing back a smile. If only he knew that she was literally capable of doing that.

  Fully dressed in jeans and a ripped Beastie Boys tour T-shirt, Florence helped herself to a cup of coffee.

  “It’s been real,” she mumbled, downing the coffee even though it was scalding hot. “Dude.”

  Zac’s laughter echoed through the apartment as Florence left. She smiled. She kinda liked this one. She might even let him sleep with her again. Not too soon, though. She’d make him wait first.

  Still grinning, Florence took the elevator to the highest floor. She wasn’t even sure what part of town she was in. Elevation would tell her everything.

  A quick bound up the fire escape and Florence emerged onto the roof. She was immediately slapped by a bitterly cold wind from the east. She hugged herself for warmth as he approached the rail. She really had to stop acting like a teenager and start looking after herself. At least bring a coat if it was cold out. She knew deep down that her abilities made her complacent. That was something that could get her killed.

  The roof rail commanded a view right down Great Jones Street and the theater district. Nice area. Bartending was clearly a lucrative trade in this day and age. Although Zac probably had rich parents to help him out.

  Florence checked her watch. The Mother wanted her patrolling Staten Island today. There’d been sightings of a suspected operative from the Berlin Club. But first she had an errand to run. In fact, she was waiting for a call …

  Her cell bleeped. Carlos was like clockwork. Which was great because she wasn’t. The signal meant that she had to get to Bellevue straight away. She considered the peak New York traffic in the grey gloom of a February morning. She could take a cab, of course. That would be the most prudent way to go about this.

  But Florence Underwood was anything but prudent.

  With a slightly feral grin she dropped to one knee and buried her head in her hands. She focused furiously on bringing about the shift, on letting the wildness inside have its way. She trembled, barely controlling the eruption of endorphins and x-hormones flowing throughout her system. She could feel wave upon wave of ferocious energy consuming her, transforming her very physiology in an amazing fight-or-flight response.

  She arched her back suddenly, feeling long, powerful tendons where previously there’d been petite muscle. Her skin had sprouted fine, charcoal grey hair. Her nails had lengthened into raking claws.

  It wasn’t a complete shift. Florence could control the wildness, harness it into something infinitely more powerful than a complete descent into bestiality.

  Florence had the ability to become a werewolf - an upright, bipedal humanoid with the physical characteristics of a dire wolf. Though she was imbued with all the feral instincts of that creature, she retained the ability to think and behave like Florence Underwood. It was the perfect marriage of complementary forces. The reason, logic and compassion of the human coupled with the passion, instinct and sheer tenacity of the beast.

  Florence was an enhanced lycan. One of the few female lycans who could control her spirit beast and prevent it from taking over. Most female lycans became Mothers, respected commanders away from the field, because they couldn’t control their spirit beasts. In this way Florence liked to see herself as unique. Her pack sisters and brothers tended to regard her with suspicion. They had never fully accepted her into the fold.

  There wasn’t a day that went by where Florence could just do her thing without being reminded she was a freak. She was the only enhanced female lycan in the New York Chapter of the Society. One female werewolf among thirty-eight aggressive males.

  Thank the old gods for Mother Arena, who controlled the New York Chapter with an iron fist. She was everything a Mother should be - decisive, intelligent and, above all, compassionate when she needed to be. If it wasn’t for Mother Arena, Florence would never have gotten a chance to work as a field operative for the Lycan Society.

  Her snarling breath visible in the frigid air, Florence leapt to the top of the rail and crouched. Her body rippled with energy. She felt powerful and radiant.

  She saw her reflection on the opposite building. She was a charcoal-grey beast, lean and hungry. She noticed yet another pair of jeans had split during the shift. Shoes? She didn’t bother with shoes anymore. If humans found her eccentric then so be it. She was tired of replacing them every time she shifted. Max shifters, the ones that shifted completely into wolves, needed to find new clothes every time they shifted. She didn’t have it so bad.

  In the reflection Florence’s sharp eyes could see the patch of bronze fur on her nose - the only evidence that she was a redhead in human form. Charcoal grey with a patch of bronze. Not the best looking werewolf going around, but fearsome. And that’s all that mattered.

  Plotting a course in her mind, Florence bounded along the rail and leaped high into the air, soaring across the space between Zac’s building and the one to the north. She landed on a huge vent, denting the steel with her heavy paws. She kept running, building speed with every bound. She knew New York extremely well, anticipating a longer jump at the next block.

  She took it at high speed, coursing some thirty yards to the next roof. Werewolves had heightened physical abilities. Running, leaping and super fast reflexes were all hallmarks of the enhanced lycan.

  Florence knew from experience that none of the pedestrians in the busy street below would think twice about the grey, indistinct shape leaping across the rooftops. Most people didn’t even think to look up, and the ones that did would invariably come to the conclusion that feral cats in downtown New York had gotten big.

  There was simply no rational space in the human mind for werewolves and other such ‘nonsense’. As long as Florence was relatively discreet and kept her distance from humans she would be safe from direct identification. The Lycan Society had been a secret society for centuries - Florence wasn’t about to change that through being sloppy.

  She exalted in the sheer speed of her run over the New York rooftops. A little forward planning combined with her knowledge of the area allowed her to chart a mostly level course through the towering skyscrapers. The bitingly cold air invigorated her bleary mind and blasted away her hangover.

  Before long the familiar renovated facade of Bellevue Hospital appeared further down First Avenue. Hoping she wasn’t too late, Florence found a suitable perch up high on the opposite side of the street to watch the main entrance.

  As she waited, panting hard after her glorious run, her stomach growled irritably. Shifting always made her incredibly hungry. That was one of the downsides to being a werewolf - a strict vegetarian in ‘normal’ life, Florence was forced to endure intense cravings for fresh meat both during and immediately after shifting.

  Her keen nose picked up the smells of a hot dog stand somewhere nearby. She tried to tell herself that shifting was only temporary, that she would be regular, vegetarian Florence within the hour. That wasn’t long to wait, right?

  Growling at herself, Florence found the hot dog stand a block away. By the time she reached it she’d shifted back into human form.

  She inspected her jeans - a long slit down the side of the right leg. Not for the first time she wished she was wearing comfortable track pants and her favorite sweater. The ensemble made her look like an unemployed slob, but she liked it. Most importantly, track pants never split after shifting.

  Munch
ing hard on her second hot dog, Florence scoped out the hospital on foot. Her inside contact hadn’t messaged her, which meant the girl hadn’t left the building yet.

  The lycan didn’t have long to wait. There she was, with her parents and boyfriend. Yasmin Silver, the latest beneficiary of lycan blood. Florence had heard the girl was pale, but the frosted luminosity of her porcelain skin surprised her. That, combined with her long platinum locks, gave her an ethereal, other-worldly sheen.

  She was certainly an interesting character. The lycan Elders clearly saw something unique in her - lycan blood wasn’t wasted on just anyone.

  The Society was kept a secret out of necessity. To be known by humans was to be hunted out of existence. Lycans were simply not trusted. It had always been the way and always would. Lycans had accepted this fact long ago, and therefore set themselves up as an underground community. Though there were lycan Chapters all over the world, lending the Society a truly international flavor, each one operated on the fringes, the shadows of society. They had collectively amassed a huge store of wealth, but chose to feed it back into human civilization in ways that benefited both human and lycan alike.

  Florence had been well schooled in lycan history but was still a little hazy on the reasons why lycans were so devoted to human survival. She knew it had something to do with humans being progenitors of lycans, having first provided them with most of their genetic material.

  Lycans therefore respected humans as some kind of vulnerable ‘cousin’. The fact that this ‘cousin’ invariably sought to kill lycans whenever possible was considered irrelevant. The lycans believed that the survival of the human race was critical to the continued health and vitality of the pack. In other words, if humans became extinct, so did lycans. The shifters were dependent on the human gene pool.