Crystal Meth and Silver Bullets

In case you have been wondering where I have been the past several months, the answer is simple: in a Sisterhood hospital recovering from bullet wounds.  How I got there is a rather long story.  It began in a London club and took me first to Estonia, and then to Venezuela and finally to the Mexican state of Michoacán, where I took three silver bullets.

That I wound up being shot was ultimately my own fault.  Following the unpleasantness in Libya last year, I had steadfastly refused all assignments to the Middle East – especially Syria – so my section chief at MI6 decided to deal with my intransigence by lending me to the organised crime unit of our domestic sister organisation MI5.  I considered this job to be well beneath my abilities and took the matter much too lightly, with nearly fatal results.

The task as assigned was ludicrous: I was to assist in tracing the origins of some particularly high-grade crystal meth which had been appearing recently in the London club scene.  The stuff was much more potent than what was usually cooked in amateur labs, and intel had suggested that the Russian mafia was involved.  As I was fluent in the language and had many contacts within the ex-KGB, it was argued, there was no one better qualified to support MI5 in this investigation.  Of course, if I chose Damascus instead, they would find someone else to play drug cop. 

Since I had little interest in spending another desert holiday fighting an Arab dictator, the next evening found me in an upscale West End club wearing a psychedelic miniskirt I had not worn since 1969.  The clubbers called me “retro girl” and I was soon the centre of attention.  It didn’t take long before they invited me into a back room to share some whizz, as they called it.

Take my advice and keep far, far away from crystal meth.  Don’t try this stuff even once.  It is probably the most dangerous substance humans have ever concocted.  Werewolves cannot be harmed by it, of course, but we are not immune to the effects.  After snorting a small amount of the innocuous-looking white powder, it required every ounce of self-control to restrain myself from shifting and tearing everyone in the room to shreds, and this after only one hit.  After recovering from the initial burst of aggressiveness caused by the drug, I managed to collect my wits sufficiently to ask how I could hook up for more.  They gave me an address in Brick Lane.

Needless to say, I didn’t visit the house directly.  Instead I planted myself on the roof of an adjacent building and eavesdropped.  Other MI6 agents would need special equipment for this, but my wolf ears proved quite adequate to the task.  After two days of surveillance, I had learned the names of several middle-level dealers (subsequently turned over to Metropolitan Police) and followed one of them back to a Georgian terraced house in Camden owned by a respectable Lithuanian businessman.  At a distance of thirty metres from the front door, I caught the scent of an Apostate.  It didn’t surprise me that they had taken to drug smuggling, as there are few professions too despicable for those beasts.

A Lycanthropic Coming-Out in Eighteenth-Century London

“So just how many humans really do know your secret?” Brian had finished reading my last blog post and seemed sceptical. “All this business about ‘coming out’ seems rather dubious, considering that the laws of your Sisterhood prohibit revealing yourselves to humans. Or at least so you have told me: any human who learns the truth about you is condemned to be eaten. Obviously that doesn’t apply to everyone, or I should have long since been served up as a main course.”

“You’re more like an hors d’oeuvre,” I said. “We generally like a bit more meat on the bone.”

“But I weigh nearly fifteen stone.”

“I said meat, not fat. But to answer your question: I have only revealed myself to three humans who lived to tell the tale. The first was Lord Kendrick Llewellyn, twenty-fifth Duke of Caerfyrddin, the father of my eighteenth-century incarnation, who discovered my secret quite by accident on a December evening in 1755.”

“You mentioned him once,” recalled Brian, “saying that, of all the fathers in all your incarnations throughout the centuries, he was the closest to your heart.”

“That’s right, not least because he never stopped loving me, even after learning the truth – unlike the father before him, Rhioganedd Llewellyn, the twenty-first Duke of Caerfyrddin, who ordered that I be burnt at the stake for witchcraft in 1648.”

“Not very civilised of him,” said Brian, “but I suppose the seventeenth century was prone to that sort of thing. Tell me about Lord Kendrick.”

“He raised me alone after my mother had died in childbirth, and was always terribly concerned about my welfare, though his ideas of a proper upbringing for young ladies hardly coincided with my own. To put it succinctly: he intended to marry me off to some English gentleman to improve the family income, since we were richer in titles than in gold. However, once the killings began…”

“Killings?”

Werewolves of the world unite! Stop discrimination against lycanthropes! Fight speciesism!

When I decided to come out of the supernatural closet and admit to my friends and relatives that I am a werewolf, some were truly shocked. Of course, they already knew I was lesbian, but that seemed normal enough to most of them. However, the fact that I regularly sprout unsightly underarm hair was patently offensive to those with traditional values about personal hygiene. I lost some friends because of that, and I suspect that others broke relations out of fear that I might tempt their children to try the “alternative lycanthropic lifestyle”. I tried to tell them that being a werewolf is not a choice – I was born this way. Probably they have been watching too many Hollywood films, and think that one can “catch” lycanthropy by being bitten. Don’t they know that only works with vampires?

Anyway, one of those friends who has remained faithful is Brian, the human I have often written about. Naturally he had misgivings at first, especially when I brought some of my werewolf associates to stay in his house last year while we were hiding from the CIA (long story, see here and here), and they threatened to eat him. Nevertheless, Brian has been very supportive, especially of my efforts to find Lysandra, my one true love, who had been my Companion through many incarnations until were tragically separated during the closing months of World War II. It was his suggestion that I use modern means of communication – Blogs, Twitter, and Facebook – to aid in my search for her.

So far, I have not found Lysandra, but I have made a number of new friends along the way – friends who live “out there” in the Internet. Some of them even claim to be werewolves themselves. Since I have not gotten close enough to detect their scent, there’s no way to tell whether they really are lycanthropes, or merely wish they were.

I was discussing this phenomenon with Brian the other day. Why would a human want to be a werewolf? Being one myself, I can say truthfully that, while it may have certain advantages (such as being largely invulnerable to injury when no silver is involved), I have often suffered great loss and pain because of what I am. There are some things which are too horrible to be forgotten, like eating my first girlfriend. No one had told me that sex would be so messy. This is why I do support the abstinence movement among teenage werewolves, as I’m convinced that it will help lower the rate of unwanted mutilations. Don’t mistake this for social conservatism on my part, however, as I wholeheartedly endorse the legalisation of lycanthropic marriage and vehemently disagree with those who believe that God intended matrimony for humans only. I can’t understand why allowing werewolves to marry would diminish the value of human relationships.

Werewolves and Cannonballs

“So, have you got Cynthia properly sorted?” asked Brian as I collapsed onto the sofa in his study. “Is she now all pointy teeth and hairy legs? Or did you decide to eat her after all?”

My afternoon flight from Heathrow to Stuttgart had been delayed nearly two hours and I was exhausted after a week of MI6 debriefings about Libya. Thus I was in no mood for Brian’s questioning.

“The Initiation proceeded exactly as expected,” I said, resting my feet on his expensive coffee table, “and Cynthia does make a very attractive werewolf.”

“A natural blonde, is she?” He offered me a cushion to protect the mahogany finish from my boots. 

“That’s a typically male question,” I observed. “If you must know, she is blonde from top to bottom – rather a novelty among the Sisterhood. Beautiful fur, but hard to get clean after the hunt, with all that blood.”

“You took her hunting? Presumably the steppes of Russia provided ample game for the purpose.”

“In fact, the Initiation is the only exception to the Sisterhood’s rule prohibiting the killing of humans, and the ceremony concludes with a ritual sacrifice. In the past, when Initiations were more common, dozens of virgins were often sacrificed at once. Last week we had trouble finding even one, however, so I suppose it was fortunate that there was only Cynthia.”

Brian turned pale and reached for the wastepaper bin.

“It is a great honour for the human thus chosen,” I reassured him. “In her next lifetime, she will be initiated into the Sisterhood herself.”

“Rather poor consolation for the murdered girl,” commented Brian, still holding the bin. “And where is Cynthia now? You haven’t brought her back here, I hope. By now the Russian authorities will be searching for the killer, and they will surely make a DNA match to Cynthia’s CIA records.”

“Not to worry,” I said. “Our DNA undergoes the transformation as well, and is quite untraceable. As for Cynthia, after the Initiation we took her back to the CIA outpost in Libya, where she pretended to have escaped from al-Qaida. I’ve put a request through channels for Cynthia to be transferred to Cairo next week, so that Kasaqa can begin training her before the next monthly bleeding. We don’t want any uncontrolled transformations.”

“So Kasaqa is to be her Companion? I thought you two…”

“Yes, well, things don’t always work out. But perhaps it’s for the best. Cynthia’s dreadful American accent was beginning to get on my nerves. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a shower. I’m completely worn out.”

“Have you got a new assignment from MI6?” Brian was being annoyingly persistent today.

“They were considering sending me to Syria, but I declined – no more Arab dictatorships for a while, thank you. Maybe I’ll be assigned somewhere relaxing, like North Korea.”

“You’re joking of course.”

“Not at all. The hills outside Pyongyang are beautiful in the wintertime. Besides, I’m not likely to come under artillery fire there. I had quite enough of that in Tripoli.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of artillery? I thought werewolves could only be harmed by silver.”

“And fire. The Sisterhood thinks that the flash from a high-explosive round might be sufficient to cause fatal injuries, and I certainly don’t want to find out. Besides, being struck by non-silver weapons is quite painful, even if ultimately harmless. I once took a direct hit from a three-pounder, and would not care to repeat the experience.”

“A three-pounder? Sounds like an extra-large McBurger…”

CIA Cynthia and the Jackal Hunt

“You did what?” Brian nearly spilled his morning coffee. “Have you gone completely mental? You can’t just kidnap a CIA agent and turn her into a werewolf.”

“First of all, we didn’t kidnap her,” I said. “She asked for this. And second, we haven’t turned her yet. We’re taking her to the Circle of Initiation at Ryazan in Russia. Too many tourists at Stonehenge this time of year. But in the meantime, the CIA has gotten on our tails. They think she’s been abducted by al-Qaida and are searching for her. So we’ve got to drop off the grid for a few days. I told MI6 that I’ve gone under cover to find Gaddafi.”

“Okay, so where have you hidden her?”

“She’s outside in the car.”

Now he did spill his coffee.

“Are you bonkers? Any minute now, the house will be surrounded by black SUVs.”

“Don’t be silly. This isn’t America.”

“Right, black Mercedes then. But there will still be men in black suits with black sunglasses and automatic weapons. The GSG 9 don’t mess around. At least bring her inside where the neighbours can’t see.”

I went to fetch Cynthia from the car we had stolen in Genoa. Kasaqa and Caterina had come along for extra protection. I had briefed them about my human friend Brian, saying that he was helping me find Lysandra. Kasaqa was more than suspicious.

“You can’t trust any males,” she said. “How do you know he isn’t in league with the Apostates?”

“I’ve known Brian over fifty years, since he was a child,” I said. “He’s completely harmless. A former college professor.”

“You realise that this goes entirely against the Sisterhood’s laws,” said Kasaqa. “By rights, we should eat him.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take full responsibility. If at any time he starts acting suspiciously, I will munch him myself.”

Report from Libya

You may recall from my last blog post two weeks ago that I was called by MI6 for an assignment in Libya.  I’ve been there ever since.  Anyone who has been following the news will know that a real war is happening here.  Followers of this blog will suspect that more is going on than you will hear about from CNN.

Soon after my arrival in Tripoli, where I was staying under cover as an oil-company executive, three Apostates tried to kill me.  In my work for MI6, I’m used to being shot at, but rarely with silver bullets.  These Apostates were mean and armed to the teeth (literally).  Last Sunday, I lured them into a trap by sunbathing at the hotel pool in a string bikini, with my twin Berettas concealed under the towel.  It was evening before they came.  Under the full moon they approached with the intention of making a meal out of me (I was already broiled to well-done by the sun) and Bang! two went down with silver between the eyes.  The third turned tail and fled.  That was a week ago.

I later learned that the third Apostate had escaped over the border into Egypt – probably heading for the secret Temple of Sutekh in the desert west of Karnak.  There he would no doubt find reinforcements. 

The day after the incident at the pool – and yes, there are still luxury hotels operating in Tripoli – I was called to act as MI6 liaison to a CIA listening post near Zawiya.  The Americans use these to monitor Libyan military communications and to co-ordinate the air strikes against Gaddafi’s troops.  There I met Cynthia, a very attractive CIA operative, fluent in Arabic and an electronics expert.  We hit it off quite well, which led me to enquire via Facebook/Twitter whether the CIA has a DADT rule (Google it, if you’re unsure).  I thought it would be too forward to ask her directly.

Some of you may be shaking your heads and thinking What about Lysandra?  After all, she has been your Companion for three thousand years!  How can you do this to her?  My answer is simple: Lysandra has been missing since 1945.  Just how long do you expect me to remain celibate?

Werewolf Fact and Fiction

“You’ve been coming here for several months now,” complained Brian the other day, “and I haven’t once seen you transform into a werewolf, not even at the full moon.  What good is having a werewolf friend if you never show me anything?  There’s nothing at all unusual about you, apart from your admittedly inhuman-looking yellow eyes – and those could simply be contact lenses.  How do I know that you haven’t been pulling my leg about this whole thing?”

I held my right hand in front of Brian’s face and willed my forearm to shift, just enough for him to see sufficient hair and claws to convince him of my sincerity.  He went white at the sight.

“It’s actually forbidden to allow humans to observe our transformations,” I said.  “If I show you any more, I will have to kill you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he replied, wiping his brow.  “You’ve made your point.”

“A moment ago, you said something which reveals that you harbour a common misconception about us.  We don’t ‘transform into werewolves’ – we are werewolves.  My human form is just as lycanthropic as my other shapes.”

“Shapes, plural?  You have more than one?”

“Of course.  Haven’t you ever wondered why Hollywood cannot agree on how werewolves should look?”

“I supposed it was because – as you have said yourself – the movies always get everything wrong when it comes to lycanthropy.”

“Not quite everything,” I replied.  “Most werewolf films do have some basis in fact, though it’s mixed liberally with half-truths, legends, and a great deal of rubbish.  If Hollywood wants to get it right for once, they should hire me as a technical consultant.”

“OK then, let’s start with the basics,” said Brian.  “What do werewolves really look like?  The quadrupeds-on-steroids of Twilight, or the seven-foot monsters of Dog Soldiers?”