106 Boulevard St-Germain
Paris, The French Empire
May 27th 1941
My God, it was happening again! He collapsed on the floor, the glass he had been holding shattered against the kitchen floor, as the muscles of his body contracted violently in spasms. The pain was excruciating and he felt tears in his eyes and heard himself pleading for it to stop. His eyes fixed on the lazily rotating fan in the dirty ceiling, while he gasped for air but too many muscles were resisting the effort. After what felt like an eternity, he was just about to pass out due to lack of oxygen, his body finally relaxed. He lay panting on the floor as the pain gradually receded. He rose slowly and miraculously managed to avoid the glass shards on the floor, opened the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of vodka, and walked into the living room on unsteady legs. He collapsed on the sofa and lay there for a few minutes, while listening to the street sounds outside, which loudly reached him through the open windows. The silvery moonlight mixed with the streetlamp’s warm glow and shone into part of the room and he was distracted by some of the shadows created. Like when he was a child, he could make out figures and faces watching him in the gloom. He absentmindedly unscrewed the cap on the bottle and gulped down an impressive amount of the vodka. Pleasant warmth spread through his tired body, but as he relaxed the horrid memories of the last days started to clamour for his attention.
They had slowly and carefully advanced toward the du Malinbois farm and all of them managed to do it with a minimum of noise. That was quite a feat considering their bulky armor. They all looked like a modern version of medieval knights, in their silvered breastplates, chain mail covered arms and legs, and their heads protected by specially designed helmets with face masks. Still, werewolves had a very acute sense of hearing, even in a human form, and they could very well have heard their approach. The platoon had done this kind of operation two times before but all of them were as afraid this time as the first time. The men were all armed with shotguns loaded with shells containing silver. The sun had been up for an hour, but the sky was the color of lead and a light rain fell on them as they reached the main building of the farm.
He took another swing at the bottle, wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead and tried to relax. He almost fell asleep, but then a siren wailed down in the street and he cursed loudly. The memory of the ambulance ride from the farm rose in his mind.
There were only three of them, except himself, that survived the raid. They were all wounded, but apparently he was worst off. He remembered their sweaty, blood covered faces looking down on him as they waited for the ambulance, and their expressions told him all he needed to know. He was going to die. “You’re going to be fine chief. Just a couple of stitches and you’ll be as good as new!” Incredibly, Sgt. Dufayel’s sentimental bullshit had been right, but not in a way any of them could have dreamt of. He drifted in and out of consciousness during the ride to the hospital in Annecy. He was rushed into an emergency room, but all he could think of was what a disaster the raid had been and Paganon would undoubtedly have their heads for storming into a civilian hospital like this, emergency or no emergency. Lousy planning he would say, even though their entire medical team had been slaughtered while they fought for their lives in the farmhouse. Of course the general public would never know, but there were others, watching in the shadows.
Sedated, he disappeared into a drug induced kingdom of nightmare, where monsters hid in the shadows, hunting him relentlessly in a huge black forest that was shrouded in a deep, thick mist. Time and time again, they cornered him, and played with him, until the greatest of them all, the giant monstrous form of their leader, du Malinbois appeared, and slew him in the most gruesome manner. It was dark again when he woke up. The clock on the wall told him it was a couple of minutes past midnight. He had just realized that he had been asleep for almost twenty hours when movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He was very weak and groggy, but managed to turn his head slightly to the left. An old man wearing a simple grey suit and a black tie rose from one of the visitor’s chairs and approached him. “Ah, Monsieur De La Croix, you’re finally awake?”
“Who the hell are you and…” His voice faltered. The old man approached, and although it was dark in the room, De La Croix could see that he was very old. The man bowed to him. “You can call me Raoul and I must commend you on your victory yesterday, du Malinbois has ruled the Alpine Loup-Garou for over a hundred years, and still you managed to defeat him my boy.” There were honest admiration and excitement in hoarse voice. The old man leaned down whispering. “The circumstances were, however, most unfortunate. Almost the entire clan was wiped out, but that will be your problem very soon.”
“Listen, you old coot, I don’t know…” The old man smiled. “Shhhh, you’re still very weak, but soon you’ll be stronger than ever before. By taking what’s your right as the victor, you’ve earned to lead the few of us that remain.” Raoul bent down and produced a flask and unscrewed the cap. “But first, to prepare you for your feast - the Goddess’ milk!” With surprising strength, the old man held De La Croix’s mouth open, and poured the content of the flask down his throat. He tried to struggle but he was simply too weak. The taste was repulsive. A burning sensation spread through De La Croix’s body and he stared with hatred in his eyes at Raoul. The old man calmly looked back, seemingly waiting for something. De La Croix was just about to speak when an intensive pain hit him in the gut. Then the pain transformed into something more terrible – a ravenous hunger. Meat, any meat would do. Even in his weakened state, De La Croix tried to reach for the old man, he hated to admit this to himself, but at that moment, if not wounded, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from killing the old man, and…it was too horrible to contemplate. Raoul only seemed amused by this and produced another item, which was covered up in stained cloth. He unwrapped and held it forward – it was a human heart. The old man brought it up to his mouth, and to his horror, De La Croix didn’t even hesitate before starting to take big bites. The taste was awful, but the hunger inside him could not be denied, it drove him on. Raoul chanted in a low voice, while De La Croix ate his horrid meal. When he was finished, the old man ended his incantation with the words: “Iä! Iä! You are now a child of Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young, may your rage be great and your power unmatched.”
De La Croix’s thoughts returned to the present and he finished the last of the vodka. Massaging his temples he wondered how long he had. When would the monster inside of him finally win and turn him into…the beast. The logical solution would be suicide, but he had never been a quitter, and wouldn’t even give up in a hopeless situation like this. Still, there was the danger to others to consider. What if Yvette was with him when it finally happened? He had to break off with her, there was no other alternative. Another question was how much General Paganon suspected.
Raoul had put a rag on De La Croix’s mouth after finishing his dark deed and he had disappeared into unconsciousness. He first thought as he woke up, was that it had all been a nightmare. The nurse who had awakened him by washing his face dispelled that notion. She asked him why his jaw was covered with dried up blood and looked very concerned. Soon a team of doctors where there, apparently fearing the possibility of internal bleeding. In contrast, he felt like a million Francs. Without thinking of the consequences, he jumped out of bed and walked over to the window to peer at the sun. The Doctors warned him that his wounds would open again and started to examine him. They were as astonished as he was. There were no signs of the damage he had sustained. The stitches were there, but the surrounding skin had no traces of wounds. Fortunately for him, a military escort arrived to the hospital at that moment, and they informed the doctors and nurses, in no uncertain terms, that they should forget these patients and not talk about them with anyone. He had been flown home later that day and was released from the military hospital two days ago. He was to meet Paganon in two days…maybe he should resign his commission…there could be no doubt that he was now a liability to the DGSE.
De La Croix continued to relive the horrors of the raid and brood on his destiny for another hour and a half, before he fell asleep out of exhaustion.
