Hell, he might be able to do it himself. The
thing is, you don’t want to be on Geo’s radar any more than your
family already is.”
“So Geo… is old?” I say this, and feel that I
am once again missing something. Something like Geo isn’t a senior
citizen, but rather ancient, and werewolves are immortal.
(exactly)
I make quick eye contact with Remy at the
sound of his thoughts in my head, then look down at my hands.
“Werewolves can live forever, then?”
“Not forever, but much longer than humans,”
Remy says. “If we’re careful. Silver bullets and wolfsbane will
kill us, just like any human, and so can regular bullets.
Werewolves are naturally violent, so most actually die earlier than
they might if they were human.”
“So how old is Geo, exactly?”
“Have you ever heard of La
Bête du Gévaudan? T he Beast of
G é vaudan?”
I pause, mostly because Remy’s French accent
is so fucking sexy. I am suddenly reminded of how the Loupe family
is of French lineage. “G é vaudan,” I try
out, attempting to get my accent the same. What I really want to
say is “Remy,” with a little of that roughness to the “r” and a
lilt on the “y.”
“It’s a fairly well-known case from the late
sixteen hundreds. A beast terrorizing the countryside of France.
Some believed it was a werewolf, and huge hunting parties scoured
the fields and forests looking for it. A wolf was killed with a
silver bullet, and the attacks on humans stopped.” Remy looks at me
and my disbelieving face. “They made a movie about it.”
“It must be true, then,” I say, my eyes wide,
my voice sarcastic.
He smiles. “The rumor is, Geo was the Beast
of G é vaudan. A bit of urban legend, if you
will, since no other wolf claims to be that old.”
“Three hundred years old?” It doesn’t seem
possible.
“It’s a rumor.” Remy shrugs. “What I do know
is that Geo is native French, his real name is Georges de Soissons,
and he’s older than any wolf I’ve ever known.”
“What other wolves have you known?” I ask. “I
have no idea, since you haven’t told me anything about your
upbringing. Except that it’s ‘unusual.’” Insert finger quotes.
“The oldest wolf I’ve known was a hundred and
thirty years old.”
“Wow.”
I nearly forgot that I had asked Remy about
his upbringing, that’s how crazy the whole concept was–I could live
to be over a century old? But then Remy keeps talking.
“His name was Nathaniel. He was a lone wolf
traveling through the area where my family lived. My father sensed
him coming and went to keep him away, but Nathaniel was injured and
dying. Apparently some trappers were lacing their steel traps with
poison, on the steel itself and in the meat, and Nathaniel’s body
had healed from the trap, but not from the poison. He told me all
kinds of stories. I was seven and hadn’t met many outsiders. It was
just my dad and me.”
“How did you parents meet?”
Remy hesitates, then shrugs.
I narrow my eyes. He must know how the wolf
bond works, how wolves are exceptionally good at sensing lies. But
when he averts his gaze and continues talking, I understand that
there’s something he doesn’t want to tell me, and that’s why he
isn’t talking. He doesn’t want to lie to me.
“Anyway, Nathaniel was born in 1845. He
fought in the Civil War, and the Spanish-American War, and the
First World War. He really liked being a soldier, I guess. He told
me all kinds of stories about transforming during battles and
freaking out the enemy… but World War I was a totally different
kind of war, and he often had nightmares about men in gas masks and
barbed wire and smoky landscapes filled with corpses…”
“Nice bedtime stories,” I say.
“Yeah, his stories about that war kinda stuck
with me I guess.”
The conversation has trailed off into a dead
end. My stomach growls for food.
I clear my throat and reach for the map.
“Okay, so basically I’m just going to try to fall
thing is, you don’t want to be on Geo’s radar any more than your
family already is.”
“So Geo… is old?” I say this, and feel that I
am once again missing something. Something like Geo isn’t a senior
citizen, but rather ancient, and werewolves are immortal.
(exactly)
I make quick eye contact with Remy at the
sound of his thoughts in my head, then look down at my hands.
“Werewolves can live forever, then?”
“Not forever, but much longer than humans,”
Remy says. “If we’re careful. Silver bullets and wolfsbane will
kill us, just like any human, and so can regular bullets.
Werewolves are naturally violent, so most actually die earlier than
they might if they were human.”
“So how old is Geo, exactly?”
“Have you ever heard of La
Bête du Gévaudan? T he Beast of
G é vaudan?”
I pause, mostly because Remy’s French accent
is so fucking sexy. I am suddenly reminded of how the Loupe family
is of French lineage. “G é vaudan,” I try
out, attempting to get my accent the same. What I really want to
say is “Remy,” with a little of that roughness to the “r” and a
lilt on the “y.”
“It’s a fairly well-known case from the late
sixteen hundreds. A beast terrorizing the countryside of France.
Some believed it was a werewolf, and huge hunting parties scoured
the fields and forests looking for it. A wolf was killed with a
silver bullet, and the attacks on humans stopped.” Remy looks at me
and my disbelieving face. “They made a movie about it.”
“It must be true, then,” I say, my eyes wide,
my voice sarcastic.
He smiles. “The rumor is, Geo was the Beast
of G é vaudan. A bit of urban legend, if you
will, since no other wolf claims to be that old.”
“Three hundred years old?” It doesn’t seem
possible.
“It’s a rumor.” Remy shrugs. “What I do know
is that Geo is native French, his real name is Georges de Soissons,
and he’s older than any wolf I’ve ever known.”
“What other wolves have you known?” I ask. “I
have no idea, since you haven’t told me anything about your
upbringing. Except that it’s ‘unusual.’” Insert finger quotes.
“The oldest wolf I’ve known was a hundred and
thirty years old.”
“Wow.”
I nearly forgot that I had asked Remy about
his upbringing, that’s how crazy the whole concept was–I could live
to be over a century old? But then Remy keeps talking.
“His name was Nathaniel. He was a lone wolf
traveling through the area where my family lived. My father sensed
him coming and went to keep him away, but Nathaniel was injured and
dying. Apparently some trappers were lacing their steel traps with
poison, on the steel itself and in the meat, and Nathaniel’s body
had healed from the trap, but not from the poison. He told me all
kinds of stories. I was seven and hadn’t met many outsiders. It was
just my dad and me.”
“How did you parents meet?”
Remy hesitates, then shrugs.
I narrow my eyes. He must know how the wolf
bond works, how wolves are exceptionally good at sensing lies. But
when he averts his gaze and continues talking, I understand that
there’s something he doesn’t want to tell me, and that’s why he
isn’t talking. He doesn’t want to lie to me.
“Anyway, Nathaniel was born in 1845. He
fought in the Civil War, and the Spanish-American War, and the
First World War. He really liked being a soldier, I guess. He told
me all kinds of stories about transforming during battles and
freaking out the enemy… but World War I was a totally different
kind of war, and he often had nightmares about men in gas masks and
barbed wire and smoky landscapes filled with corpses…”
“Nice bedtime stories,” I say.
“Yeah, his stories about that war kinda stuck
with me I guess.”
The conversation has trailed off into a dead
end. My stomach growls for food.
I clear my throat and reach for the map.
“Okay, so basically I’m just going to try to fall
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