There are pros and cons to everything.
Felicia had it easy, though she’d argue the case with you, by not being seeded with lycanthropy until she was in her thirties. She enjoyed all the things a normal child would: going to school, to college, to parties; dating (girls in her case) and the knowledge that death isn’t something to be afraid of, but looked upon as a change in life to be accepted, dealt with and moved past.
When she became a were she lost all that. Parties and dating become difficult when you (a) need a whole packet of disposable razors just to clear your armpit hair and (b) are inclined to rip the throat out of your date if they say something insensitive about your eating habits. Death is looked at as something to be avoided; both your own, at the hands of a mob wielding flaming torches or M15 semi-automatic rifles and other people’s, since a trail of bodies invariably brings you to the former situation.
There’s a lad in Laverstone that was bitten too young. His family couldn’t cope with his sudden mood swings and habit of urinating on everything he found interesting. Given the choice of being confined in the cellar and biting off his father’s head in a bid for freedom at dinner time, he headed for the bright lights of the city. He’ll never know what it’s like to grow up in a loving family environment. Jim, his name is. I know his family name as well, though he doesn’t use it any more. No, it’s not Lupin, or Lupus, or Silverback. His parents didn’t know he was going to end up as a werewolf, did they? Not all parents believe that names control who you become. If you think that, spare a thought for poor Dick Little.
He stopped off in Laverstone on his way to the bright lights and sweet slums of London, where a murder occurs once every other day. If you consider those that aren’t missed and aren’t found, you can double that figure. Easier, you might think, for a young were to hide his nature among the back streets and hovels of peep shows and rent boys.
Fortunately, I found him skulking at the back of the public toilets at the bus station* and managed to talk him into hanging about for a while.
Just a thought: I’ve realised that Nirvana rhymes with piranha. Coincidence or a garbled message from the Other Side?
“Is there anybody there?” *knock* “ Is that you, Madge?”
“Yes! Oh God! I’m in a tank of piranha!”
“You’re with God in a state of Nirvana? That’s good, Madge. Wait for me, would you?”
What do you do to find an angel?
“Go to church.” I can hear you shouting that from here. Remember that I’m a demon. One of my kind has to be either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid to enter a church. It can be done. The natural defences of sanctified ground only come into play when the intent of a demon is to do harm.
If I go in to have a read of the baptism book I can wander up and down the nave to my hearts content looking at the stained glass, but if I entertain thoughts of evil deeds it becomes another matter entirely. The moment I decide to replace the altar candles with human tallow I’m subject to expulsion. If I’m lucky, I get thrown out by a force which burns every inch of my skin with cold. If I’m unlucky, the vicar gives me a lecture.
No. I won’t risk church today, thanks. I’ll use the other way to find an angel. I’ll look in the phone book.
Until the morrow. X
*It was a business meeting, all right? I was waiting for a contact.