Tales In Scarlett

Previous Chapters can be found here:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Slinking back to her apartment, her ears spiked, tuning into the persistent blare of police sirens, and possibly an ambulance, its drone slightly higher in pitch." “It’s a bit late for that” she thought as she sprang up the exit stairs and sidled through the gap in her open window.

Outside, the moon fell into itself. Inside, she shifted form seamlessly.

Invigorated by the hunt, or lack thereof, she wrote into the night. Her pen releasing her from the chaos. She wrote of sacrifice and destiny. Of stories old and new. She wrote of tragedy and loss. And of herself. And of her pantherian other.

The shapeshifting had surprised her, confounded her even. She wondered why her grandmother had not mentioned such a phenomenon. The questions circled without hope of carrion. There were no answers. And, if there were, they only heightened the uncertainty by presenting another hundred counter interrogatives.

The city, with its incessant neon throb, became her hunting ground, a place where she practiced her newfound prowess - learning through the innate extensions of her body. Honing her senses, she attuned herself to the repugnance of night. Under the hesitant guidance of the cynical moon, she sought retribution. Driven by instinct, she sacrificed wolves with an insatiable hunger.

In the late vestiges of afternoon, she would frequent the coffee shop but her once cherished moments had become more vague interludes in her nocturnal revelry than any kind of fulfilling pastime. Her subjects, once studied with intensity, had become caricatures in their own existence. Her pen could not bring itself to write of them. There was nothing to say. Her notebooks were left unopened as she became increasingly obsessed with the terrifying beauty of power. At night she felt alive. Invigorated and enraptured by her own primality.

By day, she was subdued. Oscillating between two worlds, she moved amongst the shadows. She felt disconcerted, isolated from any sense of self.

Thus, her encounters with wolves became more frequent. Each confrontation was a pasodoble of charged sexual energy. A dance of two halves. The other participated willingly until it was too late. She was a vicious predator and a protector. She relished in the dichotomy of the darkening skies as she succumbed to her visceral, all-encompassing need.

By day, she was less assured. The adrenaline of night worn down into morning, she began to question herself. Her actions. With each act of violence, of revenge, she felt an aspect of her humanity dissipate; making her days unfulfilled and relentless as she waited for the hit that would soothe her soul.

Of course, on the streets, whispers of her existence had begun to circulate. In the shrouded booths of seedy downtown bars and private clubs – the legend of a beast who preyed on men had begun to circulate. In brothels and laundrettes, the story spoke of a guardian of women. An avenger of all that they had endured. As the rumours passed to her she became steadily more conflicted. And, as she sought solace in her own supremacy, her evening escapades increased in frequency and intenstiy.

Meanwhile, her relationship with her mother grew progressively strained. The weekly calls became exercises in evasion, Scarlett carefully curating her words to blanket the truth. Her mother's voice, a stark and tangible reminder of a life she could no longer call her own. A life to which she could never return.

One late evening, having devoured another nameless predator, Scarlett felt unfulfilled. Hungry. The blood doing little to assuage her disquiet. As she wandered in human form, the full moon cast distorted shadows against the cobbled streets. She could not hear the cry of prey nor feel its heart beat. Instead, she heard the gentle rustle of paper like autumn leaves shifting beneath feet. Bewildered, she followed the sound. It became louder and louder - echoing voices infiltrated her mind. She sprinted through the city alleyways, oblivious to her surroundings. Tracking the unrelenting noise.

As she rounded the corner of the 13th arrondissement, she found herself stood at the foot of a set of grand marble steps. Almost hidden by two vast pillars, an exquisite wooden door, a testament to the passage of time and craftsmanship. Weathered by the years, its rich oak surface was deep and steadfast. Delicate gilded hinges swirled; entwining with burnished vines: intricately curling into flowing tendrils, before encasing the door’s edges. The knocker, a traditional lion’s head, stared out sagely; simultaneously warning her away and enticing her in. The rounded golden door knob glowed softly in synchronicity with the reluctant shafts of the moon’s light.

As she reached the top step, she saw it. The sign. Next to the door, embedded in the enveloping wall, a gold leaf plaque, engraved in the black lettering of eras past, read, ‘The Great and Auspicious Library of Living Tales’.

Propelled by inherent curiosity, she tentatively pushed open the door, disappearing into the newly formed space. Once inside, the walls are lined with antique book shelves which reached upwards into a vast, heavily embellished domed atrium. Expressive vines and tendrils splayed out amongst depictions of gargoyles and ancient creatures of myth and fantasy.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the disappearing fabric of a black cloak. She followed it hurriedly, navigating between towering bookshelves, into the reading room. Instinctively locking the door behind her.

Turning to meet the gaze, Melangell had removed her hood and her hair had fallen into a charcoal frame around her face. Her half smile tentative but open, she held out an ancient tome, leather bound and featuring filigree lettering. Scarlett nodded, taking the book from her hands. As she touched it- her great-grandmother fragmented once again - particles of her dissipating into invisible dust.

Scarlett sat at the long central table; tracing the burnished symbols on the cover of the book with her delicate fingers, ‘The Syched Coch’. She slowly turned the first page.

Chapter Five: