Legend (A Wolf Lake Novella)
Legend
Book One of the
Wolf Lake Trilogy
Orphaned as a child, Samantha grew up into
a strong but lonely woman working on her
doctorate thesis by researching the history
of myths and legends. But when she
uncovers an actual werewolf pack,
the world of myth becomes her new reality.
To the original Wolf Lake fans, this one is for you.
To my husband and his relentless red pen.
FLEA MARKET REJECTS...
SAMANTHA SCANNED THE bustling flea market. The old drive-in had seen better days, she thought. The tattered movie screen rested at a weary angle, panels missing, while the pavement was cracked and uneven. The refreshment stand had long since been boarded up and even the graffiti was faded.
She strolled down the aisle of vendors, dodging old ladies on scooters, harried mothers pushing strollers and middle aged wives dragging bored husbands behind them. A lifespan could be seen here reflected in the junk that was so easily discarded. From birth with its cribs and carseats to death, leftovers from the estate sales spread out across the ground.
Or maybe she was just being cynical. There were also young lovers looking to furnish their first home, mom and dad buying second hand for junior's college dorm and Susie Single looking at a pretty pink lamp shade for her new apartment. Sam wondered how her life would compare spread out for the masses to pick over.
Not well
. She remembered the paper plates in her kitchen cabinets and the three bottles of beer in her fridge.
Shaking off her sudden ennui, Sam passed by stalls piled high with worn clothes, broken kitchen gadgets and old vinyl records. Most of what she saw wasn't worth buying, but like the rest of the crowd, Sam hoped to find a treasure buried among the junk.
Moving on to the next vendor, Sam felt a flicker of excitement. Sprawled out across a large oriental rug were the leftovers from an estate sale. Mismatched furniture, chipped china and glittering crystal glasses were offered up for sale. But the thing that interested Sam were the books. Old, worn books littered every available surface, overflowed from boxes and were stacked nearly three feet high in some places. A veritable gold mine, Sam started working her way through the collection.
An hour later, Sam reached for a nondescript leather journal, wondering what kind of personal memories were worth selling. Most people's lives were boring, and if they weren't, they were usually too busy to write the shit down. The notion that she would want to read someone's journal was absurd. She was just about to set it aside when an old, faded map slipped out from between the pages. Picking it up, Sam felt her breath catch. Unable to believe her luck, she quickly flipped back to the front of the book to read the first entry.
Five minutes later, and she was ready to revise her opinion regarding the journal. Tucking the map back between the book's pages, she dug around in her purse and pulled out her wallet. "How much for the journal?"
The vendor, a young woman with pink hair, didn't bother looking up from her book. "All books are $5."
"I'll give you $2," Sam said, knowing that everything here was negotiable.
"$3. Cash only." Ms. Pink snapped her gum.
"Sold." Sam handed over the cash, tucked the journal into her bag and hurried to her car.
Shooting down I-90, Sam kept glancing over at her bag laying on the passenger seat, her palms itching against the steering wheel.
Calm down
.
It might be nothing.
Back home, Sam dropped everything except the book on the floor. Grabbing a bottle of beer from the fridge, she took a seat at the kitchen table that doubled as a desk. Pushing aside computer printouts, spiral notebooks and textbooks, Sam set down the journal, pulled out the map.
She could feel her heart beating, saw that her hands shook slightly with excitement as she opened the old book. Slowly, she flipped through the pages, forcing herself to take her time in examining each one. It was little more than a list of household accounts kept by the wife of an early gold settler. Food stuffs, fabric and animal feed were listed against income. The latter was small and infrequent. Like she said, someone's boring life, made marginally more interesting because it offered a window into the distant past. Setting the book aside, Sam turned her attention to the map.
Carefully spreading it out on her desk, Sam took a closer look. The paper was yellow and soft with age, the ink faded. But there, among the notes that marked the gold prospector's finds, were the two words Sam had been searching for. Wolf Lake.
Bingo
.
* * *
Sam was up early the next morning. Showering quickly, she gulped down a cup of coffee, grabbed the map and the journal and headed for the door. Stopping to pick her keys up off the floor, she came face to face with her fern.
Or was it a ficus
? She couldn't remember and either way it was dead. Its previously green leaves curled and brown, most of them littering the floor beneath the tacky painted cabinet left behind by the previous tenant. "Well, damn," she muttered, lifting the plant and carrying it to the kitchen sink.
Looking around, she knew what people would see - a spartan living room with a worn couch, a broken TV and a "distressed" coffee table. The bedroom, not that she ever had guests in there, wasn't much better. Dirty clothes, old books and empty beer bottles were scattered around the room, even the old mattress left to sit on the floor. Flea market rejects, she thought, closing the door behind her.
Twenty minutes later, she pulled into a parking spot near the college campus. Hurrying down University Avenue, Sam moved against the flow of college freshmen, sorority sisters and football players. She didn't seem to notice the curious glances, or didn't care.
At twenty-eight, it had taken her longer than most to get to college. Having aged out of the foster system, there hadn't been money for college. There hadn't been money for anything. It had taken years to learn about federal grants and student loans. By then, most of her high school classmates had graduated from college, were beginning their careers and starting families, leaving Sam behind.
Surrounded by college kids, Sam found herself closer in age to most of her professors, recognized that she had a kind of life experience most students were missing. College was a challenge, classes were hard, but this shit was easy compared to the rest of life.
Condescending much?
Sam muttered to herself. Who was she to disabuse her classmates of their innocence? That would happen soon enough. Sam turned off the Ave, and went to find Andrew before his next class. An untenured professor, his office was relegated to the basement of Henderson Hall where her steps echoed off stark white walls and 1970's linoleum.
"Hey," she said, knocking on the door frame to his office. "Gotta minute?"
Andrew looked up from a pile of papers he'd been grading. "Sure, what's up?"
Tall with brown hair artfully arranged to look windblown, Andrew epitomized the college professor, complete with tweed jacket and glasses. He was also vain, and it was no secret that he enjoyed his regularly scheduled affair with a new graduate student at the start of each new term. But as far as advisors go, she could do worse.
"I found it," she said with a note of triumph.
"Found what?"
Sam slid the map across his desk. "Wolf Lake. I found it."
Frowning, Andrew leaned forward. Crude mountains, rivers that went nowhere and a smattering of "x" marks the spot covered a single sheet of paper looking like a child's drawing. "Where did you find this?"
"In a journal belonging to a gold prospector's wife. It's a map of his finds," she beamed.
"This isn't a map, it's barely even a drawing," Andrew said, dismissing the map. "There are no landmarks, no point of reference. Jesus, Sam, there's nothing to even indicate what state this is in."
"I've already started cross referencing it with some of my other research," Sam said. "I've narrowed it down - "
"Sam." Andrew sighed, tossing his glasses on the desk as he rubbed his eyes. "Wolf Lake should barely be a footnote in your thesis. You're going to have a hard enough time defending yourself before the panel as it is."
"The panel believes anything written in the last 200 years is suspect," Sam sneered.
"The panel is conservative..." Andrew said, trying for patience.
"They're old," Sam snapped.
"Look, you and I have had this discussion before." Andrew liked Sam. He really did. She was an easy student to work with, was self motivated and required little in the way of time and attention. He'd even tossed around the idea of an affair. She was certainly beautiful enough, with black hair and curves that gave a man ideas. But those curves had sharp edges and offered little warmth. "The panel isn't going to want to hear about vampires, witches or...whatever latest myth you've decided to chase down."
Sam's eyes narrowed, "It's research and you know it."
"This isn't a movie, Sam and you're not Indiana Jones. Research is done in a lab, the library," he said. "I warned you when we started you were walking a very fine line between literature and trash - "
"Just because something hits the New York Times bestselling list doesn't make it trash," Sam interrupted.
"True, but there is a time and a place for such material, and your thesis isn't it. As your advisor, I suggest that you rethink your approach." Reaching into his desk, Andrew withdrew the latest version of her thesis, notes in red scattered across the pages.
"There's nothing for me to rethink," Sam insisted. "There is more to literature than Shakespeare."
"Maybe, but that isn't the way the panel sees things and they're the ones you have to convince. This," he said, holding up her thesis, "will ruin your career before you even get started."
"And here I thought this was a liberal school."
"Not in this department," Andrew corrected her. "Perhaps you should consider another area of study, another department."
"I don't think so," Sam said coolly. "My thesis is well within the accepted guidelines for both this school and this department. I have no issue with defending that to you, the panel, or anyone else for that matter."
"Sam..."
Sam ignored him. Scooping up the map and her thesis, she turned and left.
* * *
Still fuming, Sam pushed open the door and stepped into REI. Tents, camp chairs and jogging strollers stood ready and waiting for Mr. & Mrs. Smith's next trip to the San Juan Islands or the Peninsula. Canoes hung overhead, complete with paddles and life vests casting shadows on this year's collection of cold weather gear.
REI has everything, Sam thought, some of it completely ridiculous. Who the hell goes camping with a hand-cranked blender? Well, actually, the benefits of that one were obvious. But a food dehydrator? She could hear the TV voiceover now.
For the hunter that wants to package his kill before carrying it out
. Shaking her head, Sam went in search of the MREs.
"Where ya' headed?"
Sam looked up from the package of pot roast to find a store clerk smiling at her. "Excuse me?"
"Hiking or camping?" he asked, indicating the food and gel packs in her basket.
"Both." Sam said. Tossing the pot roast in with the others, she stepped around the clerk and headed for the check-out stand.
"Staying local?" The chick was smokin' hot, Tommy thought. Falling into step with her, he decided she needed his personal attention.
Sam ignored the clerk, hoping he would take the hint and get lost.
"We have some great guides on local hiking and camping..."
"Thanks, but I know where I'm going." Sam got in line, pulled out her phone and used it to check her email. No new messages.
"I see," he said with a conspiratorial smile. "Got a secret spot? That's cool."
Sam smiled, handed her basket to the clerk behind the counter, swiped her credit card.
