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“Do you mean Grandma and Grandpa Bellanger?” Donja asked as she met her inquisitive gaze.
“Yes, your bloodlines run deep on the Canadian as well as the U.S. side of Sault Ste. Marie—”
“Which is called ‘the Soo’, by both Americans and Canadians,” Carson interrupted.
“Soo?” Donja questioned with spiked brows.
“Just like it sounds,” he said.
“Hmmm.” She glanced back to her mom. “It’s beautiful, I’ll give it that but no, I don’t really feel anything, but then my Chippewa blood is weak, isn’t it?”
“Your father was full blood Chippewa and although my father was German, my mother was half French and Chippewa, so I have a little.”
“So, Frankie and I are slightly over half?
“Yes.”
“I guess I never thought about it and though I heard Grandma and Grandpa talk about it when they thought I wasn’t listening, it seemed to be taboo.”
“A good choice of words,” Lisa mused. “After your father and I married, it became clear that Chippewas, or anything to do with their heritage was off limits for discussion.”
“Why?” Donja frowned.
“I have no idea, but after Frankie was born, your father suggested getting in touch with the family members in this area and your grandma went ballistic. Your grandfather took your dad aside and they had words. Long story short, your dad let it go. After your grandpa died, your dad informed me that he was planning a trip here, unbeknownst to Anna, but unfortunately…” her words trailed off.
“Dad was killed.” Donja whispered.
“Yes.”
Suddenly, a little uncomfortable talking about her dad in front of Carson, Donja grabbed her earphones.
Maestro began to whine.
The Council
Torin, barefoot and shirtless in loose fitting Nike workout shorts, stepped past double glass doors onto the cedar balcony of his secluded home. Nestled on eighty acres overlooking Lake Huron, it was his escape from reality. He set his stride, muscled calves rippling, and finding the bannister, leaned forward with his washboard abs glistening with sweat. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his breathing still ebbing from an intense work out. The rash of recent murders played in his mind.
I have got to stop this bastard…it’s almost time for him to feed.
With two fingers, he smoothed his thin mustache, wiped the sweat on his shorts, then gripped the railing his eyes on the shimmering waves of Lake Huron. He spied a monster tugboat breaching the liquid horizon. A plume of smoke rose from its stack and for a moment, it was a welcome distraction. He spun like a well-oiled machine and stretched his arms, biceps complaining after his workout which was, this day, far more intense than his norm. He dropped his head, the pain—no that’s too simple a word, the agonizing misery of a promise now nearing two hundred plus years forcing his jaw tight. He’d promised to protect them. His head jerked up.
It’s not over.
Just off his bedroom, which encompassed the entire third floor, he stepped into a glassed bathroom. The room, done in Italian tiles, hosted a sauna, hot tub, massage table, an indoor exercise pool and a shower with jets that pounded his skin mercilessly. He lathered his body, unable to escape the faces of the murder victims. He closed his eyes recalling the congealed blood, broken nails, decaying semen, the scent of death.
He turned off the water and reached for a towel, swinging his head, water droplets flying. He brushed his teeth then combed his hair, olive skin contrasted by a white towel tied around his narrow waist. He splashed on ‘Creed Aventis’ cologne which sold for over one hundred dollars an ounce, but it was one of the few that could mask his potent scent.
He sighed. Being an Iridescent had its price.
He leaned into the mirror and checked his beard, which was short and smooth, just as he liked it. He unknotted the towel. It slid from his waist, and like a muscled Adonis, headed toward an adjoining closet. He entered the thirty by twenty-foot room, automated lights illuminating organized perfection. He chose Patagonia briefs, tucking himself in nicely and then walked an aisle of suits with boots and shoes to match. He chose Italian black slacks that hugged his body like second skin. He slid his arms into a white silk shirt, open mid chest, topped by a tight black vest that narrowed to his waist, boots to match. He turned to a wall of mirrors his image displayed. It would do. He grabbed his Rolex and took his leave. “Lights,” he said as he left his quarters, darkness falling behind.
~~~
Torin, while navigating a ribbon of highway, snaking itself through a primeval forest, noticed sunlight riveting off his sleek, black Ferrari. He eyed the abandoned stretch through ‘Bentley Platinum’ sunglasses, a Christmas gift from Val, his best friend of three hundred and eighty years. Zooming with the pedal to the metal at one hundred fifty miles per hour, his mind wandered.
Gonna be a tough meeting. Three deaths and no clue as to the predator’s identity.
He bounced his hand upon the steering column.