Minda Webber's Blog, page 8

The White Werewolf Sec. 5

“Listen to the silence, the hunt is on,” Lanora said, her dark eyes glittering in the firelight.  ”Her cry brings back memories, sad and young.  As  a child I hid beneath the covers…trembling she the howl sounded and SHE was on the hunt.  My mother would come and sit with me.  As always she carried the cross of silver, shining in its purity, she knew,” Lanora whispered and stopped.

“What did your mother know?”

“That death has many faces, some so hideous and evil that few could ever believe.”

“Have you seen this death?”  Rake asked, his eyes alive with interest.

“No living man or woman has and no living person ever will, or boy.”  Her voice trailed off as tears glistened in he eyes.  ”I had two sons once.  Dryden and Jeremiah.  Jeremiah was strong and handsome as Dryden is short and stocky.  I loved both of them, but SHE left me with only one.”

The old woman sat rocking, lost in her grief.  Rafe waited for her to go on, watching sparks fly from the fire as the moon waned low.  At last, clasping her chest she said,  ”Sixteen he was, fearing of no mortal man.  Hes downfall.  She called to him and he went, seeking her.  I will never forget.  It’s like yesterday.  Jeremiah wore his red cap and scarf.  He carried his rifle, filled with silver bullets that I had made for my son,”  Lanora paused.  ”You see, I knew he would go.  He had to…SHE wouldn’t leave him be.  They found his rifle.  No shot had been fired.”  The old woman’s face took on a look of hatred so intense, that Rafe leaned back in his chair.  ”It’s all I have left of him.  She ate him!”

Top Paranormal picks for Friday

Why witches don’t make good fashion models

1.  Broomsticks are so not haute couture

2.  The hooked nose and wart are not that fashion forward

3.  When trying to hire a witch to model, it can  get confusing like which witch did I mean

4.  If you take a bad photograph of them, your next photo shoot might be looking through the lens of camera, with bulging frog eyes

The White Werewolf Sec. 4

Rafe Montgomery stood outside the kitchen, taking in the scene hungrily.  He was an observer of life, and he was excellent at his passion.  Rafe glanced first at Dryden, who seemed lost in remorse, then at Lanora.  Rafe noticed how her dark eyes were sunk into the back of her head, and the wrinkles embedded deeply in her skin, reminded him of how fragile the bloom of youth could be.  Her body was thin and bent by the passage of time.  But in her face was strenth and fear.

As suddenly as the night was quiet, it was rent open by the eerie cry of a wolf.  Rafe noted that Dryden awakened from his thoughts, frightened.  The old woman who had been staring into the fire, turned towards the large window, staring deep into the black of the winter sky.  It was at his moment Rafe chose to enter the room.

“The moon rises full like a bloodstone.  It brings no good good news to any soul tonight.  Moonlight on the whitened snow wlll be colored red by now,” Lanora said in a trance-like state.

Dryden noticing Rafe for the first time, glanced back at his mother, then at Rae.  ”Sit down Mr. Montgomery.”

“Call me Rafe.”

Dryden nodded as his mother glanced up at Rafe.  ”Then you must call me Lanora.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” Rafe commented as he sat down by the warmth of the fire.

“It is a name for a beautiful woman who once was, long before the frost stole  my heart and  SHE.”

Rafe watched the old woman, familiarizing himself with every detail, from  her rabbit fur shoes, to her silver hair and the bleakness in her eyes.  He noted that when she spoke of SHE, her wizened hands clutched the rocker.  She fascinated him, like a glittering stone or a legend bright with truth.  He wanted the legend that lived among the Mountain of Spirits.   He was an author of known repute back in the world in which he lived at times.  He was the man who sought out the legends almost lost to time and made them come alive in his books.  No one knew that here, and he would keep it that way. Especially when the story was about an albino werewolf.  Who would believe it?  But he did and so did Lanora, which was why he chose to stay at this inn.

Lanora turned back to the fire and began to speak, the only sounds, the raspy timbre of her voice and the crackling of the flames in the fire.  Rafe sat back and listening, for he had learned from years of experience that legends could never be hurried.  He waited patiently gently probing as the night wore on and the old women’s stories filled the air.  They were filled with blood, caranage and…..loss.

The White Werewolf part 3

The old woman sat by the fire in a wooden rocker, gray with age.  It was her favorite place to sit when winter ravaged the land.  Her bones, old and brittle, were the perfect target for the brutal assault of the cold.  Here Lanora sat in the early hours of the morning, and again late into the night, especially when the moon was full.  Afraid and watching, she waited, for she knew what lay hidden in the dark shadows on the mountain…..Death!

She had seen three-fourths of century come and go in the town beneath the Mountain of Spirits.  Age had not been kind to her nor to her son.  Her son Dryden, set at the ancient oak table nearby, his head in his hands.  He was a thick and bulky man, with large hands and neck. He had a  headache from the figures lying on the table in front of him.  He hated accounting, but he no choice but to do the work himself.  Times were hard and money scare.  The Inn was not doing well, and it would get worse, if she was back.

In the hallway of the aging inn, a man stood in the shadows.  He had hair the color of night, and eyes as blue as the waters, which lay silent beneath the layers of ice, in the river beside the town.  He was a man who had seen the seasons change for thirty-four years.  Rugged in looks, and hardened in both body and spirit, his mother had named Raphael, after a mythical hero, in a legend almost vanished with time.  Hence his fate was set from birth.  Rafe was the name men knew him by.

The White Werewolf- 2nd section

She ran through the large pines and aspen which towered above her, casting eerie shadows upon the winter earth.  She had not traveled far when she spotted her unsuspecting victim.  The ominous form stealthily approached, striking with a vengeance which would have sickened any human soul.  Flesh and veins were torn from the victim’s soft white throat as the dark, warm blood splattered the albino”s fur.

SLowly, she threw back her head and howled, the cry echoing throughout the ancient forest.  A light grey mist formed on the ground spreading upward as the cry had, haunting and sad.  No other sound, except the wailing of the wind, answered her call.  As long as she could remember, it had been that way.

Far below the ridge, beneath the Mountain of Spirits, they heard the cry in the town below.  People hurried home under the dimly lit streetlight, bolting their doors.  Some of them reached for crosses or their family BIbles, but all of them were deathly afraid.  She had come back!

The White Werewolf

I wrote this over twenty years ago.  It was to be published, but the company had to file for Chapter 13 or 11….something like that.  It was my first book.  I wrote a sequel to it as well before the company closed down.  I didn’t write again for a while and when I did, my style had changed.  But I still like this book.  It’s a romance about lonely people, hiding in prisons of their own making and a White Werewolf, the last of her kind, the stuff legends are made from.

I thought I would do some chapters for  a while and see what you guys/galls thought.  I’d really like to hear from you since this is a different writing style.

The White Werewolf (my very first novel-do a few paragraphs at a time)

The snow was falling gently on the cold, icy ground.  Silence permeated the air, until the sound came bursting forth throughout the night, striking fear into the hearts of any unfortunate traveler in the area, be it man or beast.  The moon, full and glowing, illuminated the snow-coverd earth, and in particular the blood-covered snow and the tracks of that went from wolf to human, blood indented in their depths.

Thirty minutes earlier:

THe first kill happened on on a cold snowy night.  The temperature dropped 30 degrees in a single hour.  A fact which caused the pale women’s genetic structure to alter, a metamorphosis into a  nightmare.  She felt as if each cell in her body was charged with electricity.  Her blood boiled and her skin ached as it was stretched and reshaped.  Within minutes, gleaming white fangs jutted forth.  She fell to the ground,the pain and hunger riding her hard.  And then she ran.  Ran from herself, her destiny and to the call of the wild, pursued by her own demobns and the thrist for blood.  She was the last of her kind, as white as she was sinsiter in her appearance, huge, massive and totally white.  Her fur wa thick, a necessity born of nnture to keep the biting winter winds from tearing at her flesh and her cruel red mouth hid two rows of razor-sharp teeth for the tearing of flesh.  She was death, in the biting winds of the far north.  She threw back and her head and howled.

Brother’s Grimm Stake-mad Sister

“It appears I now have another mystery at hand, a murder and I am telling you that the butler didn’t do it.” 

“Then who did?”  Professor Appleton asked, his white busy eyebrows lowered, his thin-lipped mouth drawn.  “When I entered the room, Jacks, was standing over him, blood on his hands.  It looks like an open and shut case to me.”

Staring at Jacks, Faye noted his pallor and his shaking hands.  “Jacks, were you trying to help the Marquis, to see if he was still alive?”

Jacks nodded, tried to speak and gulped.  ‘Ye….yes.  I saw him laying there with all that blood and I….I thought maybe he was just hurt badly.”

“The man’s lying through his teeth,” Colonel Pepper said sharply.  “They all like…criminals.  They’ll tell you the sky is green and they are innocent.  I’ve seen it before.  Why in the campaign of 1872, we had…”

Baroness White interrupted, wringing her hands, “A Marquis has died at our house partly.  I can’t bear the shame.  Why couldn’t it have been a mere Sir or the local Squire?  Why a Marquis?  Why me?  No one will ever attend another party of mine, if my staff goes around killing people.”  So saying she sank gracefully down on the sofa, the picture of a forlorn maiden.

Recovering from her swoon, Lady Swan patted her dear friend on the shoulder.  “Perhaps no one will notice his absence.  He does travel abroad a bit.”

“I imagine his wife might have something to say,” Countess Bloodworth said, her French accent softening the slight rebuke.

Faye had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.  Lady Swan wasn’t the brightest of ladies and Countess Bloodworth suffered no fools. The Countess was beautiful, with dark hair and eyes and the palest of skins.  She was also clever and had a sharp wit, which stung at times. 

“I’m ruined!”  Baroness White remarked brokenly, throwing her arm across her face.

“There, there dear,” the Baron said, patting his wife‘s head.  “It’s not so bad.  No one really cared for the Marquis, especially his wife.  And we can always replace the staff.”

The butler, who had been standing stoically throughout the ordeal, suddenly collapsed into a chair.

The Brother’s Grimm Elder Sister

“The Butler did it.”  The voice rang out in the cavernous library.

            Of course, they would think that the butler did it.  They were the upper crust of English society, not the crusty peasant stock made up of cooks, grooms, maids and footmen.  No, they would never think one of their own kind would do the wicked deed.  Their blood was too blue to spill red. 

Yes, it was a grim business, but then murder always was.  Fortunately, she was the right person for the job of discovering just who murdered The Marquis of Greenoaks.  Being a Grimm, Faye could bring her own Grimm experiences to bear on the grim discovery.  After all, Faye had her own business (which most of her family disapproved of, with the exception of her brothers), Legend Investigations.  Not that she was a legend in her own time, rather she investigated legends, myths, fairytales and things that howled and bit in the night, just like the generations before her had done. 

As Faye studied the murder scene, she knew that there was more than met the eye.  The butler, Jacks, had to be seventy, and thin as a beanstalk.    He would have been too weak to wield the murder weapon with such ferocity, even if he was found standing over the body of the Marquis with blood on his hands. 

“The Butler did it.”  The voice rang out in the cavernous library.

            Of course, they would think that the butler did it.  They were the upper crust of English society, not the crusty peasant stock made up of cooks, grooms, maids and footmen.  No, they would never think one of their own kind would do the wicked deed.  Their blood was too blue to spill red. 

Yes, it was a grim business, but then murder always was.  Fortunately, she was the right person for the job of discovering just who murdered The Marquis of Greenoaks.  Being a Grimm, Faye could bring her own Grimm experiences to bear on the grim discovery.  After all, Faye had her own business (which most of her family disapproved of, with the exception of her brothers), Legend Investigations.  Not that she was a legend in her own time, rather she investigated legends, myths, fairytales and things that howled and bit in the night, just like the generations before her had done. 

As Faye studied the murder scene, she knew that there was more than met the eye.  The butler, Jacks, had to be seventy, and thin as a beanstalk.    He would have been too weak to wield the murder weapon with such ferocity, even if he was found standing over the body of the Marquis with blood on his hands. 

Top 2 Paranormal picks for Sunday

Why we don’t date trolls

1.  On a date you want to go to the movies, they want to go to bridges.  On a date you want to go dancing, they want to go to bridges.

2.  They have an unhealthy obsession with goats.

3.  Trolls are everywhere, I mean come on do you really want to follow the crowd and date a troll?  Live life and be different…go for a prince.   Yeah…right.