Fur vs Skin | on hold

14.

↠C h a p t e r   F o u r t e e n↞
BECOMING ACCUSTOMED

❝The sun watches what I do, but, the moon knows all my secrets.❞

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Just as Marcus said, him and Santha started the process of informing me of their culture and how the pack functioned, reeling me deeper into the reality that all of this was real; shattering whatever hope of living in blissful ignorance I once occupied, completely gone. Before my person lied books, different shades of browns and smells, their wrinkled pages telling their story of survival.

"All right, let's see," Santha mumbles to herself, settling a pair of glasses on the bridge of her nose, the chair connected to its end resting behind her neck, "we'll start with this."

Flipping to a page in a rather large book, she slides the book across the surface of the coffee table where many others lied upon, catching it, I raise it to my lap, gazing at its contents.

Origin of Lycanthrope

Lycans stem from Greek Mythology, their bloodline created in the midst of anger. The son of Pelasgus (Admetos) served Zeus, the ruler of all immortal gods of Mount Olympus, a meal made from a sacrificed boy to gain a spot among the gods. His desire to rise to power and to conquer all quickly diminished once Zeus discovered the truth.

Enraged, the almighty god aimed to punish the man, but, before he could rain down his terror, the cowardly brother placed the blame on his sibling, Samuel, resulting in the innocent man's fate: to be turned into a beast, roaming the world's earliest breaths of life with internal life only phasing when the moon raised full.

"This is one of the more modern books," Santha tells me.

Snapping my gaze up, I'm met with her calculating stare through the planes of her glasses, no doubt her eyes gauging my reaction to the information I've taken in so far. Once she finds nothing, a flicker of surprise flashes in the depth of her orbs before it vanishes, she redirects her attention to opening books and turning them to designated pages.

Heaving a slow, even breath, I skip my eyes across the other books that lie open and ready for me to feast on. At the corner of the table, a book showcasing a diagramed image of a wolf as it stands on its hind legs, its height enormous even though it was drawn on the page.

"The book you're holding is a small portion of the history summarized while the originals are written in our mother language and tucked away safely," she says, looking at her handy work.

Marcus comes from the kitchen, a mug of tea in his hand, taking a spot behind the seat Santha occupied. Leaning over its edge, he presses a kiss to the junction of where her shoulder and neck meet: handing the mug to her. She mumbles a 'thank you' and takes a delighted sip, a wave of content easing her features before placing the mug on the surface of the coffee table.

I catch a glimpse of teeth marks embedded in her flesh the place Marcus kissed, the action of her lifting her cup revealing its existence, seeming as if it healed over time yet was still visible.

Ignoring the pressing question and curiosity, I watch as Marcus strides a few paces forward, hovering over the coffee table to gaze down at the books.

"Did you want to ask questions now or wait until the end?" he suggests.

"I'll wait," I respond, placing the book in my lap back on the table.

"All righty then," he nods.