Water Story

Chapter One

September 8th, 1852

The room was cozy. The cold night was held at bay by thick-paned windows and lush curtains. A fire crackled cheerfully from the clean stone fireplace. A series of candles sat upon desks and tables. The huge bed was neatly made, so far unoccupied for the night. Thick rugs covered the hardwood floor. A collection of fine cloaks, coats, scarves, and hats hung on hooks by the door in a dark rainbow of colors.

Storie Lovejoy smiled cruelly from behind a cup of tea as she watched the lights of the town down the road. The lights were moving, condensing, dripping in her direction. This could only mean one thing.

The men of the town were coming.

Storie, a habitually nocturnal woman, was still fully dressed. Her skirts were thick to protect from the fall wind curling in off of the ocean. Her outer dress was a dark navy blue. It would make her all but invisible in the starlight.

The belt around her ribs was the same black leather as her heeled boots. The boots were as much a part of Storie as the dark lipstick on her smirking mouth. When one heard those boots clopping decisively down the road, they knew to pay attention.

"We have company," she told her alpha and dearest friend, Paloma Delgado, without looking over at her. "So inconvenient. I need good sleep tonight or I will be ragged for our mission tomorrow."

Paloma cast the window a single glance before sighing. "I will worry about you growing a beard long before I worry about you being ragged," she said in a heavy Mexican accent. Paloma did not share Storie's love of high fashion and elegant dress, though Storie insisted on keeping her friend outfitted well enough to impress First Lady Fillmore. This evening, Paloma donned a straight black dress with elegant satin banding about the shoulders. One thing Storie could not coax Paloma out of was the long, straight braid of thick, healthy black hair hanging down her spine. Storie carefully pinned and coiffed her own with fine hats and gold barrettes.

Gold barrettes. Never silver.

"Sweet of you," Storie said, still looking out the window. "I would like to go deal with them personally. Quickly."

Paloma said nothing because she knew that Storie knew better than to slaughter people indiscriminately. Even if those people marched upon their home with torches and evil intentions.

No, slaughter wouldn't do. The women had appearances to keep up. Lies to spin. Fear to create. Stories to tell.

Storie caught a scent in the hallway. It was coupled with the quick but light footsteps of a scared girl. "Mary," she whispered.

Paloma sniffed and muttered a phrase in Spanish. Storie set down her tea and looked over at her friend. Paloma was fiddling with scraps of paper over a map of their mansion, rearranging the rooming system to accommodate the vast influx of residents the two women had recently taken in.

"Hide that," Storie started to suggest, but Paloma was already in the process of rolling up the map. Storie smiled as Paloma gave her a teasing look, as though daring Storie to test her intelligence again.

There was a furious knocking on the door. "Ladies?" a frantic voice called. "Men are coming!"

"Come in, Mary," Storie said loudly. She stayed seated, knowing that young Mary, whose short life had been filled with abuse and mistreatment, was made nervous by Storie's towering figure.

Mary peeked her head inside. She wore a cotton nightdress and her hair was wrapped in her silken nighttime bonnet. The bonnet was a personal gift to her from Storie, the beta of the pack. It was a welcome present.

"Child, I have told you a dozen times, mine is not a door you need knock upon," Storie says softly. She cast a significant glance to the window. "We are preparing to meet with the men. Care to watch?"

Mary was an enigma to Paloma and Storie. They had found the girl in a filthy dress, abandoned at the post office of a neighboring town, surrounded by hot-blooded townspeople, crying silently as she resigned herself to death. She was just thirteen years old. She was as polite and kind as a person could be, but was so easily startled that Storie had seen the girl jump when a ball of woolen yarn was dropped on the floor.

Mary had committed no crimes to earn the rage of the town. She had not tempted the husband of a fine lady. She had not stolen bread nor even begged for change. The townspeople had wanted her blood because she was African.

White residents of the Oregon Territory desired the entire Territory to remain white. They said they wanted to avoid the bitter warring and legislative stalemates Black people- whether freed or enslaved- represented to the rest of the country. Paloma and Storie knew their neighbors were not intelligent. They were hateful.

Paloma and Storie had no idea where Mary had come from. They had no idea if she was freed or if someone somewhere still owned a piece of paper with her name on it. However, the women did not care. Storie was from a long line of abolitionists passionate to the point of viciousness. Paloma, of course, knew better than to judge anyone on the color of their skin as her own was a lovely brown.

Storie herself had killed the racists. That had been one of the few situations she had ever encountered where outright slaughter was appropriate. Storie still reveled in the victory, as she did with all of her fights against bigotry, though she regretted that Mary had had to witness the violence she had wrought upon the attackers. The girl had not seen Storie's wolf form, had hidden her face in her hands, but she had seen the aftermath. Storie could only guess that the girl imagined she carried swords in her boots.

Mary was far from the first, last, or only Black person under the roof of Paloma and Storie. This was a considerable point of contention for their neighbors. But there were many, many points of contention between the women and their neighbors.

As secretive as Mary was to the women, they were to her. The girl was far too scared to ask questions about the home they had provided to her. She was certainly smart enough to know something was not quite right about the women, and the house they led, but she had not yet questioned it.

Storie took one look at the terror on sweet Mary's face and stood to her full and considerable height before sinking to a knee in deference to Paloma. "My Lady, shall we see what the men seek of us?"

The sight of a white woman kneeling to a dark-skinned woman startled Mary. Storie had done this on purpose. Mary needed to remember that the rules here were different, that no one in the mansion gave any though to the color of her skin or the texture of her hair.

Paloma played along, knowing Storie's intentions. "Rise, Storie," she said, reaching to squeeze Mary's hand. "Do not fear. Go back to bed, mija. You know 'mija', yes?"

"G- girl?" Mary asked uncertainly.

Paloma smiled. "Close. It means "my daughter", or "my girl". Go back to bed, my girl. We are not afraid of the men in the dark."

Mary nodded. Paloma looked darkly at Storie as the sweet girl headed quietly down the hallway. "We have a lot of work to do with that one."

"I play a game with myself. Regarding Mary," Storie told her friend.

"Do you?" Paloma asked idly as she gathered her cloak.

"Yes. For every expression of fear I see on her face, I will kill one more slaver," Storie replied simply.

Paloma chuckled. "You must be racking up quite a debt with yourself."

Storie shrugged theatrically, taking a moment to stretch her arms though she was careful not to stress the shoulder seams of her fine dress. "I pay the debt every full moon, then spend the month accruing more. It is a fine game."

The women took a moment to inspect each other for misplaced buttons, stray fuzz or errant strands of hair. After finding none, they wordlessly headed out of Storie's suite together and down the long hallway. Frightened eyes peered out from doorways and hushed whispers came from around the corners. The hundred or so occupants of the mansion had all learned of the townsmen at their gates. But the sight of alpha and beta, the former with a silent but glorious battalion wisdom about her, and the latter smiling devilishly from her height of six and a half feet in her heels, calmed them. No man could stare down this pair, so fearsome when judged on their appearances alone.

But their appearances were far from the only weapons Paloma and Storie were prepared to use.