Amidst the Daffodils

One

Pronunciations (French):
Isaac (ee-zic)
Bête-noire (bet-tay new-warr)

-

Isaac Bête-noire sensed a disturbance. He's been bothered by something ever since four o'clock in the morning, when he awoke suddenly, uneasy and wired by adrenaline.

It was the feeling that something terrible was wrong, and it was persistent in not letting him sleep. He spent the remainder of the night restless, pacing every room of his lakeside chateau. At first he thought it was the beast rising within him, but he knows that feeling too well to mistake it with another.

He waited for the sun to rise, biding his time with pushups, situps, pullups—any activity to exert his anxious energy.

At the crack of dawn, as soon as the first streak of daylight shines through the otherwise shadowy sky, Isaac storms out of the grand chateau, down the marbled white steps and down the trail that leads to the village of the Lake Louise settlement.

As he strides through the village streets, the atmosphere is dead. Not a single light is on in any of the houses or shops, leaving the place desolate of any signs of life, save for the single sleepless soul marching down the pavement.

Isaac stops at a familiar house styled with old French architecture, a theme that's quite common in the reservation. He raps his knuckles against the door, so forceful and rapid that it sounds as though he's ready to beat it down—which is his second course of action if the residents don't open it in time.

"Open the goddamn door, Delano!" Isaac barks, pounding the wood harder. "It's urgent. You have two minutes before I let myself in!"

A few seconds pass: a light comes on upstairs. More pounding, another beat of silence, and then, the mechanical click of the lock disengaging before the door swings open from the inside.

Delano stands in the threshold in nothing but his boxers, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Typically good looking, his current out-of-character appearance proves that even the pretty boys can fall victim to bed head and under eye bags.

"What is it, Isaac?" Delano asks through a voice previously dormant, shaking out his almond colored hair with a clumsy hand.

"Something's wrong," Isaac replies, "I don't know what it is, but I haven't been able to sleep. There's something pulling me toward the forest. Rouse Mason out of bed and meet me where the trails start."

Delano is silent for a short moment before exhaling. "Alright," he says, dropping his hand and stepping back from the door. He doesn't want to go out in the cold air before sunlight, traipsing around in the woods, tracking down the result of someone else's premonition while a warm body is waiting for him in his bed upstairs.

But he would be a fool to deny Isaac—his best friend and the master of North America's one and only werewolf reservation—and nobody wants to be a fool.

Fools don't live long after becoming fools. Not in these parts.

|||

At the edge of the forest, near the village just below Lake Louise, Isaac, Delano, and Mason have rendezvoused where the main system of trails begins. Those trails weave all throughout the woods surrounding the lake and over the mountains which hug it, making nearly every piece of land claimed by the reservation accessible. Nearly... but not all.

They start their hike up the wooded mountain, traveling single file with Isaac in the lead, inhaling the chilly air to sort it for scents.

"Search for anything unusual," he orders, the muscles in his legs tensing further as the trail's incline increases. "We're not leaving until we find it."