A Blac Werewolf in Texas

"Ma'am, are you alright?" said a deep, masculine voice, and I looked up to see a tall, handsome black man in a police uniform looking at me, a concerned look on his face. Seriously, the dude had to be six-foot-four or more...he was huge. Lying stark naked on the mud, my hair soaked with rain water, filled with dirt and grime in places I didn't even want to think about, it took me a moment to formulate an answer.

"Rough night, officer," I replied, and the cop nodded, as if he were used to seeing tall, blonde-haired young women lying naked in the mud, during one of western Texas's worst thunder storms. I tried to rise, and the officer offered me his hand, which I took. Pulling me to my feet, he took off his coat and wrapped it around me. I smiled at him, thankful for his kindness.

"Ma'am, what on earth are you doing around these parts in such a condition?" the officer asked, and I looked at him, and saw that his nametag read "Robillard." Hmm, that's a French name for sure, I would recognize it anywhere. Well, the brother in the police uniform sure as hell didn't look like a Robillard, not to me anyway, but what do I know? I met a Mexican guy named Wilhelm and a white guy named Suleiman, so I know this world is changing...

"You can call me Emmanuelle," I replied, and Officer Robillard nodded, and asked me if I wanted a ride home, or to the hospital. I looked at the sky, and saw that the moon was gone. Interesting turn of events, I thought. Indeed, the first rays of dawn were already on the horizon. I smiled, knowing that I would be just fine from here on.

"Duly noted, Miss Emmanuelle," Officer Robillard said, and he held open the car door, and I slipped into the backseat. The officer spoke in his radio, notifying someone of the situation, and when he turned to look at me, I saw that he looked quite nervous. I found the whole thing puzzling, then remembered where I was...

At this point, it occurred to me that no black man, law enforcement officer or not, wants to be caught with a naked white woman whom he doesn't know around these parts. I've been alive for a long time, and have roamed the world from my hometown of Port-Saint-Louis-du-Rhône, in the Camargue region of France, to the Republic of Congo, West Africa, and even distant the City of Montreal, Quebec. Somehow, I ended up in Texas...

"Officer, I had a rough night, thank you for helping me," I said, as innocently as I could, and Officer Robillard nodded, and kept his eyes on the road. The gentleman didn't feel like talking to me. At this point, I can't blame him if he thinks I'm a nutcase, or some kind of druggie who went for a naked stroll in the woods and passed out during the thunderstorm. If only I could tell him the truth...

My name is Emmanuelle Du Verdier, and I was born in Camargue, France, in 1873. My father, Louis Du Verdier was a farmer, raising horses, on our ancestral farm, and my mother Jeanne Giraud was an artist who settled into a quiet life in the heartland of France after making a small fortune painting the portraits of the wealthy in Paris. I could you could say I'm the daughter of two worlds...

One night during the summer of 1894, I went to Paris with my mother, and met a handsome young man named Blair Bineau. He was tall, dark-haired, green-eyed and handsome, and basically swept me off my feet. What I didn't know at the time is that Blair was a werewolf, and not just any random werewolf either, one of the Golden Wolves, the most powerful members of the species...

In those days, I was quite naïve about a lot of things, especially the male of the human species. I'm six-foot-one, chubby, with wide hips, dirty blonde hair and blue eyes. I was a voluptuous woman at a time when skinny women were prized above all others. That was the French aesthetic, which influenced the rest of Europe and much of the world. When a handsome, cultured man like Blair showed an interest in me, I was smitten...

Blair wined me and dined me, and one thing led to another. Blair bit me while we were making love, and I thought he was just wild and kinky, but soon discovered the truth. Blair's infectious bite changed me into a werewolf, and that's when everything started to go wrong. You see, I became a werewolf, and my seemingly eternal life has sucked ever since.

In the movies, when a person becomes a werewolf, it's cool, they become more athletic, more alluring and more popular. Becoming a werewolf seems to improve one's social status, at least that's what mortals think. I laughed when I watched Michael J. Fox as the title character in Teen Wolf, way back in the day. In real life, our existence is nothing like the movies...

The handsome and deceptive Blair Bineau cursed me, and not just because he made me into a werewolf. Thanks to my psycho-magnetic connection to him, I was marked as different from the get-go. Golden Wolves once ruled the werewolf species the same way that royals and noblemen ruled the world from Europe to Asia and parts of Africa in the olden days.

I mean, you had kings, queens and emperors everywhere from France to Ethiopia, from Britain to Japan. Men and women who saw themselves as the rightful rulers of their fellow man thanks to their bloodlines. Werewolf society was pretty much the same way, until the commoners began to rebel against the royals, and exterminated them. Blair was one of the last regents of our species, and as his heir/creation, I am seen as a target, just like he was...

"Ma'am, did someone do something to you?" Officer Robillard's voice chimed in, snatching me out of my murky thoughts of days gone by. The concern I heard in his voice was quite touching. Sometimes I forget how quaint ordinary mortals can be. I've been a fugitive for a long time, running across entire continents while pursued by my own kind, and mortals have shown me much kindness in my 144 years of living upon this planet...

"No, Officer, they did not, I think I got drunk and lost my clothes," I said with a laugh, and Officer Robillard's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. He's got intense eyes, I thought. For some reason, he reminded me of one of my favorite actors, an African-American gentleman by the name of Mahershala Ali, whom I remember from the science fiction series The 4400.

"Sorry," I said with a wink, as Officer Robillard shook his head, and continued to drive into the slowly brightening landscape. I tried to play the role of the college-age, careless blonde gal I'd seen in so many movies. I'm young and stupid, and I drink, nothing out of the ordinary, I thought, hoping he was buying it. Nope, this one had that no-nonsense air so common to the Texans...

"Here we are," Officer Robillard said, as he parked in front of the Sheriff's Office, and I took a look around the sleepy town of Ranger's Hollow, Texas. I looked up the town on Wikipedia a day or so ago while pondering my next move. Ranger's Hollow has a population of eleven thousand souls, and it's one of those mining towns where everyone knows everyone. Great...

"Robillard, where have you been?" came a feminine voice, and I looked up to see a tall, chubby, middle-aged lady with reddish brown hair and alabaster skin clad in a police uniform step forward. The lady's frosty blue eyes narrowed, and I repressed a shudder when she looked at me. Those eyes flitted from my head to my toes, and disapproval rolled off the lady in waves...

"Sheriff Dale, how are you? I came across Miss Emmanuelle here out by Grover's Field," Officer Robillard stated, and I noticed his eyes avoided me as he spoke. Sheriff Dale looked at Robillard, who was obviously her deputy, and then at me. The towering virago of a policewoman shook her head, and bit her lip, then finally said what she had to say...

"Bring her inside, dammit, Robillard, don't want her to catch her death, we don't need another dead college chick on our hands," Sheriff Dale said, and I smiled at her, then dutifully followed Officer Robillard into the office. A few moments later, I'd been given an old sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that didn't fit, and I put them on. At least I wasn't naked anymore...

"Thanks, Officer Robillard," I said to my rescuer, who actually blushed and told me to call him Omar. Such a sweet guy, this one. I smiled and nodded, and then wondered what I was going to tell Officer Omar Robillard and his boss, Sheriff Dale. After all, I was found naked in a field, on someone else's property, and out here in Texas, where "stand your ground" laws are the norm, this sort of thing is frowned upon...

"So, what were you doing on Mr. Maitland Grover's property after hours?" Sheriff Jennifer "Dale" Dalton asked me, a little while later. I sat in the sheriff's office, a warm cup of coffee in my hands, thanks to Omar's kindness. The name Maitland Grover meant something, though for the life of me, I couldn't place it.

You see, when the full moon comes, I've got no choice but to assume my other form. That of a wolf with golden fur, pitch black eyes, wicked claws and sharp fangs. A wolf the size of an African lion. When I'm transformed, I am immensely powerful. I'm stronger than ten men and more ferocious than a grizzly bear. I can outrun a race horse, and I heal instantly from injuries that would kill any living thing. Ah, the supernatural blessings of being a lycanthrope...

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, I had a bit too much to drink," I said to Sheriff Dale, and she flashed me a smile a shark would recognize. The lady wasn't buying my story, and truth be told, I didn't blame her. When she asked me for my name, I happily told her. Last night wasn't normal, no sir, it wasn't. Seriously, even for someone like me, it was definitely out of the ordinary. I closed my eyes, hard, and tried to piece together last night's events...

"You're cornered, bitch, nowhere for you to run," came a familiar voice, as I stepped out of the shower. I was staying at the Hunter's Lodge Hotel in Marionville, a small town about twenty miles from Ranger's Hollow. I thought I'd put enough distance between myself and my enemies, but clearly I was wrong. A tall young Asian man with tattoos stood in my bedroom, gun in hand...

"Yoshida, you're a long way from home," I remarked, wrapping my towel tightly around myself, and Yoshida grinned maliciously. He snapped his fingers, and the door swung open, revealing his cronies, a tall young black woman with cornrows, clad in a red tank top and black leather pants, and a stocky, muscular young Latino guy in a red T-shirt and blue jeans. Not a single person in the room was human, including me...

"Nubia, Sanchez, get the bitch," Yoshida barked, and the young black woman's eyes turned yellow, her teeth elongated and sharpened, and her fingernails became wicked claws. The same startling transformation came over the Latino guy, and he roared at me. Nubia and Sanchez launched themselves at me, ready to tear me into pieces...

"Coming into my domain looking for trouble is always a bad idea," I bellowed, and I let the transformation come over me. As a werewolf, I find it easier to transform with the full moon, since it's the source of my power. Still, even without the moon, I can partially transform, and it augments my strength and speed while enhancing my senses. Benefits of being what I am...

"Your time is at an end," Nubia said, and she lashed out at me with a clawed hand. I roared and dodged her blow, then struck out at her with my claws. A deep gash appeared on Nubia's chest, and she howled in pain and fell to the floor. Sanchez glanced at Nubia with concern, then his bestial face twisted in rage and he came at me. We grappled, and slashed at each other. Sanchez was strong, but I am a Golden Wolf...

"Amateur," I hissed, and I bared my fangs and bit into Sanchez's throat. I didn't let go even though he struggled and clawed at me. Indeed, I hung on for dear life even as the life ebbed from Sanchez's body. I only let go when I was certain my foe was dead. Nubia cried out in pain, and it suddenly occurred to me that Sanchez might have been her mate...

"You bitch," Nubia cried out, and Yoshida looked at her, then at me. The bastard's eyes smoked with hate as his finger squeezed the trigger. The bullets came at me, and I launched myself at my enemy. As a werewolf, I will heal from any injury that doesn't kill me on the spot. Then the bullets struck me, and instead of passing harmlessly through my superhuman, swift-healing form, they stuck.

"Silver bullets for a golden wolf bitch," Yoshida said, and I howled in pain as the silver bullets tore into me. All werewolves can regenerate lost or damaged body parts. Still, we tend to heal slower when hurt by other werewolves. Our bane is silver, it's the one thing humans got right about us. Silver does to werewolves what Kryptonite does to people from Superman's planet.

"Finish her off," Nubia said angrily, and she stood over me, her eyes filled with malevolence. Yoshida cocked the gun and aimed it at my head. I closed my eyes and waited for the end. After one hundred and forty four years spent wandering the earth, hunted by my own kind, my life was about to end in this dreary little motel in the middle of nowhere. Great...

"Police, freeze!" The policemen came through the shattered door, guns drawn. As Yoshida and Nubia turned to face them, I summoned the last bit of strength I had, and threw myself out the window. I landed on the grass, in the little garden behind the hotel. In spite of my injuries, I high-tailed it out of there. I don't know how I did it, seriously. Sometimes, it's amazing what you can do when you have to...

"Sheriff, I've led a rough life, I am in trouble, but not with the law, if you let me go, I'll be out of your hair," I said, and Sheriff Dale looked at me, then exchanged a look with Officer Omar Robillard, who stood nearby. The sheriff shook her head, and I guess her quick search on my background didn't come up with anything helpful. I saw great displeasure in her cold blue eyes...

"Miss Emmanuelle Du Verdier, you're a Canadian national, right? Long way from Montreal, that's for sure," Sheriff Dale asked, and I smiled and nodded. Of all the places where I've lived since I left France, two places have felt like home. The Republic of Congo, because the local Africans are French-speakers, with a unique and vibrant culture, and the City of Montreal, Quebec, for its French heritage...

"I've lived in the City of Montreal for a long time, I missed it," I admitted, and Sheriff Dale shook her head. Omar looked at me and I saw a flicker of interest in his soulful brown eyes. I returned his smile, wondering what was going on through that head of his. Sheriff Dale tapped her fingers on the table, and I focused my gaze on her. What's the verdict, sheriff? I thought.

"Well, Miss Du Verdier, I don't have anything to hold you on, so, you are free to go," Sheriff Dale said, and I nodded, quite frankly relieved. I looked at the sky through the window, and noticed that it was clearing. Somehow, I managed to heal from the silver bullets after my moon-induced transformation. If it weren't for the full moon, I would have been dead...

"Thank you, Sheriff, say, I seem to have lost my wallet and other things, can you give me a ride back to Marionville?" I asked, and Sheriff Dale's eyes went wide, and she exchanged a look with Officer Omar Robillard. The sheriff's deputy looked at me, a strange look creeping up in his handsome face.

"The State Police is all over Marionville, apparently, someone killed two cops there last night, do you know anything about that?" Officer Omar asked me, looking right into my eyes. I shook my head, and for some reason, I felt bad about lying to him. After all, the guy had done nothing but help me. Still, I couldn't tell him that his fellow officers had walked into the middle of a werewolf turf far...

"No, officer, I don't, I was passing through town and went for a stroll, and somehow I got lost in the woods," I said innocently, and Dale and Omar exchanged a look. I could tell that they weren't buying what I was selling. Nevertheless, I stuck to my story. Besides, it's not a total lie. I was passing through Marionville, and I did go for a stroll...after being attacked by werewolves and shot with silver bullets. See? I'm not a liar.

"Officer Omar, I've changed my mind, arrest Miss Du Verdier, maybe a little time in lockup will help clear her mental fog, I sense she knows something about the Marionville incident, and I don't believe in coincidences," Sheriff Dale said, and I looked at Omar plaintively. The tall, handsome black policeman's gaze was as merciless as that of his superior officer.

"Oh shit," I said, and I briefly considered rushing past Omar and Dale, but then I shrugged, resigned to my fate. I am already on the run from werewolves, I didn't need Texas law enforcement officials chasing after me. I didn't resist as Officer Omar Robillard slipped the cuffs on, and escorted me to a nearby cell. Dammit, when it rains it frigging pours...

"Ma'am, I have nothing against you, you seem like a decent if troubled young woman, whatever you're running from, I can help," Officer Omar Robillard said to me, an hour later, after Sheriff Dale went on patrol. I looked at the tall, handsome policeman who stood there, leaning against a thick oak desk, a concerned expression on his face. Such a good guy, I thought, wryly amused. The hours ticked by, and I slept a bit. When I woke up, it was early afternoon, and Omar was still there...

"Omar, may I call you Omar? I think you're a good guy, and I bet your do-gooder self got all kinds of ladies chasing after you out here, but trust me, I'm not the kind of woman who needs rescuing," I replied, touched by his concern but unwilling to concede to it, and I smiled and looked him up and down. Omar bit his lip, and shook his head. Clearly my words and behavior unsettled him somewhat...

"You can call me Omar if I get to call you Emmanuelle, and, um, the tough gal act isn't fooling anyone, you've got some scary people after you, I can tell," Omar replied, and I smiled, both amused and annoyed by his excellent deductive skills. Clearly, this handsome brother-with-a-badge definitely knew what he was doing. I doubt wolf-women are part of the Texas law enforcement training manual, though...

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, monsieur," I said, and Omar blinked. I looked at him, and realized he wore the same expression he had on his face when his boss Sheriff Dale remarked on my being from Montreal. Of course, I wasn't from Montreal anymore than I was from Texas, but they didn't know that...

"Where are you from, Monsieur Robillard? Your name isn't English like most African-Americans," I remarked, and Omar smiled and stroked his chin. I could tell that I had touched on something sensitive. The United States of America is a funny place. They beat you over the head with how diverse, egalitarian and awesome they are, yet in certain parts of the country, it's almost as if the social movements for racial and gender equality of the 1960s never happened...

"Very good, Emmanuelle, I'm originally from the island of Haiti, my parents moved to Texas when I was younger," Omar Robillard said, and he sighed deeply, as though a great burden was lifted from his chest. He sat on the oak desk now, and looked a bit more relaxed. Was it the last vestiges of a French accent I detected in his deep voice's smooth cadence?

"C'est bien, j'aime les Haitiens, I'm originally from Camargue, France," I heard myself say, and Omar blinked in surprise. I was about to say something else, when Omar's radio crackled. I heard Sheriff's Dale voice, and she didn't sound so good. I looked out the cell window, and noticed that it was getting dark outside. That's wintertime in Texas for you. By five o'clock, it's as dark as midnight...

"Sheriff Dale, come in," Omar said, and then the radio's crackling ceased, and it went dead. Omar looked at the radio in his hand, then at me. I shrugged, wondering what he wanted from me. Suddenly, it occurred to me that if Omar had been on duty near dawn when he found me, then his and Sheriff Dale's shifts should be coming to an end soon. Where were the replacements?