An excerptfrom the article “Exploring Lyssa: The Story of Josephine Wyeth,” written by Elise Sasini and featured in The San Francisco Light May 17th, 2048—
You have to win the animal, and you can only do that one on one.
I mull over Vanessa’s words as we land in Seattle, the Coven Collective’s cultural heart and capital, and then on the m-lev that seamlessly glides through the lush Pacific Northwestern landscape.
It’s jarring to hear her refer to “the animal” so bluntly. Most Weres prefer not to speak of their dual nature openly, but the more I think about it, the less I’m surprised she did so. After all, Vanessa’s father is a shifter. The idea of the animal is not an abstract one, nor a derogatory term meant to spawn fear of the Were nature. It simplyis.
The subject of a Were’s inner landscape is the source of almost as much controversy as the term itself.
Where,countless scientists and government officials have wondered,do they fit?
There has long been a connection between shifters and Weres. Studies have shown that Weres exhibit the same tendency toward dominant or submissive personality types — as well as the instinctive hierarchy of the pack structure — as shifters. Of course, there is the most obvious tether between them: the transformation of the Were from human to superhuman.
In fact, Vanessa’s mother’s own testimony that her father mutated the LYS-93 virus in shifter brain tissue was recently proven through gene sequencing. In a last ditch effort to keep the virus alive without a vampiric host present, Dr. Wyeth injected it into the tissue of an unknown shifter, where the virus “stole” DNA that massively altered its expression — most notably reducing its lethality.
So if every Were expresses the behavior and carries the DNA of a shifter, are they not technically shifters?
Some argue that they are. Others point out that biologically, Weres are much more similar to vampires. While they may carry shifter DNA, it is the vampire venom that develops the venom gland, the hollow, needle-shaped fangs, and extreme exertion after sundown, most notably during the full moon.
So, who’s right?
As we climb into a rental car — a hefty truck the likes of which your city-born reporter has never seen in all her life — I clutch my backpack to my chest as I blurt out my question. “If you had to classify Weres, would you put them closer to vampires or shifters?”
Vanessa tears out of the parking lot, perfectly at ease behind the wheel of the behemoth vehicle. She’s quiet for a while, thinking the question over as we plunge into a narrow strip of highway almost swallowed by hungry forest.
“Well…” she answers slowly. “I don’t really think we’re either. We’re Weres. Lyssians. Werewolves. It’s the virus that made us, not vampires or shifters. It took what it needed from both of them and then did a new thing in us. We identify with the virus, not the DNA it picked up on its waytous.”
I hesitate. What I want to ask is an intensely personal question, and not normally something I’d dare say so soon after meeting an interview subject. However, I remind myself that we’re in a rented truck hurtling toward her parent’s home. Clearly Vanessa trusts me. I wouldn’t be in the faux leather seat of a monster truck otherwise.
I plunge ahead. “Is it harder for you than some? Your father being a shifter, I mean.”
Vanessa stares at the road. A little bit of her shine dulls. It’s like watching a light dim, and I feel immediate remorse for asking. I open my mouth to tell her she doesn’t need to answer, but she begins speaking before I can.
“It’s hard. I think it will always be hard. Growing up, I struggled to understand why I felt the animal but could never shift. I know my brother did, too.” Her long fingers, clad in delicate rings inlaid with colorful stones, tighten on the steering wheel. “But it’s much worse for those people who are infected and then lose their ability to shift. It’s a mercy to be born without it, honestly. I can say I’m a Were confidently. I know who I am. But those people who had to remake themselves after the loss?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t imagine the pain.”
ChapterTwenty-One
An excerptfrom the diaries of Josephine Wyeth, generously provided by the Wyeth-Beornson family to the Fairmont Museum of Art:
February 6th, 1868-
Yesterday the benefactors came to take the boy away. He howled all night. A terrible sound. It hurts me even now. I swear I can still hear him crying.
I will miss him desperately. He was so young. No matter how I coaxed, he would not give me his age, and so I must believe he is quite young indeed. Perhaps 17. Maybe younger, though it pains me to think so.
He was so brave, even when he was terrified. He did not like how I was treated and often asked me if I was well, if he could do anything for me. I did my best to soothe him as he told me about his parents’ farm, his baby sister, that he had hopes of someday becoming a lawyer after his time as a soldier was done. My heart broke with every word, but I couldn’t bear to crush his hopes. Even when I was honest with him about what will happen, how little choice either of us have, he was belligerent in that hope.
A true wolf at heart as well as in form. No child should have to be that fierce so young. I will miss him. Gods, I will miss him.
* * *
[Curator’s note: This entry has been re-transcribed by Josephine Wyeth-Beornson for the ease of reading. In its original state, the handwriting was almost entirely illegible due to the mental state of the author at the time of its writing.]
February 10th, 1868-
I have not left my bed for days. I am too heartsick. The morning my sweet boy was taken away, raging and terrified, I overheard my father and Harrod discussing his infection in the hall outside of the laboratory.
