Memories

He went into his bedroom, a small empty room. In the closet hung Alan’s single suit and a mis-matched array of t-shirts and jeans. And in the back of the closet was a small trunk. He drug it out of the closet and carried it into the living room.

He wiped the dust off the top with his hand and unlatched the heavy trunk. It had been some time since he had opened it. His athro, Johnny, had taught him to remember the past, to relive your life as a way to remind himself that he was not a beast. This trunk had been an important part of learning that lesson.

On top was a quilt. Wolfe handled it gently, lifting it out carefully so it wouldn’t snag on anything else in the trunk. A century and a half had faded the squares, but he could still make out each of the squares that his mother had sewn together. The quilt had been passed to Alina, Alan’s oldest sister, and it had been handed down for three generations before it was forgotten. Wolfe took it back and had kept it since. He sharpened Alan Wolfe lay on his couch, shifting and turning. The sun had risen, but sleep had not come for him yet. He wished he could have been out of town, away from his current troubles, with the protective cover of solid earth all around him.

He was alone facing many unknowns. The deadly lichen, Sasha’s heritage and powers, the tangled web of prestation that the Ventrue had caught him in…. it was more dangerous by far than clashing with Brightwind or driving Sabbat packs away from the city.

The thought of the roaming Sabbat packs brought a pang of loneliness. Wolfe was of the garou blood, yet he had no pack. Every challenge he faced, he had to face alone. He sat up and went to the window. He was beginning to feel the drowsiness brought on by daylight, but he still felt restless. He may fall asleep soon, but he would not rest. Wolfe pulled the shades on his window and flinched back from the stronger sunlight.

Gangrel were fiercely independent, and his athro, Johnny Tempest, had taught him to fend for himself. Gangrel sires left their childer to find their own way. Gangrel roamed the land, beholden to no one. Their powers let them run or fly where no other kindred could, and their fortitude let them stand up alone against many threats.

Wolfe let the shade fall. His skin was burned red; smoke curled up from his body like steam. He was getting stronger, but the strength he found himself wanting was that of a pack. How long had he been alone?

It had been five years since he’d had even an impersonal lover. Of the Gangrel, while none but Brightwind bore him ill will, the only one he could hope to call friend was David Grace. One friend, and a distant one, in a hundred and fifty yearshis scent and breathed deeply, but any trace of scent his descendents might have left was faded and gone.

Wolfe set the quilt on the couch next to him and took out a picture frame. He saw himself, looking only a few years younger than he saw in the mirror these nights, with one arm around a pretty girl. They smiled in the picture, radiating a happiness that the faded photograph couldn’t dim. Wolfe remembered being in love. He felt like he would never be alone again, now that Lisa was there. They shared every thought, even the insignificant things, so much that it was as if they had one mind. They could complete each other’s sentences, could guess what each other were thinking, and her presence in his heart filled him.

Next was a baseball mitt, the leather so stiff with age that Alan hadn’t tried to open it in twenty years. His hand would not fit regardless. It belonged to a ten year old boy, Peter Wolfe. The name was scrawled in magic marker on the forty year old mitt. Pete died in a car accident at sixteen and the Wolfe family line was ended.

Wolfe reached back into the trunk of memories again and brought out a belt. Like the baseball mitt, it was old, old leather, but it had been so often used that it was as soft as cotton. Anastasia had given this belt to Alan for Christmas the year he’d married Lisa.

There were more mementos scattered in the bottom of the trunk, dusty reminders of a time when there were people he loved in his life. Now there were only people to protect, and the people he protected them from.

When the sun had climbed a little higher, either weariness or loneliness had driven Alan into sleep. The quilt was spread over his legs, and he slept with an old picture and a belt clutched to his chest.